'Production' then and now

This was something that I dug out from my diaryland, well, DIARY. I posted in up on diaryland *duh* and I thought I would post it up here now. This poem is the one that I love the most so far. Below is also the description that came with it as I posted it up on my diaryland diary. It will tell u where I'm coming from when I wrote that poem.

I wrote a poem during the principal's rally... ... Haf to admit I wasn't listening much. The bugger is a nice guy, he means well, but he juz talks nonsense sometimes. Anyway, the following will be the poem. Inspired by my geog teacher during a human geog lesson talking about mass production. but the poem didn't formulate in my mind until my lit teacher told my friend and I to try writing a poem keeping closely to the style of Sylvia Plath, the poet whose book of poems 'Ariel' we r doing a close reading on. Be warn, those who r attempting to do her poems, u must know her background to understand how those weird things came out of her. still, she still must be respected and I attempted to delve into her mind and style to write this poem. So this poem is dedicated to my geog and lit teachers and Homage to Sylvia Plath.


Production

This is the factory where
dolls in similiar outfit,
marching in to join in the great
Production.
Now this is exciting!

Everbody has to run in by
half past seven
or else
the masters will get even.
Detention that is would be mention

Sitting in stacks of boxes with two doors
one in front and one at the back
Little dark windows
to let some air in
Lest the dolls get suffocated.

Breathe in Breath out
the dolls melt under the sun
Masters push them
The sun shining it's spiteful rays on them.
Pant, Pant, Pant, Pant.
They long to run out

The noise the noise
hammering down on them.
Words, words, words, words
Squirming through their heads.
Their brains are made bigger.

Then the quality check.
the dolls move throught a torture chamber
compressed by time and space
After that,
the defunct dolls has to go.

Some cry to relieve their pain
of not being able to go thought the next rein.
It's the survival of the fittest.
Only the strong can move on
to the next stage of oblivion