hard labor

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Dirt and sweat cover our faces. Our hands are our tools.  We become numb to the pain and the cold metal. Slowly we become machines. Our minds begin to turn and wind just as the wheels do. We lose the feeling of being men.
March, march, march, marching to the beat The rhythmic pounding of a hundred feet. From porch to mill, making no profits The sharp, stinging, rattle of empty pockets.
 As the year began, I switched from the food industry to cleaning house I also became pregnant and got married to a wonderful spouse I have seen uncovered food blasted all over in the microwave
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