General Poetry posted September 13, 2021


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I like my job, but often overload myself then resent others

Ambition and Self Destruction

by SHABAMO

The author has placed a warning on this post for language.
Staggering blindly in the dark,
Looking for something stark,
Some purpose in the world,
Maybe I'm programmed like a droid?

Needing less and wanting more,
My callsign should be works whore,
Ever dealing with a mission gap,
Falling into my own trap,

With my thoughts I walk alone,
In silence without a groan,
Another dumb patriot ready to die,
But no one can give me a reason to try,

Still at the top of my game,
Hungover without shame,
Working through a thousand problems,
Cutting through my works goblins,

Yet they don't know what I do,
What problems I unscrew,
Solved before they come to light,
For what do I fight?



Rhyming Poetry Contest contest entry

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Some clarification is needed here, background is I am a logistics officer in the military, which sometimes means all things to all people, and Iâ??m usually down to embrace that. I wrote this at a time I was very frustrated with my entire unit for most of the last 18 months. There were a very, very small cadre of people that came to work (we were all authorized telework, which seemed like most people took a yearlong vacation to me).

In general I put more on my plate than I should, but I tend to do that when I see a gap in operations, planning, or logistics. I know itâ??s appreciated, but after a while knowing I was paid the same as people literally not working at home, was frustrating. What I called the same ten people were doing everything and it was blatantly obvious, but senior leadership did nothing to alleviate this. A new boss quickly recognized this and told me directly you do the work of three people every day, and do it better than them which went a long way to making me less of a grump.

Specific lines I should explain as well, my callsign should be whore is not sexual in nature, it really just meant I was doing a lot of other peopleâ??s jobs.

Another dumb patriot ready to die is not actually about combat danger so much as it is me questioning if I should spend my one life as a cog in a machine.

I drank a lot in this period, but it frankly had no clear degradation to my work. The fact that I could drink as much as I did and get up and go to work without a headache but feeling completely numb and just do my job while hating it made me realize I needed to find a healthier outlet, which is when I started writing again.

I owe all props to getting through this very shitty time to my wonderful wife and family, and one of my Master Sergeants who also came to work every day with me.
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