Twenty-five cents.
To most, this insignificant amount of money is spent with little worry or care.
Twenty-five cents.
To me, it’s all I have. I worry I’ll die with a quarter to my name.
I care about the number I see on my phone screen as I check my bank account.
Twenty-five cents.
A trivial coin given to a child to buy a trivial toy.
Twenty-five ******* cents.
A pang in my gut as I see the history of every purchase,
every dollar spent, every card swiped.
Twenty-five cents.
It’s all that remains.

I remember there was a time
when I was so broke
I couldn't even break a $5 bill
for breaded breakfast

half the time
I couldn't even break my fast
I broke down spiritually
as I was financially broke

I even tried being a house broker
getting ****** on by dogs
not house broken

hell, I even broke the law
hoping for a fast break
while I broke my body
working hard with no breaks

with an unbreakable will
I was breaking my bones
but ****, I couldn't even buy brakes
for my broke down car!

because I was so broke with no bread
I couldn't pay attention
to her breaking heart
and it broke us apart to parts

so much so that when I thought
we were breaking up
she had broken up with me long ago

because being unbroken and together
was so meaningless to her
she didn't even break a sweat
breaking in other guys

behind my broken
hard working broke back
she had already
broken in a bleak future

yet I should have felt guilty
for the break up?
**** that!

By Abpoetry

Suffered my whole life.
Tryna' keep a job , keep the checks flowing,
Keep the momentum of the ongoing,
I was a pawn of the unknowing,
35 jobs and still nothing felt right,
A black man can only build so much foresight,
Odds was always stacked against me too,
I needed a outlet , I needed to fight,
Then I soon realize being a slave wasn't really an option,
They want you to work til you still in a coffin,
Third eye banged and punched out of my Noggin,
**** prosecution and **** being an object,
A number , a gear in the cog wheel,
Meditate now , I could feel what nature feel,
powers been growing , I don't derive from guilt,
Ask me what I know , you won't believe in the matrix still,
Job / School / Prison , same thing,
Please , bare , witness, vibrate,
Everything , timelines happening all at once,
So in Another I'm probably rich for god sakes,
Been thru a lot , So if Another ***** Tell Me That She Don't
Want Me Cause I'm "Broke",
I Didn't want you anyway.

Ah no money
and the bill has come - roosting.  

I contemplate suicide,
and other deluded pains;

much rather that than
sell my art for money;

how does one even begin-
to ask for money for a gift;

from all Nature unbidding,
for Art that is Art is

Not made by you - we
forget that this is all a chance,

luck fits better - perhaps -
and yet the morrow begins,

and i ope my eyes again;
the world - Still Burning.

and my heart - full;
not if only I could figure something out for the wallet!

On the one hand-
A scream- a shout: MAKE MONEY

On the other one-
Why? What for? Who asks this?

It isn't this simple, it
Really is that simple.

I would to nothing more do,
Than fill pages with thought, lyrics and

Amuse me, amuse you.
Yes, it is true.

I am filled here-
With the space to see how to make-

Yet, neither you nor i,
Truly, do wish to- see-

What it is we could amount
To be-

Leave it aside, brush it now.
What more is to be said,

About the blind poetry-
The blind poetry of-

this wasn't our first time
at the waffle house
sitting across from each other
staring out the window
at fading car lights,
astigmatism placebo running rampant
(or maybe just greasy windows).
  this wasn't our first talk
about you wanting to die
sometime late at night,
we talked for hours
the week before this,
tears, sweat, and trembling lips.
  this was our first meal
we shared together at night
after hopeless thoughts
in late december
before your brother's wedding.
  this wasn't the last time
we'd see each other again,
or order the fully loaded hashbrowns,
or talk about suicide,
that would come in time.
  this is the first time
I've thought about this memory
and have been grateful for your marriage
and how far you've come
from eating garbage at 2am,
from wearing the punisher hoodie I gave you,
from drinking mike's hard lemonade,
from feeling lonely and hopeless
and wanting to end your life.

I stand amidst chaos, lost in the haze,
Reaching for you, but your gaze never strays.
The one I once sought, my refuge, my guide,
Is no longer waiting where hope used to reside.

You, my constant in a world so unkind,
Now absent, like others who’ve left me behind.
Perhaps you've surrendered, as they all have too,
Given up on the soul you once held true.

So now, I'll play the role they’ve designed,
Proving them right with the scars in my mind.

No, I haven't abandoned the fight within me,
I’ve merely become what they forced me to be:
Friendless, loveless, and cold as the stone,
A shadow that lingers, lifeless, alone.

-fir.m

He sat on the cold, wooden floor,
His only source of light a dim lamp outside
He was shivering from the cold but that didn't matter
As long as his words were given life

The quiet sound of the pen hitting the paper
The notebook being the only thing he owned
Yet so treasured
A portal to the past

Some pages were torn
Seen as useless
But so truly beautiful
As they gave character to the brown notebook filled with nonsense

Exhausted with his work
He fell asleep in the middle of a word
The pen slowly tracing a line down the page
Only for it to be found, another reason to shame the boy
For that he is different