It seems the poorer man
Always writeth with word's
So rich;



©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry

The night was made for loving
But the days are said to be
The death of a poet’s eye before,
He says what has to be said.

There’s no heat in the city,
Only depression and misery
All around town, no garbage collection,
Only rental units with
high vacancy rates seems counterintuitive,

The colours of the disposable bags
Said, sacks and waste, bed bugs, and roaches,
So take your landlord to court and come out on top
Said the poet, before death trap us

As I drove around the city, my heart is oppressed with
anguish to the very point of death that surround us.
That awful display on every city block.

Homeless men and women urinate, defecate,
Behind, the doors and alleys,
we need a wind of change today
the night not so much matter

However, it’s the day after everything comes to light,
Another lost soul, another day to push forward
Is it illegal to be homeless, when trying to try to stay alive?
The Devil will try to stop anything good!

Something I would tell you son
that's only known to me
a burden it is knowing alone
it's time I share with thee.

Shocking was what he revealed to me
tragic too was the tale
of a woman's loss of dignity
her passing thru fire of hell.

Her I have held in high esteem
her sanctity locked in trust
never knew she was a sad victim
of a man's monstrous lust.

My father felt it would only be fair
it needed him just to be brave
with son the secret he must share
not carry alone to the grave.

I hold it now that grave secret
father left his job was done
burdened with a heavy weight
that I can't share with son.

The woman she is still alive
knocking on ninety's door
her skin a shade of dried beehive
she remembers not anymore.

All I can see is smoke            
I can't see anything
It's raining hard
I can't see anything, I can just smoke.
My head is filled with smoke.
There's nothing I could possibly use in my head,
It's made up of bad thoughts and smoke.

There's so much smoke in my head
There's so much smoke to see.
There's too much of everything.

Smoke, smoke, smoke.
Smoke, that's all I can do,
Smoke.
Hoping that my problems will go away.
I guess smoke does take a great place in my head.
I'll keep on smoking, so it take it all up, so it takes up
My whole head, my whole mind.

Smoke, thoughts and failures, that's what I'm made of.                       -M.B.H.

See the sunken face of nature,
Hear her shrieking, fraught with woe,
At the city's neon hubris,
Giving off its chilling glow.

See the formless mass of people,
Hear the spinning potter's wheel,
Watch the shape of people changing,
As ideas become real.

See them dancing a quick tango,
Hear them whispering sweet lies,
Wearing masks upon their faces,
Wearing mirrors in their eyes

Living life just for survival, and
Pursuit of mindless pleasure,
While amassing status symbols,
Has become the one true measure, of

A culture whose existence,
Works toward its own demise,
Climbing down a burning ladder,
Numb to touch, and deaf to cries.