The paper says the work is done,
The invoice claims the fix is clear,
But beneath the hood, the ruse has spun,
A truth they simply will not hear.
Forty-one days of mounting strain,
Of detailed lists and patient speech,
I map the fault, I point to pain,
Yet logic stays beyond their reach.
I speak in facts, I cite the sound,
The diagnostic, plain and true,
But shadows of a doubt are found
Because the voice they hear is you.
I am not loud, I am not wrong,
I know the pulse of metal gear,
But I have sung this weary song
To men who choose to lock their ear.
They treat the truth like idle noise,
Dismissing what I know to be,
As if my expertise employs
Some lesser, feminine decree.
Forty-one days of weight and wear,
Of fighting ghosts that stand between,
The broken part, the cold repair,
And simple justice, felt and seen.
It shouldn’t take a war to win
The quiet right to be believed,
To pierce the walls of stubborn skin,
And mend the trust that they deceived.
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Author:
Friendship (
Offline) - Published: June 20th, 2026 09:07
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 5
- Users favorite of this poem: Tristan Robert Lange
Offline)
Comments2
Friendship, what struck me most is how controlled this remains despite the obvious frustration beneath it. The focus never leaves the central issue...wanting to be heard, wanting expertise to be trusted, wanting a straightforward problem addressed straightforwardly. And paired with that jellyfish image? Let's just say it adds an extra layer of commentary. 🤣🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
good write, loved the jellyfish, a master stroke
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