Here is a poem I wrote last week at a workshop ran by the very talented poet Dean Atta, called ‘Unemployment’ about experiences shared by many at present.
It’s like waiting for a bus to come,
waiting, waiting, but they never come.
You feel like a book yearning to be read but constantly being passed by.
“Sorry, not today,
Not enough experience” they say,
That’s when they even grace you with a reply,
Sending off a neverending trail of letters,
applications, cv’s, no satisfaction.
Treading water, constantly swaying, staying still.
It’s like you’re looked down on by society,
No compassion, no pity, the centre of lies,
Being unemployed is a heavy yoke while waiting for a lighter one to come.