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Gray Jun 2018
There sits the hungry homeless man.
When he reaches inside his pocket he found little.
The man would certainly need more to be bountiful.

On the other side of the street sits the noble wealthy man,
That man hasn’t ever had a single care.
In fact, he surpasses being a millionaire.

Suddenly the poor man faints due to starvation.
The noble man looks away.
That poor man is gross, and bares a horrible disarray.

The public walks past him, and does nothing in his aid.
That homeless man is dying.
And of course the public is denying.

Hours later, another homeless woman runs towards him.
Her tears will soon be shed,
For that man is already dead.
I don't know about this one, but it's worth a shot eh?
baby since you don't
love me anymore
I feel splinters of pain
in my heart's core

you went away leaving
an aching so deep
why couldn't you stay
close to my keep

the void of emptiness
brings no elation
only the essence
of soul deprivation

baby them splinters
ain't
too
good
baby them splinters
so
hurtful
of
wood
baby them splinters
mean
in
sting
baby them splinters
cruel
of
ping

you've gone and won't
ever be back
your love for me
but a destitute shack
The piece was inspired by a friend, she suggested that I write a poem about splinters...and this is what I came up with.
Evi Dent Halo Dec 2017
Alone.

So very alone.

The echoes in my mind

Reflect back, and I hear.

"Alone.

"So very alone."

-

I can't very well understand.

Why it is or why,

I cant.

But what I know is simple, im reminded very slow

I'm alone,

So very alone.

At days end im just the same as I was

Alone.

-

Off in the distance I see,

Those who are very near to me.

And yet I do not know them, or cannot grasp

Their clothing in these hands.

I hear the voice inside my mind,

Cry to itself as it weeps inside

It says:

"Alone!

"So very alone!"

"So where to go, shall we go?!

"That we might not be alone?"
The writer expresses lonelyness, and the echoes it fills in our minds. It is odd how the echoes somehow make us feel less alone.

FINV "Alone." v3 (11/15/17-12/3/17) - by Evi Dent Halo
Clive Blake Dec 2017
People living in cardboard boxes ...
What are they doing there,
Are they there out of choice,
Or there in despair?

Are they there through their own fault,
Or is the blame society's at large,
Should you give them some free assistance,
Or have police put them on a charge?

Unlike the good samaritan,
You choose to walk on the other side,
Quite happy to debate lofty moral issues,
Until you meet reality, stumble and collide.

Cardboard City's inhabitants,
Are surely past redemption,
Would you really make that statement,
If in there, lived your son?

Shouldn't they help themselves more?
Perhaps they've already been trying,
All I know is they are fellow human beings,
And in the winter ... they are dying.
Lucca Roberto Aug 2017
I remember being on the red thin line
Becoming & epitomizing Destitute
Blessed it too that I found myself wanting
to break from the clenches that bound any exemption, and sought after a new means of
Achieving ultimate ecstasy in a world purged of natural euphoria and anything besides the contemptuous judgment that is almost granted and given at the onset of life in a place that taxes one from the unembellished pleasures a life should often always experience
SassyJ Mar 2016
A fire of desire lays behind the smile
Your fist prominent with lost miles
Tasteless passion that oscillate piles

A cold flame embodies the draught
Torn embers that glows and downs
Faded colours that distract and frown

A blunted clarity try and blow itself
Dismay adorned to encrust destitution
Distractions paraded in devolved arrays
Brent Kincaid Jan 2016
I sleep in my cardboard cottage
That is my current job.
I keep it neat and clean as I can
I am not a slob.
I have my own place staked out
Everyone knows it’s mine.
It keeps the wind off as I doze.
It isn’t perfect but it’s fine.
Part of my job these days is easy;
I set out a cup and sing.
It doesn’t make me a million
But it is something.

When the weather warrants it
I sleep in the park
In the bright warm sunshine;
Stay awake in the dark.
It seems the citizens and cops
All leave me alone
Even though they still talk to me
With condescending tone,
Tsking at my laziness in general
Give the charity buck
Or maybe a quarter when they see
Since I’m down on my luck.

There’s this guy Hay Soose
But he spells it Jesus.
He could spell it that way
If he so pleases
But that don’t keep him dry
Whenever it rains
And it doesn’t stave most of the
Deep arthritic pains
From sleeping under cardboard
As his only roof.
Watch him shiver in winter if
You want some proof.

People have gotten to know me
As I’m here every day.
Some of the even come by with
Nice words to say.
And, I am used to the noise here;
The horns and the noise
Of the workaday world of these folks;
These grownup girls and boys.
Some tell me to go find some work,
I don’t get mad and shout.
I understand they have some hostilities
They have yet to work out.

Some of my neighbors here in cardboard
Dwell here because they
Can’t seem to work life out for themselves
In any other way.
People fire them from any employment
Because they act weird.
Some refuse to bathe or maybe it is
They refuse to cut their beard.
As for me I have had enough of it all;
The rattle and the hum.
I know society has a lot to offer but
I already had some.
Mystifying Chaos Oct 2015
He painted her beautifully in different hues.
The blank canvas was now full of iridescent strokes of art.
But her soul was *colorless.
Joshua Adam Jul 2015
Fears and troubles, never too far away
almost impossible, keeping them at bay
feeling destitute, your energy is sapped
in perpetual unhappiness, your trapped

Falling into worry, it just does not pay
life's beyond control, never your way
wanting to understand, try if you may
you'll fail miserably, only to turn away

In the end, realizing nothing is ever free
all that was, it was really destined to be
now, when you can look back, you see
all those secret wishes, would never be

Find normalcy in the world, by accepting disorder
soon to understand, your insanity is at the border
peace of mind exists, when the soul is in control
until life ends, then leaving your body in the hole

Looking forward to a happiness, you once dared dream
acknowledging in time, this is a possibility too extreme
a sunrise with anticipation, where the sun refuses to set
thinking that with a glimmer of hope, you'd avoid regret

While reflecting on life, could happiness ever really be achieved
with the day of death in mind, could you let yourself be deceived
days and weeks turn into months and years, life quickly ticks away
knowing that time itself is the cause, your happiness does it betray

Yet, what if this time was spent productively, we may begin to really achieve
understanding that time is our very best friend, only we first have to believe
happiness is within the reach of us all, we have the ability to make it our own
"seek and yea shall find," happiness from Heaven, knowing we're never alone
This is a short poem to remind us that despite how bad things can sometimes get, we're never alone
I always believed scars were so beautiful,
until I became one.
A walking, breathing, talking scar - an unchanging reminder of what was and what shall never be again.

I became the scar reminiscent of our love- or rather my love because you were the definition of unrequited
and I used to like that about you - your unwaveringly selfish nature, I used to accredit it to your self belief but then I realised you got that from stripping away mine.
Bit by bit you became who you were by chipping away at pieces of my soul.
Catching the dust of all my dreams and beliefs in your hands and then sifting through it to get what you needed.

Some days you needed a lover.
You needed the heat of my hands raw against the planes of your back- which I had studied in such a neurotically engrossed manner-that surprised even you.
Other days you needed a slave, bent upon raw knees to serve your every whim
and not in a ****** sense because you made it clear that I was repulsive to you most of the time.
No,
you needed someone to serve you and worship at the temple that was your being. You needed a women to be enslaved to your love. You needed to be served and ushered and elevated with no emotional connection. You needed an unchanging commitment that only served you.  

You see, I was forever trying to be what you needed and in that attempt-that feigned attempt at what I used to believe was love, I lost myself. Wading through parts of you that you didn't even care to understand I lost myself.
Raw on my knees.
Wading barefoot through your soul.
Between the sheets- crawling towards you milimeter by milimeter only for you to move further each time.
Tracing the planes of your burning back.
That's when I lost myself,and became a scar. Evidence of all the times you hurt me in a marvelously unflinching and unforgiving way...

All of which I realised when I was destitute.
You see you used to be my home but then the season of our love expired and you threw me out and as I walked the streets of my new life, navigating what it meant to exist without you, I had an earth shatteringly glorious ephiphany - that loving you and being destitute were the same thing.

So here I am. A scar that walks and talks and breathes and the great thing about this scar is that I'm evidence of a healed wound. I am no longer raw from loving you and I am no longer lost. I'm a *** who smiles with no teeth.
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