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Color me refuse
Mud in the underbelly
The loose form of a man shoveling **** with a plan to tunnel out and hand the sentence to my master
Lose the chain around my neck and find a plot of land to dance tomorrow

It’s so far away though

Will I tread the sea of bodies strung along the ground
between the sphinxes gate to claim the crown, that even now glimmers past the smog that attempts to fog my vision my decision to walk on tested with every sound.

Bury my pride and carry the burden in stride refuse to tarry or cower or decide to turn around
Push the pen to the page with bleeding fingers
Paint with all the colors of masterpiece until I force something out

Will I?

Or will the tar on my lungs erase me
Will I be wrung like a towel thrown in
Drunk on futility
Chasing with impotent rage
Caged in a circus of ****** on a stage cuz I can’t raise a kid on minimum wage

Furious clouds are born storming throughout luxurious tapestries torn by ******* apathy ask me if My potential still holds sway when my energy has me using my hands to stop the rain.
Torrents pour in to clear my storage of scraps and sheer force of denial implores the whip on my back to pretend it’s on my side while it slips in a ***** and adores the dough made from my heart attack

Bedazzled prizes consume the whipping allies beside me
inventing new ways to cope with bottom feeding society
assuming truth’ll be derived if so behooved are the masters and their plastic constituents which I guess makes sense, but
poor judgement lends my flesh up to communion if I dare to walk in and say union.


The reagents and *** kissers call into question mindsets infected by a weakness of character
I shed my pride and inquire with an open hand the law layers of the land to relinquish a sparing of its crumbs
Spun from a singular purpose of a daughters meal the judges glaring does little to impair my will to take the help I can
and spare the child the repercussions of her fathers failure and prepare a better plan

Further choral echoing discord turns it **** head upon the scraps in my hand and posits that if they were taken it would make me work a lot harder instead of coasting on crumbs

So when the coal baron collects his second billionth he will surely cease pursuing correct?
Not do his best to dissect
Every millisecond of labor dug from workers he’s abusing to wring another penny out.
in fact
I think I see your point
Poised to join and help detract
Back peddle over to
Destroying. Prove lying
On your belly is the easy way out. To say
Today’s coin was well deserved. And serve stout drinks to the kings sleep on a rock and talk **** to the guy sleeping in a box because I’ve been taught to think I deserve where I am regardless of my environment but c'mon man ****

Let’s play a game of monopoly
I’ll start with 80% of the bank and y’all can be my ******* when I pay to write the rules and spank you up and down the board while barely touching the capital I have stored.

I’m getting pretty ****** tired of the stale story hard wired in our heads where the moral is free market prevailing for the pauper til he’s dead and social safety nets provided to the prince instead

it’s lead us to question
Methods of distribution sympathetic to tribulations
Endured.
Solutions ignored
For the poor because a single mother with a phone
Doesn’t deserve to be thrown a ******* bone
Apparently

All hail the welfare queen
Who hasn’t seen a day without the banks banner bearers walking tall
All over legislated brick walls enveloping more then all of her vision of a road to prosperity

Make it clear to me how she’s quote "taking advantage" of the land of the free while I see that you fail to ask us
How behind a mask of nobility a trillion dollar company still doesn’t pay its ******* taxes.
Isaac Ward Dec 1
I won't tell me kids about Santa Claus,
And you might ask "Why?", because-
Like the Easter Bunny and Jack Frost,
You lied to your kids.

You meant well, I assure you,
And convinced them of wishes and miracles too,
And things falling out of the sky so blue,
But none of it is true.

Now, we all decieve ourselves a bit,
And believe in the ritualistic skits,
And pray, or wish, or write a list,
But logically, its all horse spit.

So when my kids look under the tree,
For their generic winter holiday gifts,
They'll see it came from dear old dad,
And at that, their spirits can lift.

"But why," you ask, "won't you tell them about Santa?"-
As you look at me like i've grown an antler,
And I'll take a breath, and let it out,
And try to contain what I ought to shout,

The poor and the needy are-
Abused by the greedy,
And the evil corporate overlords too.

They can't afford fancy presents,
They're living like peasants,
Its a state of modern serfdom, yet to you-

You buy phones and new games,
For your kids, with no shame,
And they think nothing of Santa when-

The poor kids might get socks,
And go outside to kick rocks,
And wonder why Santa hates them.
Johnny walker Nov 30
I'm just laid here on my bed nothing much to do eleven days to pension drawing day, run short
of money have to stay Indoors and save on
the money I haven't
got

Strange how only a few
months ago I was looking
forward to retiring with
my wife, which will never happen now

But In that short space of time, things have changed so
much
Finally retired but to what
a continuation of my working live no money struggling to pay bills threatening letters through my
doors
I think all those years of working and nothing to show for It all, and like American gangster almost feel like saying  "FORGET ABOUT IT"
Retired nothing to show for all those years of hard work I have to ask myself Is life for people like myself just so the
rich can have a nice retirement or am just being nieve
Gerry James Nov 25
Shaky hands reach out
Wrinkled hands, bony fingers;
All for a little bit of salvation
From the heat and the hunger.
Ribs sticking out of his chest
Lungs wheezing,
Struggling to breathe properly
Inhaling the unforgiving dust and smoke.
Sleeping on the cold concrete
With a frayed mat for warmth.
Worry lines permanently etched
Around his weary eyes
Realizing he can barely support
His family because of his sorry state.
But still he gets up and works;
Begging in alleyways,
Rummaging through trash bags,
Working in factories that tax him
Making him look gaunt;
All so that his loved ones
Can sleep with food in their tummies.
A poor man with a responsibility
Is the toughest soldier
This world can craft.
Poor people are *** in disguise.
Baqir Talpur Nov 16
What was our love,
If not just an other Shakespearean tragedy?
An other story of tragic heroes cursed by their fate,
Struggling to exist within their characters.
You, facing the external conflicts from family.
Me and my internal conflict
(of not being courageous enough).
Our tragic loss of our selves and each other,
Thanks to the diabolical supernatural elements,
Playing their own characters in the play.
The lack of poetic justice,
causing a poor end to the tragedy.
And in the end a comic relief,
through the humorous character of time it self.

Tell me again,
What was our love,
If not just an other Shakespearean tragedy?
Johnny walker Nov 11
We never saw the
summer through
Probably the best
we'd had for years
Poor  girl didn't
make It passed
winter, just to
have that last summer
Wasn't much to ask
for, I told Helen we
would have the
the best summer ever
take her to the
seaside as many
days she wanted
sadly not meant
to be, don't think I'll
ever go back to the
sea
Winter Helen never made the best summer In years just ain't fare
Ken Voltaire Nov 4
I am minuscule.
Shame and remorse lie on my breath,
An ample bed.
Fear overcame me,
And thus I was deceived by my own self.
An abundance of cowardliness,
That lead to pain and suffering,
Continuing ever still.
My mind and will are weak,
But bound by love,
I hope to keep.
Fear,
That I will never be good enough.
Too many mistakes.
Too many slips and falls.
Too many cliches.
Too much dependency.
Too much weakness.
Too much reliance.
Too much regret.
Not enough affection.
Not enough truth.
Not enough surety, confidence.
Not enough time.
I fear,
That I will not grow fast enough.
Gods1son Oct 29
Born with a silver spoon
And ate from a golden plate

Born with a wooden spoon
And ate from a plastic plate

Your upbringing is not the main determinant that you will be great
Of course, it does go a long way
But it doesn't have the final say
Every person still has a price to pay!
Kim Essary Oct 28
He resides in his kingdom heir to his thrown, with all the riches of this world, his people kneeling at his feet
What more could he ask for, he's living every dream a poor man haven't the means to meet.
Yet the poor man lives in his old run down house no food on the table no power to see,
But the love in his heart and he is a husband to his  wife and a father to his  kids , these are all the rich man wants to be.
No matter how rich in money there remains a void that all the money will never fill,
The poor man with no money has more in riches than the rich man ever will.
Money will never buy happiness
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