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tears drop from a thousand eyes
and wash the sidewalks clean
of filth
of blood
of desperate cries
gone silent with the dream
darkness lights the alleyways
where life is cheap as rust
needles lay in greasy puddles
rats feed on the crust
deeper we fall
into nightmares awoken
speak not of this if you live in the light
there are tears enough for that which is broken
just close your eyes
and sleep at night
Zywa Jul 8
Poverty teaches

in supermarkets: you must

kneel -- to the cheapest.
"Rekenen" ("Calculating", 2022, Ellen Deckwitz)

Collection "Death on Cast"
Nico Reznick Jun 3
Clearing ivy,
pulling up handfuls of
choking bindweed,
uncovering delicate
wildflowers in
neglected garden corners,
and there’s this
tiny bird
lying in the dirt.
Feathers sparkle
pretty and golden,
as fairytale light
falls through
parted vines.
Surely dead,
but then
- like Snow White
surfacing from
magic apple-induced
dormancy -
the bird moves,
woken by the kiss
of sunlight and
being witnessed,
and seems to breathe.
A gloved finger’s
exploratory, leathery ****,
a moment to realise,
then disgust,
sharp recoil.
A wing lifts;
gleaming feathers
parting reveal the
crawling mechanics inside,
the writhing, parasitic mess
behind the sick illusion,
the briefly faked miracle
of something
like life.

Away over a fence,
Union bunting
***** erratic and jarring
in a neighbour’s garden.
In a stuffy town hall,
the town band is practising
God Save The Queen, but
still can’t keep time.
Our betters wave to us from
high palace balconies
and golden coaches, and we
cheer them for it.

There’s such hunger, such
pain and desperation out there,
you can feel it, if you
forget to stop yourself.
There’s so much tragedy and injustice,
you have to go numb or go crazy.
There’s no future we can see,
and the past has been rewritten
to reflect the views
of focus groups,
fascists and fantasists.

And there’s a bird
lying in the dirt,
garlanded by fragrant petals,
feathers flashing like jewels,
so dead
it looks like
it’s breathing.
Andrew M Bell May 15
Radio news bulletin in the car
the last item read in those mellifluous tones
is about a seven-year-old boy
struck and killed by a car
in a poor suburb of Wellington.

The protocol around the legal and privacy issues
means it’s “no name, no pack drill”,
but he was someone,
someone’s son, grandson
perhaps even great-grandson.
He had probably had siblings,
definitely friends and playmates.

Somewhere in a house with
inadequate winter heating,
where the household income is
constantly under siege
and life never rises above a struggle,
there is a mother and a father
who bear this greatest grief.

 Andrew M. Bell
The poet acknowledges "The Typewriter", the online literary journal in which this poem was first published.
morseismyjam Apr 20
Guys like us don't get breaks
with our unshaven faces and manky hair and eyeliner.
Our work-torn jeans colorful tattoos and pierced lips a warning,
Aposematism in human form.
Guys like us don't get breaks
We claw and drag our way not to the top,
but to the surface.
Ain't got no daddy's money.
Ain't got no daddy, or wish we didn't
cause he comes home
talking 'bout how he didn't raise no ******.
(He didn't raise nobody).
Guys like us don't get breaks.
Nothing but mildewy rooms
McDonalds for dinner washed
down with cheap *****
Another Thank you for applying but...
Rent due the 24th.
alone at night again.
Guys like us don't get breaks.
This was inspired by a friend of mine in a way. Being young, queer, and poor *****
Zywa Feb 27
Mama went to work
we stayed at home
could not get out
snow, no shoes

silence everywhere
fear of the police
and suppressed madness
which strangles desires

without killing them
impossible love
only the daily potatoes
hoping for a piece

of the repeated promises
for us, the children, and now
that we are no longer children
for our children
Documentary "Liefde is aardappelen" ("Love is potatoes", 2017, Aliona van der Horst)

Collection "The drama"
Steve Page Feb 15
The wind is foul.
The rain dribbles down my neck as I queue and stare uncertainly at the Uber Eats backpack in front of me, wondering who might have ordered foodbank takeout or how the Uber guy had come to need a handout and what he might feel about delivering Friday night treats while wondering what he'll eat tomorrow.
The wind is foul.
Observation outside St Mellitus', West London
Emanzi Ian Jan 22
The pain of being in pain and then you land into trouble
They slept on empty stomachs,and the next day,the son is arrested and locked up
He has been caught up in this,all in pursuit for a meal for himself and maybe some remainder to spare for home
The mother has no other source of income apart from doing small odd jobs on the village
The small wages she earns can hardly afford her all the basics
But despite that,she still has to take care of the family
And now she has to spare all of it to bail him out
And his siblings will have to skip the day's meals
The father left them,for he felt they were too much of a responsibility
And now the family situation is a calamity.

This other one drinks to numb her pain
The 'morning dose' kick-starts the day and she goes on through it
She sends her body to fend for the basics
Sometimes,she does it to just get a little something to quench her unquenchable yearning for the drink
But many a time, it's to fend for her 2 kids, whose fathers she's not aware of
Today,she just found out that she's *** positive

The Pangs of poverty
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