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The investments
The investments...
The investments
Pitch a hard sale quake a large scale

Bobby ZPac west central you ain from here dont pull up
The money goes to me im a real me real life investments talking investments

Zywa Jun 27
So tasty, the smell

of steaming bread, freshly baked --

while I was sleeping.
Collection "Bruises"
Eslam Dabank Jan 18
A breadcrumb I am - the morsel of my old dough,
     a piece of chewed bread rotten, missed near a toe,
shredded by the sons of righteousness and “normality”,
     entombed I am under the carpet to fulfil “morality”.

Mum added the yeast for me to grow, as well as flour,
     Hoping my crust would golden as a vivid live flower,
She sprinkled little salt into me, to know the grimes,
     Sugar too, for life brings out the salt to eyes, at times.

Dad poured the water, to soften toughness uncalled,
     For man is kind too, not merely clay masked, walled -
And above all, they added affection and compassion,
     They wanted me to satisfy mineself, not one’s ration.

Into the oven, 9 minutes, under fire: I show colors,
     The warmth turned the heart warm for all others;
I am left to rest, to harden the shell and eternal body,
     To be perfect as ma and pa wish: not adverse, shoddy.

But the stale, unpuffed, unfresh bread of this world,
     covets but loathes what is good and not yet twirled,
It wishes for me to inhibit mold and evict dignity,
    Mais allez, étrange moi, expose me not to malignity.

The least of their gurgling sounds puncture heads,
     And the weakest of their advice the spirit dreads;
The making of me is the capacity of mine flexes,
     Your ingredients suit not me, mortals and sexes.

Days yearn for you, not this battle of complexes:
     You, mine old dough who suddenly “complex” is,
My parents baked me on low heat nice and gentle,
     And they sear me with words not for me, mental!

Know you: Pita, Kmajj, Brioche, Shrak, or Baguette,
     Bread is bread, could be different, but it is no threat.
Teyah Nichole Oct 2022
The handbook of my heart
Is one
For the birds,
As I am
Because I do
When there simply aren’t words.
So Sunday’s swan song
These little loaves
of love—
                    A bread of pray
                    For a safe journey home
                    My sweet turtle dove.
I've developed a habit of baking bread for the birds in my local park. I wrote this poem in honour of the new ritual that's become my raison d'état.
LC Apr 2022
They reached behind my sternum,
wrapped their hands around my heart,
and attempted to strangle it.
I pried their aching hands away,
and I tore my bleeding heart in half.
One half shaped itself into bread,
and the other half fermented into wine.
My eyelids slowly came together
as I let the holy water wash over me.
My words consecrate the communion,
and I bless it for people to consume
so we remember that we're not alone.
Escapril Day 9! The prompt was "we're not alone," and I thought about communion, which is what Christians consume every week. It is considered the Body and Blood of Jesus Christ.
My family is Christian, and I am questioning the beliefs I have been raised with. Some life events and growth have led me to think differently, and I want to be skeptical in a healthy way. Faith has been on my mind due to these reasons. I also do not intend to mock Christianity; I was inspired by the religion to write this poem.
I believe writing and sharing helps us remember we're not alone. I truly hope my poems help in that way for everyone who reads them 💗
pale sickness
you're white as a sheet

draining illness
your clammy white skin

deathly light
the diseased white sun will bleach your bones
after the doves pick them clean

sickly white
your cracked teeth clatter out of your skull
dominos in a dead white jar

trembling hands the color of spoiling milk
carefully cradle an almost translucent infant
mother and child
both far too weak to feed

the only thing that grows here is decay
white mold thrives on your hoarded white bread
while outside the safety of the white picket fence
there is not a single soul who does not
recognize the white of an unburied skeleton
under a full moon
Revelations 6:8-And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him. And power was given unto them over the fourth part of the earth, to **** with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth.
In the battleground...
He battles to win a bread,
For his loving child'...!
Battleground refers to the struggles of life...
Hussein Dekmak Dec 2021
Everything draws me to you:
The pulse of a new dawn,
The laughter of the sun,
The aroma of baked bread,
The song of a bird,
The fragrance of a flower,
The magnificent beauty of nature,
The miracle of a baby's birth,
The whisper of hope and humanity.

Everywhere I gaze, I see your beautiful face.
Anywhere I go, I feel the touch of your love.
You are the compass of the hearts
And the Infinite light of the whole universe!

Hussein Dekmak
Bipolar Poet Dec 2021
I imagine the witty hooks
of young ones in love.

He tells her, "aren't you a strawberry
looking like a cherry on top!"

"We're in this jam together,
light of my eye my Sunjam."

And how with a loaf of words,
he'd end with,

"I'll let nothing get in between us;
but be between two slices of bread."

                                              Turning cheeks red and sweet.
Davina E Solomon Sep 2021
The dough is molten at oven spring,
like a prayer to the historicity of things ..

Have we not imagined yesterdays
in the ritual of bread ? While our pasts

lay embezzled, on the tongues of men, the
sentiment of centuries colluded in germ,

echoing through heirloom remembrances
those floury philosophies of change.

While I stretch dough to gaze past
a windowpane, as far back as Khorasan ..

they were other names then, another
elasticity in time. Faith is a memory

of settled people in lands of milk and
honey, where every drought, every flood

spawns a new religion .. and the wheat,
always begs the same old question:

Are we there yet, in the fertile crescent
of opportunity ? The grains haven't changed

in their stolid countenance - long, subtle,
germy, cosseted. In the granaries of kings ..

they are willed by royal decree, never to die
in an eternal future and like humankind,

who score bread in the cuneiform of hearts,
grain is always thirsting to seed the land.
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