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Neelam Jun 5
What's left for the emasculated
fixtures other than a lifetime in denial of utter vanity, going through motions,
without emotions,

Wallowing in filth, defiled by
avarice, procreating,
producing parasitic cells, vicious
bloodsuckers ?

Jack hammers burrowing into
reluctant fissures, oblivious to
the starved groveling urchins,
pleural effusion in aged lungs,
survival is next to impossible.
I wanted to highlight the "mindsets" which underline the wealthy ones, the middle class and impoverished people who are living in squalid places. Poverty is man-made, the wealthiest will make sure the wealth circulates among them, not to those in the lowest rung of social ladder.
Kassan Jahmal May 10
When we cease to understand the world,
fighting against it on our own.
Caught in between two sides of life,
but really just being torn.

The many tears that pour,
the flooded tears of lost ideas.
Lacking funds to fundraise my plans,
living in constant battle with poverty.
The war of the poor.

The employees,
of a Man who won't pay full labours.
But for the sake of the little
we make for our family.
How could we not do the work, as we utter,
"Yes sir".

In memory of memory,
I soon realize I've worked plenty for empty.
Do my best to set a foundation
for my future family.
I'd much prefer change,
even it was a thought for a penny.
To feel less of the world against me.
My Dear Poet May 2
I’m making money
quoting Shakespeare
smoke filled rooms
a dim lit theatre
I’m glad the man’s dead
he’d be asking for part
memorised in my head
was drunk from his heart
I’m making it by
on a dead crowd stage
I’m a poet making money
on a dead man’s wage
annh Apr 16
|small gee for god; big bee for byron|
Strikes a chord with you, does it?
This shambling poverty of thought,
Insta-rated and underwhelming;
Thank god for Byron.

|keats versus shelley|
Sparing no injury to his phthisicky frame,
Keats lies atop a make-believe of cherry trees
Searching among the clouds
For wealth, health and a Grecian urn,
While Shelley does Venice
And blows himself a hookah.

|o poesy! for thee I grasp my pen|
Panning the wayward sky for inspiration,
A hope, a word, a beginning;
A versification so ecstatic as to transfix the senses and pierce the heart,
A lightning phrase capable of uprooting all commonality,
As outrageous a miracle in the minds of men as crucified immortality.

Unlike the wilting rose which has no higher calling
Than to bloom and die upon the stem,
And having relinquished its last perfumed petal
Retreat from memory again,
I fear that I shall linger,
Tethered to this eternal moment
By shudd’ring will and breath combined,
A brighter shade of myself than what of me I have left behind.
An extremely weird mix of tone and content! Started out as one thing (a dig at the samey sameness of Instagram poetry) and ended up as something else (a celebration of Keats). Not to mention the “Bright Star” scene review somewhere in the middle. Never mind - better luck next time!!

‘When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
“Beauty is truth, truth beauty, - that is all
Ye know on earth, and all he need to know.”’
- John Keats, “Ode on a Grecian Urn”
I said something about the neighborhood with the houses in disrepair.
That neighborhood with the smaller houses down by the factories and what is left of them.
The remark leaping off my tongue.
And as I stood there by someone half as young, I found myself unforgiven in my own eyes for being so cruel.
A proclaimed humanitarian, me, finds still hypocrisy in my soul for all to see.
It suppresses all sorts of resentment. And beyond all sorts of emotional disorder. A shower of it could revived a death sentenced. The thought of it healed a broken in heart. The spread of it eliminates poverty. True emotion of unconditional love.
Love to mankind.  
***** Hands
Are they clean?

Pontius Pilate, washing those hands that night, now are the filthy deeds made white!

America, do tell about the politicians blind-eyed toward homeless people in the streets, tell me about children starving to death?

Does a wealthy man cleanse hiimself as the blood leaves his hands?

Banning guns & glocks, as girls
are sold into slavery, in the blocks.

A gift for kids to go to school
It's not a gift to get shot up.

From poverty to bullies to school shootings, Mrs. Liberty has lost her footing.

When we go home, locking doors and turning the noise up, is washing of the hands with soap, making us whole?
You can't just wash your hands as a symbol
of making yourself from sinful to cleansed. It's a cruel world so be kind. © 5 minutes ago, Venjencie Clifton Arnold   society • poverty • sad • pain • misc • love  
Like (0)
Sharon Talbot Mar 10
Children of Louisiana,
Swept away and drowned,
In the river’s flood
And the ocean surge.
Never have recovered
Fully from the rain falling down,
And of a city that was purged.
Ignored by the government
And its fellow man,
Follow in a long line of sufferers
Since the melting, ice age glaciers
And even a tsunami in the North Sea
That wiped out Doggerland.
Dark Ages got darker as people ran
And Britain’s white cliffs were sheared.
Times got better and then got worse,
But the people carried on.
Now, the floods are a weekly thing,
A blip on a newscast,
As lost as the victims in a mess
Of other disasters,
Of wildfires, droughts and don’t
Even mention the quaking earth
Or volcanoes! We can’t take credit
For causing those!
Rich men in their castles,
Feasting and clapping each other
On their fatty backs,
Rolling in the spoils and spills
Of oil, on the flaming water of
The American plains.
Sheikhs in old Mesopotamia
Whine about oil pipelines,
Promised to them by President Cheney,
While the people starve.
Bloated oligarchs spread destruction
All over the world, from
The Congo to Chernobyl,
Melting icecaps and raising the sea,
Sinking islands where they don’t live,
Vacationing in the Maldives,
On special rates before those go under.
They won’t fix Miami, but let it sink,
But not before they plunder
The empty towers built on foolish dreams.
Of course, they’ll be the last to go,
Crammed into mansions up in the Alps,
Fighting with the European nobles
Over who gets a crumbling palace
Now sitting on the last ice floe.
A few American cousins round each other up
To catch the Dixie Flyer down to New Orleans,
Trying to hide from the polar vortex,
A dazzling case of ignorance and greed,
Only to find the tracks buried in the sea…
Down in the mud of the deep, brown sea.
Scrapping by without a lending hand
The rent raised, they’d never understand

Streets to wander with hearts heavy laden
A carefree spirit, hopes to have made it

While piles stack up with unpaid bills
They wish for freedom, to run to a hill

Without the trivialities and endless payments
To be well-off enough, not even famous

Toiling work and nights unslept
A bucket of savings slowly kept

And the climb and perseverance away from being poor
Gained them the freedom out of the door

Of sleepless nights and unfed stomachs
Their pitiful despair gave way to a plummet
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