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  • Writer's pictureMichael Bastianelli

PhotoManhattan

In the heart of Manhattan, a photo school stood,

Where I labored and toiled, doing all that I could.

The owner, a sloth, unmotivated and weak,

Ignored the potential, success they could seek.


The school, a sanctuary for the art of the frame,

Yet tainted by lethargy, a lingering shame,

Gaslit and misled, my efforts dismissed,

As I struggled to thrive, in the midst of this twist.


A trio of women, a gossiping clique,

Their lies, their deceit, their actions oblique,

They whispered and schemed, casting blame on my name,

While shirking their duties, their work just a game.


The printed guide, a testament to their despair,

Littered with errors, a lack of due care,

Yet I, the scapegoat, bore the weight of their flaws,

As the owner turned a blind eye, to their obvious cause.


Sales dwindled, the school's future uncertain,

The owner, in panic, pulled down the curtain,

And laid me off, blaming me for their plight,

Yet the truth, it was clear, in the fading light.


The brother, a coward, delivered the blow,

Claiming they'd schedule me, a lie we both know,

The owner, too timid, to face me in truth,

Concealing their actions, and sealing my youth.


But in the face of betrayal, I found my strength,

A resilience, unyielding, in the shadows, at length,

The school may crumble, brought low by their lies,

But I'll rise above, with my head held high.


For in the darkest corners, where deception resides,

I'll find my truth, my purpose, where my spirit abides,

And leave behind the photo school, a lesson learned,

To forge a new path, and make the success I've earned.

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