Sunday, 31 January 2016

hell poem on bakery job

Hell

Here is now and now is here in this,
a personal hell that we all share.
There is very little pain, only endless
stress and depression followed
by mind-numbing boredom.
How we got here is a mistake.
My two weeks is now eight years
with no end in sight. Soon death
will take us away, not clinical but the death
of our life, of our soul, of our mind.
Because this is Park Cakes, a hell

born out of necessity.

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