This is my breakfast

A poem about the angst of postindustrial man in late capitalism.

This is my breakfast

it comes in a can,

it’s purpose has been preordained

and so too I think I am,

This is my profession

it comes with a name,

I do to and I misconstrue

the two as one in the same,

This is my knowledge

it brings me closer to my wealth,

still all the while my work is futile

for I’m further from myself.

This is the modern method

proposed with gusto and zeal,

looking at the world around us

its seams to no longer feels,

This is the industrial world

I stare at the lights outside,

the city is now illuminated

I can find no place to hide.

This is the shadow of man

from him alone it springs,

Yet still from him alone

it’s cast upon everything,

This is man’s effect

it stretches across the earth,

twas once his greatest benefactor

tis now his toiling surf,

This is an old picture of man

he does not look the same,

abundantly free in misery

he’s without profession or name,

This is not my freedom

doing only what’s suited for me,

for if I always do as I think I ought to

than perhaps I’m not so free,

I am a specimen of man

dubious as all the rest,

I’ve been called a fool

by machines and tools,

tis this torment that gives life it’s zest.

Reviews

[Rye]

really enjoyed this write, nice imagery

[mattavelli]

Nice write! I enjoyed your views. It could use an edit to make some of the phrasing more clear. Thanks for sharing.