Working For The Unforgiving

Slow and painful
is how the hours go by.
Overworked
is an understatement
to us,
to them
we need to work more,
harder,
without complaint.

Underpaid
is how we are rewarded.
Underappreciated
is how we should never
feel,
yet
the cheese thats molds in the trash
is worth
more
than us.

Depression
is washed down
the sink
along with our thoughts
and imagination.
The drain
is worth
more
than us.

If these
normal, human, tormenting thoughts
do set in,
then management
takes away our razors
for fear that we might
cut off chunks
of our own wrists
and bag em
and tag em
and sell em
to customers.
We wouldn't know the difference
and customers
love the taste of fresh flesh.

Our life's blood has been draining
away since
we gave them
our social sercurity numbers.
Why do we do this
to ourselves?
Why do others do this
to us
without remorse
or pity?
Do they not
have a fucking soul?
Do they not
have a fucking heart?
Must we work
for the unforgiving
forever?