AP English 2: WorkStart from the bottom and work your way up.More Like This
Work harder and harder, it's never enough.
Who's working, I'm working, you're working, who?
It's the men working harder, it's just what we do.
Like robots, like slaves, we work like machines.
We work harder and harder, but what does it mean?
Work harder for money, work harder for boss.
Work harder to get some, but what have we lost?
For what are we working? For who do we please?
Even begging for work so low on our knees.
Why are we working? It's time to oppose.
And stop being nobody workers that nobody knows.
It's time for a break from working all day.
I think we've all earned it, wouldn't you say?
TMNT-SkinThere had been many time where Donatello imagined himself alone with April. Just him and her with no brothers there to embarrass him, no father there to distract him, and most importantly, no monsters to get in the way of him and the girl of his dreams.More Like This
He loved to imagine himself kissing her. Donatello tried to imagine what her lips would feel like against his fingers, his skin, his lips...but he knew that’d probably never happen because of what he was. A turtle? Kinda. A man? Sorta. He wasn’t an animal but he sure as hell wasn’t a human. Why would someone like April love a monstrosity like him?
But yet...here she was. Standing in front of him with no interruptions and on her own free will. No dream. No restraints. No invention. Just pure, raw will. And it was beautiful.
Donatello had imagined her skin to be soft, but it was softer in person than he imagined. Grazing his fingers along her arms and cheeks, the mutant looked into the deep blue pools of water that were
Dysphoria4:45amMore Like This
He looks in the mirror, disgusted with what he sees. Every day this is the face that the world judges him by. Every day this is the face that smiles too little and cries too much. Every day he sees this face in the mirror, ashamed that it isn't really his.
He strips down, uncomfortable with what he has. The fat on his hips and chest. The fat on his gut and thighs. The scars on his arms and his legs from unheard pain that could not be shed by tears. He's not ugly by any real means. He does not feel ugly himself. He feels fake.
He steps out of the shower and looks at himself once more. Disgusted. Uncomfortable. Fake. He looks at the clothes he wishes he could wear. Black pants that fit him well. A black and red dress shirt that makes him seem thinner in the gut, and stronger in the shoulders and chest. He shakes a little. Angry that he cannot wear them today. Angry that he, at his age, has to be told what to wear. He looks at what he HAS to wear. A long sleeved blous