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Zywa Jul 6
I had the most marbles
kept them in a bucket in the attic
whoppers in all metal colours
and rare marble ones
nobody liked to lose from me
so I just played alone

A classmate had an ivory marble
but they are forbidden, and I follow
the rules, that's the best game

People have no idea
how it works and what they waste
they say that I'm parsimonious
even with the foreign cents
that I cannot spend, the truth
is that I work hard

and live sober, a good example
that would benefit them more
than the inflation of a luxury life
Collection “Mosaicvirus”
Terry Collett Jun 14
To the left to death;
to the right to work.

Anna, your blond hair
shines in the sun.

Ashes on my
dark hair
remind me of you.

Dogs barked an
unwanted greeting.

Anna, where are you?
I dream of your
blonde hair.

I was sent
to the right
to work;
you were sent
to the left
to death
Although there rests two days
                                                     of labour;

Two days
                 of toil;

Two days
                  of endurance.

Still,
         I will part the red sea.

I shall stand before adversity.

                 I will divide mine enemies.

                                       I shall stand and fight

                                                                           Fight 'til the death!
Got two days of hard work to get through. Let's get this done. Soon, I can run away and escape for a few days and just shed.
The Labour Party is made of spam
They are communists and are as smart as Pam
They l spend and spend more and more
Until the U.K is poor

Jeremy Corbyn is mad
He is very sad
He is made of trash
Just like an annoying ****
That is why I think the Labour party is *******
MMMMMMMMMMMM
MMM   MMMMM   MM
MMMMMMMMMMMM
MMM   MMMM   MMM
MMMM            MMMM
MMMMMMMMMMMM
Gandy Lamb Feb 26
Slaves exist only to be worked to death.
That is why all slaves are dead.
This is dedicated to all the Iqbals out there.
cher Dec 2018
day through night, i face the same fate
my flesh inches closer to its expiry date.

a hell:
my mind is at its limit,
and my body; no longer mine.

each minute goes by, i pray to gods,
every holy name, those i've never heard of,
pray, pray with all my might -
choose a different girl to feast on tonight.

my face was stolen from a world of debris
to support a family i'll never again see
i sold myself, let me be bought,
for just two coins, a price of naught.

a customer.
i tell myself,
don't open your eyes,
don't move a muscle.

hands on my thighs - deja vu
my body to her is just revenue.

memories of every night still live within my body - a bookmark telling me i'll never be my own. a constant image of flesh flickers behind my eyelids every time i close my eyes.

give me my body back.
i'm working on my gcse drama devised piece and it's being recorded in two days - ours is on slavery and i got the *** trade as my scene. we gotta write monologues, so i decided to write mine as a poem because of course i did.
Ankit Bhardwaj Mar 2018
Today, I met the son of a rag picker.

working at a landfill talks about a Biogas tomb,
but does not know that he sits on a methane bomb.

Talks about the suffering of animals, while he suffers from toxins,
redeems every moment of his life for indefinite sins.

Shoves through the rotten corpses and befriends the scavengers,
he wears a stained Spencer and soiled wayfarers.

His eyes are jaundiced, given the stench,
climbs the dirt, while his body starves but his hands are hench.

He looks curiously at my white glowing skin,
laughs at my soft palms throbbing on a dustbin.

He burns the crap, and high goes the flame,
snuffs out his little life, with this every day precarious game.

He bathes in sewer and eats near the crap,
he talks of the other day when he fell off the fill and his leg got snapped.

He is sliced at places and stabbed for stealing ***,
he earns his bread while others of his age mug a shot.

Authorities for his welfare complain about the aroma,
he worships this place as his life’s dogma.

Someday I wish may he smell the green grass,
wear a uniform and attend the chemistry class.

Prejudice he may, for the upcoming generations,
who spend a summer day carrying out these gnarly operations.

May fair go his skin and clean run his blood,
he is the saving grace, my new stench bud.
Kuvar Mar 2018
A Baby comes into the world  
In a warm blood of thick mortality
The concierge of Devil's property
Satan with no chill out of snowy hell cries
Pay your rent to have a peaceful Earth
the very day baby takes in air
I know you want to live in a womb forever
You need to know the hope you bring
To the one who carry you in a 9malt of labour
So be strong to end an unending race little one
Babies do bring up... A hope for a future of goodness...a hope for a family of lost treasures...a hope to humanity continuation
Jimmy Bowman Aug 2017
The world is a playground, the rich ring the bell,
the poor queue up and get lost in the smell.
That stench is the lies we're fed to believe.
Depressed, deprived, downtrodden, forgotten, we see
this system is broken, we cannot conceive,
a house where no one has anything in common.
A house that's failed us for so long.
One side shuts us out,
the other cast their morals with doubt.

Hey! Who's this Blair? He could make this our lair.
If we gain power no longer will we cower,
we'll have all the nice things they have over there,
we'll run the playground, sit in the big chair!
And more money, lots and lots of money...
Unlike the people we're supposed to help, how funny.

Things can only get better, it's a d:ream dream.
Play keys today and a scientist tomorrow
Noel at number ten look at our popularity grow!
A real alternative, a party for the working man
pack them up and send them to Iraq while you can!
There's nothing Socialist about a war criminal.
Tony, Tony, Tony how clinical.

Must this injustice persist.

Back in the playground we continue to queue.
Awaiting the bell, looking up at Teresa, wondering...
can we tame a shrew?
A lady turned and muttered to me,
this is no life, I'd go to uni 'cept for the tuition fee,
I work 'til I can't I stop when I die
I've nothing to show, ask yourself why.

There once was a man...

Like in that film when the Jedi appeared
and we all rejoiced and cheered as the leered
because the Jedi ****** off the Tusken Raiders
'cept this aint Tattooine this is earth we've our own Darth Vaders.
Yet I'm sure the Death Star had free health care.
That weren't under threat, that weren't stripped bare.
Workers rights left a little to be desired
but to be fair half of his staff were totally wired.
But this galaxy's not far far away, it's far far too close to home.
And that man I spoke of was purged by his own.
Yet 313,209 voted return of the Jedi.
All those in favour say aye!
To the return of our party, the return of a new hope
the return of an opposition, to the end of this *****.

No to the Blairite,
no to the far right,
and as for austerity?
He sees the severity.
The times are a changin',
the people are raging,
the Tories need caging
and parliament rearranging.

The bell rings out and we start to walk.
We're back to the classroom where no one can talk.
We're spoon fed more lies and then we go home.
Now we have a chance to make government our own.
Written in the wake of the second labour leadership election Jeremy Corbyn won and touches on the state of politics in the uk as well as harping back to the horrible idea of new labour.
Paul Butters Jun 2017
Before the UK Election
Those Tory Trolls slagged off
The Labour Leader
Jeremy Corbyn
Unmercifully –
Dredging up his distant past,
Turning his heroic quest for Peace in Northern Ireland
Into an act of alleged “treason”
And much more.
They painted a grim grey scene.

But like King Arthur and his gallant knights,
Corbyn unsheathed his own Excalibur:
That mighty thing called “Hope”.
He offered us all a brighter future,
Except perhaps for the greedy rich,
To sweep through the enemy ranks
Upon his horse, “Momentum”.
Once more to the breach…

And as the opinion polls swing
More and more in his favour,
Victory for Labour
Is only a matter of time.

Paul Butters
The aftermath of the UK Election.
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