287 days, the calendar knows, Each one a brick in a road that won’t close. Morning by morning, I rise and I try, Chasing a whisper, a dream in the sky. Thousands of prayers in the form of a form, Typed in the cold, through silence and storm. Each “Submit” a small flare to the night, Each resume begging: Please see me right.
Dozens of faces behind polished screens, Questions rehearsed, rehearsed in my dreams. I smiled through the static, I nodded on cue, Then watched as the thank-yous all faded to blue. Hundreds of letters, each one a bell, Ringing out softly the same little hell. “We regret to inform you…”—I don’t need to see The rest of the sentence. It finishes me.
But I’m still here. Somehow. Still here. Still breathing in doubt, still whispering “next.” Still holding the thread of what hope connects. So if you feel numb, like you’re breaking apart, Know someone out there is guarding your heart. And maybe, just maybe, these tears that you see Are not only for me— But for the fight to be free.
A Poem for the Ones Still Waiting
(Previous title: This Shitty Job Market)
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