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Grey Apr 15
I grew up believing
that because I was poor
I didn't deserve love.

Bullied for the smell
of my dad's cigarettes
on my clothes.

Bullied for the size
of my house
and that it had holes.

Told by someone who said they loved me
that I should stop dreaming about college
because my family could never afford it.

Then I met you

I hadn't let anyone
into my parents house
in years
(I was too embarrassed).

But I let you in.
I let you meet them.
I let you see the house I was raised in.

Stink, and all.
Mess, and all.
Holes, and all.

And you loved me anyways
I didn't need money to impress you
I didn't need to be anything that I am not
and never will be.

Because you love me
Holes and all.
This is old and no longer accurate but I liked it
lionness Apr 12
sometimes i wonder when i cry, does god listen
but maybe i should quit crying
go back to rutland, where we all suffer
where we all ache bullet wounds
named after our mother
where we all love snow and
it often rains
so when the sun does come
it's a subtle pain
warmth unfamiliar
unaccustomed to change,
unprotected from the elements,
we are all one in the same-
the sisters and brothers
from the other side of the tracks
who got unlucky and missed the train.

sometimes i think god just went blind
or maybe he forgot our names
but at least we take cover in
the trauma of one another,
our broken bones
and broken veins

sometimes i wonder when we cry, does god listen
if we can ever heal in the arms of each other
if we shattered the sky could we
stop the rain
The American dream
had a tough childhood
and is developing symptoms
of a sinkhole personality

I take back everything
I said about the Panama Canal
there's nothing wrong
about being artificial
so long as it brings others together

If we bring it down to eye level
Mr. Paranoia feels outnumbered
the fruits of his labor
are all store bought

There are no more
drive-in movies within
walking distance
'cause Cinderella's dead
says the cult leader
R N Tolliday Jan 24
The dark ocean flows over her scratched and calloused feet,
As she faces the black horizon: far from what I've seen.
But what she sees are the stars, and a distant ferry catching light;
The silver traces, all around us, will bring her solace for the evening's plight.

Calming: the aqua at her feet... but also the black liquid in one hand—
Of which poisons her knowingly; at times it's cruelty from a rich white man.
But the 'baby needs her bottle', she'd say; sleep would ask for 'zero *****'.
Normal is this: her lines drawn in the sand, of change, ebbed away by the flux.

The woman works hard, through traumas, to provide a life for she and her son,
And it's clear—to me, that life ******* her, in many more ways than one.
Abused by the very worst, and she's never experienced a 'home', she'd cry,
Whilst drunk inside her enabler's one, of which her rent's paid at some point in time.

But she's a 'normal' person: her good heart, art dreams, and brains led her to be seen,
And now, I know it would break me if she were one day swallowed by the sea.
Despite our bond's submergence, by hidden rocks, its specialness I'll keep in heart;
And those promises I've made, I'll follow, no matter how far we go apart...

I'll always be there for her, if ever sought for in a time of need.
There's a place to roost if ever she travels, most of which's perks are free.
I'll be a fully-fledged counsellor, helping those, like her, find their feet.
Lastly—of myself—I'll continue writing, for the joy and love it brings is deep.
The good ole days were enjoyed with ease,
There was more to enjoy because of disease;
There were fewer people to dress and feed
Thanks to child mortality.

The middle-class were few and greedy,
Thanks to rampant poverty;
We could find work and be employed,
But tenure turned to workplace injury;
Illiteracy was common,
Innumeracy, our fate,
Due to the high-school drop out rate;
Polio and smallpox kept in check
The burgeoning growth of the unelect;
Minorities knew their social place,
Jim Crow was voting in black face;
Heteros ruled the ****** race,
Alphabet people were an outlier trace;
In summer and winter we were outplayed and beat,
With no Air Conditioning nor Central Heat.

Let's leave the past in the past,
There where history belongs;
Where hunger and sickness,
Lasted life-long,
With the poverty and ignorance
The minority prolonged.

We can agree times were simpler then,
But time came rushing to our quick end.
Alphabet people are LGBTQA+
Francis Dec 2023
Ditty dum, ditty doo,
Dozens of dollars disappeared,
Foolishly spent on that dame,
I would have done a dime for,
Had her dumbness died down.

Not a lick of lint in my pocket,
I reflect on our dances in the dark,
Daringly caressing her body to mine,
All of those dimes been daunted,
By my need to woo and wow her.

She had darted the way of the dime,
Out of sight, out of mind, out of spirit,
In the poverty of love and coinage,
I wallow in my woes,
As if I didn’t do this deed to myself,
Doomed from the depths of doting,
Like a ******* dodo.

They say chivalry is dead,
Yet is there nobility in poverty,
When the honest man’s motivation,
Vanishes in the night,
Into some other scrub’s arms?

A dime, a dame,
They’re all the same,
Coming and going,
The flow of cash,
The passing of lovers,
Only to learn,
That life’s one true currency,
Is the endurance of obstacles,
And we all end up bankrupt in the finale.
I sit here broke, struggling financially and reflecting on 2 years of money ****** away on a failed relationship that I was the only one putting in effort to salvage.
Zywa Nov 2023
The Queen of Nothing

gave hope to the poor people --

She was dangerous.
The Rani [Queen] of 'Cooch Naheen' (in Agra)

Novel "Midnight's Children" (1981, Salman Rushdie), chapter 1-4 "Under the carpet"

Collection "Low gear [2]"
Zywa Nov 2023
Back from the city,

I clearly see, rich people --

here are just paupers.
Novel "Ierse nachten" (1942, "Irish Nights", Simon Vestdijk), chapters 4-1 and 4-5, Letters to Saint Patrick (AD 1859)

Collection "Inmost [2]"
Zywa Nov 2023
The wobbling chair has

only two legs, and a rope --

to the ceiling beam.
Novel "Ierse nachten" (1942, "Irish Nights", Simon Vestdijk), chapter 4-1, Letters to Saint Patrick (AD 1859)

Collection "Inmost [2]"
Zywa Oct 2023
The down comforter

is thin, few feathers, sticking --

out, scratching, pricking.
Novel "Lighthousekeeping" (2004, Jeanette Winterson), chapter Two Atlantics

Collection "Blankets of snow"
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