Tired of prostitution, please give me money.
Your blackened eye on display for the masses to see, blanched wooden faces sweet as honey.
God bloviated, etching people like words, now procreation run rampant, filling the streets.
Tired of prostitution, my swarthy skin isn't the object of scorn, no color wars, just ravaging perceived meats.
Hot pink boots with long legs, cold pressed suit and an unused umbrella, zoo humans press in for comfort in numbers even when they themselves are the feared hunters.
Please give me money, you've exchanged selling of body to prostitution of pride.
Was it mental illness or drugs, lost hope, a long slippery *****, maybe ill fortune, lack of education, "I didn't have a chance", you didn't fight, who's on your side?
I stand in broad daylight and watch the magnanimous, blinders for lost brothers, sisters, friends, all cardboard screams "why have you abandoned us?".
An overweight black women sits on a bench, in a sea of voracious minds tempered by forced tunnel vision, holding a cardboard sign, I'm tired of prostitution she says, please give me money.
This poem is very much based off a real scene seen in Manhattan, sadly enough. It hit me hard and I did not feel even remotely okay with taking a photograph of this kind of human misery.