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It seems you lie to yourself,
Building up a fake world to fall back on.
Though, even if you do,
You at least have some level of dignity.
For if you brought these people here,
Only to rile things up,
You're disgusting.

Sometimes, you disgust me.

If anything,
I am as much as a hunter of evil as you.
Although I am no kingmaker,
No kingdom taker.
Ask yourself,
Did you fix a problem?
Or replace it.

Because in the face of paradise,
You disgrace it.
I doubt this will ever be the Eden it was again
Cadmus May 23
🍽️

If I enjoy their attention today,
I remind myself of this:

They’ll call a nice dish “a ***** plate”
once they’ve eaten their fill.

Praise turns to pity,
desire to disdain.

The hands that reached for me
will recoil,
as if they never begged
to taste.

So I wear their craving like perfume
fleeting,
never mine to keep.

They were never here for me…
just the feast.
This piece strips away illusion to expose the cruelty of conditional attention. It’s a brutal commentary on how people often glorify what they consume, only to discard it with contempt once their desire is satisfied. A warning to recognize the difference between admiration and appetite.
Joss Lennox Apr 1
the path to peace
cannot be parallel
to the manipulation of power
release the urge to control
Misstic Mar 13
I wrote about
Heartache
Not following your
Past mistakes,

But, what about
The girls or boys
Getting *****,

Losing innocence
As such young age,
Not even
Knowing
What they lost?

Gained horrors
For a life range
Used
As toys for
A meaningless
Exchange,

Monster intoxicated
With lust
Roaming these streets,
That’s the real issue
No my clothes
You pin,

What a bad joke
Life is?
Instead being
Kind
We being stripped
From our
Dignity.
Misstic Mar 13
I wrote about
Heartache
Not following your
Past mistakes,

But, what about
The girls or boys
Getting *****,

Losing innocence
As such young age,
Not even
Knowing
What they lost?

Gained horrors
For a life range
Used
As toys for
A meaningless
Exchange,

Monster intoxicated
With lust
Roaming these streets,
That’s the real issue
No my clothes
You pin,

What a bad joke
Life is?
Instead being
Kind
We being stripped
From our
Dignity.
Nat Lipstadt Mar 2
~for Jonathan Larson (2)~
~~~~
where poets dare to tread
knowing the jeopardy to
themselves when their truths
are outed by the light shedding
come the morning’s birthing,
my ending unwritten,
the methodology unknown
(1)
<•>
the tabulations final sum
identified by a =  
couplet doublet line
underlining, undermining,
tho the sign indeterminate,
pos or neg,
worse yet maybe,
zero sun-shiny outed,
well,
rue-sighing
must be one of but just
them three tri-bipolar optionalities

the script unwrit
the possibilities vast,
alone nursing home,
an empty dull
barely furnished,
studio apartment
an unnoticed blah, blah blah;
that’s ok

there will be no vast array,
conclave of family & friends,
his stateless status
formed by a choice reenforced by time,
a man chose a solitary tilt,
till it
was a deathly rigid reality factual,
free willed
~~
the irony sweetbitter,:
he who loved love
sometimes writing wrinkles
of only love poetry
but was
stumped
by its consequences continual
&
stumbled
in and out, deep or not at all ,
but only periodic,
alternating decades from
age ninteen

his leavings will be
minimal,
his trail,
dusted under,
and his sense of wonderment
at the atomic elemental
extant and yet undiscovered,
is where will live his
only wisps of his whispers,
heard  ‘pon the backs
of rushing to nowhere
guest gusts of
canyon winds
of his york;
city of naissance

do not protest
nor deviate with debate,
the future unpredictable
and yet curved hewn from,
made from straight block stone
of absolute clarity
of speckled Barre gray granite
~~
mistake this not
for bewailing,
catlike caterwauling,
ever even the bitters,
of short-lived
the in~between now
and resting place finale
indeterminate,
~~
but follow a path of words,
an Appalachian Trial
roving  through forest & civilization,
multiple states,
safe and dangerous
worldly, wormwood wordfuls
all jumble uttered simultaneous

<>
so we dare to ask out loud,
will I die in dignity,
the answer a stale prequel
question obvious answered
in his heritage-styled genes,
with another wink
of a question;

what is dignity?
~~
alone, surrounded by
no one,
matters not,
headstone irrelevant
for this good morning
of cherishing
words and tunes,
adding a line
here and there,
is dignity enough,
and this,
well known to him,
within his collapsing vein's depths,

so the answer
smooth planed and plain:

This,
this is dignity
one more time,
one more winding
spiraling downwards
uplifting
poem


and a
never ending~never the less
&
nevermore
forevermore
satisfactory
answer
(1)
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4994818/nat-your-own-chosen-speed-can-you-guess/

(2)
Lyrics by Jonathan Larson
“Will I/ Life Support

Will I?
Will I lose my dignity? Will someone care?
Will I wake tomorrow from this nightmare?

Will I lose my dignity? Will someone care?
Will I wake tomorrow from this nightmare?

Will I lose my dignity? Will someone care?
Will I wake tomorrow from this nightmare?

Will I lose my dignity? Will someone care?
Will I wake tomorrow from this nightmare?

Will I lose my dignity? Will someone care?
Will I wake tomorrow from this nightmare?



Will I lose my dignity? Will someone care?
Will I wake tomorrow from this nightmare?
Amir Murtaza Feb 10
When rights are taken,
people stand alone.
The world moves around them,
but they are outside,
unseen, unheard.

Dignity crumbles.
Inclusion becomes a distant idea,
participation a closed door.
They are left with nothing but silence,
a void where their voice should be.

Education, healthcare, justice—
these are not gifts,
they are foundations.
Without them,
the ground gives way.

Isolation grows,
not just in the mind,
but in the spaces between people.
It spreads,
weakening the ties that hold society together.

They are here,
but they are not.
Their absence is felt,
but not acknowledged.
The system turns,
blind to the cracks it creates.

How long can this last?
How many must stand alone
before the world notices,
before it stops,
and begins to rebuild?
Steve Page Oct 2024
I am more than
the traces I rub against,
the dust I've gathered,
the crumbs in my pockets,
the mud on my shoes,
the dirt under my nails,
the gritty sleep in my eyes,
the deep wax in my ears,
the grease in my hair,
the bruises I carry,
the scars I bear.

I am almost the songs I sing.
Identity is a complex thing
Virtuous Aug 2024
You saw me on that moonless night.
Loitering and idling out of sight.
You saw me hunched in misery,
Clad in street-walkers' livery.

The moment I laid my eyes on you,
I saw a light, a hope so true,
Something which was shattered since
The day I entered the world of sins.

For want of food, I sold my body;
Bread exchanged with dignity.
A mug of ale for one night's work,
While rent was paid by bedding jerks.

You know what I've done, so why do you care?
I'm broken, undone–a deflowered mare.
I don't even own some decent clothing;
All I have are rags for showing.

You always utter, "I love you."
Is there such a love so true?
Would you love this rotten mare,
And stay with her as a wedded pair?
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