LABOURER OF LIFE

I am the attendant,
Standing ignored at the shelves,
Unthanked at the counter.
The carrier,
Barely looked at at the car park,
Always heavy- laden with load.
Sometimes I get as tip a pat on back
And pocket change if I'm in luck.
The maker,
Always underpaid for things well done,
Forgotten when things done go well,
Only turned to when things fall apart.

I am the sales person,
That sells without reward,
Only kept afloat by meagre wages,
Left hanging at the end of it all,
And yet forced to smile,
At the next annoying asshole.

I am the house help,
Tasked with looking after children,
Whose language,
Is fluent tantrums and juicy tears.
I am patient with them,
Yet still, always overlooked
When they turn out well.
I raise them,
Not mummy, not daddy
As both are usually busy,
Busy being with other people.
On occassions that other person
Turns out to be me,
As I can't say no
To the incentives thereafter.
Left in the shadows,
Only called upon to calm the heat
In their expensive loins.

I am the askari,
Invisible to most at the gate,
Yet visible to all,
When their lives are at stake.

I am the labourer,
I live this life,
Not from want,
But from need.
I don't enjoy it
It sucks!
But to make it suck less,
Please boss

As I seek my pittance

A little respect please.

The Writing Of The Collosus
A poem Anthology.

photo courtesy:
Street Photography

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