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Carl Fynn Jun 2020
A mother ignoring the cry of her baby.
A wife in a mans gear.
Heavy pan of pain, ignored to the smile from the smell of a paper.
Respect lost, control in hands of currency weight.

A lonely woman
With no dream or ambition.
The gift of child birth ,
Now the token of burden and regret.

Love painted in hate.
Smile cloaked in anger.
Subject to his satisfaction at night
Bearer of his weakness in the day

A girl deceived by love
now a mother stretched to the core
The love for lust
Backwashed in a pain that last

Memories are a reflection of the present
Caged by the decision to love
Chained to his lax
Hope of smile ... a matter of course
Thomas W Case Jun 2020
I was living in this
flop house above
a **** shop in Amarillo.
I had a one eyed cat
named Walter, I'd bet
a sawbuck that when
I slept,
he drank my whiskey.
I sill love him though.
He stuck around longer
than those old painted up
ladies that strolled through,
and tested my bed springs.
I got two shots of Wild Irish Rose
left, then it's back to these
***** streets of broken dreams
and sick scenes.
Here is my challenge to everyone.......Write a poem inspired by Tom Waits....Everyone welcome.   Here is mine.
CMXIClement Jun 2020
The pipes are frozen,
no heat or water.
The toilet to the brim with **** again.
We'll need two buckets.  
One for the toilet,
And one to ask the neighbors for water.
She used the shovel,
I asked for water.
I always hated the looks I got.
Looks of pity,
and mixed with disdain.
I walk to the kitchen, trash littered.
I look in the fridge,
There is nothing there.
Thank god there was a free meal program.
I would rush to school,
to get there early.
To make sure I got enough to eat.
I feel lucky.
Some kids don't have it.
But I can't forget my ribs showing.
Partly depression.
Partly their drug use.
Food stamps sell for fifty cents per dollar.
I look around and
Notice things are gone.
My room missing things they pawned off for cash.
I was never home.
That did not exist.
Just a house full of people I burdened.
I get back from school,
And the house is dark.
Never know where they go when they are gone.
I go to my room.
And I sit and cry.
Wishing someone would come home to see me.
I wanted a life.
One that was normal.
One where I was not so empty inside.
And under the bed
A razor is tucked.
A lesson learned from watching my sister.
Suicides an option:
Another lesson,
As I watched her overdose on the floor.
Life was empty and...
Was intermingled..
With fear, and anxiety, and sadness.
I would peer across
to the neighbors house.
I wondered what it was like to be them.
Seeing happiness...
I had to suppress
All the heartache and tears I longed to spill.
What could I have done?
Was this punishment?
My wants were so simple but no one cared.
They did not like me.
I reminded them
Of a man whose faults they embellished.
I woke one morning.
I heard noise downstairs.
Most of our items were now all curbside.
We were evicted,
but no one told me.
One day you have a home, then you do not.
Sheriff department
The following spring
Came into our house and emptied it all.
My last memory
Was of the neighbors,
Watching our family, our life on the street.
We left most items.
We took what we could.
We found a ****** house by the train tracks.
The house was condemned,
the landlord cared little.
But...that house is a story for later.
Enduring these things,
Your dreams become simple.
You dream for things people take for granted.
My dream was simple.
It is still simple.
To love, and be loved.  To help those in pain.
When you scale the wall,
Do not hop over.
Turn back, and look down to those outstretched hands.
To those now struggling,
Keep pressing forward.
I know it seems daunting, keep pressing on.
You suffered too much
To not be happy.
Go through the swamp 'til you see the meadow.
It exists, it does.
Beyond the veil
Of pain and agony, joy is waiting.
If anyone ever needs anyone to talk to, please do not hesitate.  There are so many who have gone through so much more, but I have gone through enough to know the power of empathy.  I am here, I promise.
Akuffohene Jun 2020
There was a child in the heart of our land emaciated, starving, weak.
And there he sat on sticks and stones to beaten down to speak.
So he dreamed, our little boy, of things he wished he had.
He dreamed of things like food and food so he wouldn’t feel so sad.
A bite of food was a dream indeed, better than any other
And for one, selfish as it may seem, he'd push aside his brother.
So he stuffed his face with a dream, the glutton, his eyes squeezed so, so tight.
His belly full with tasty thoughts, he savored every bite.
And once, the moon, who’d seen his dreams, asked the glutton why.
Our little boy he closed his eyes and said this with a sigh;
“I’ve never felt my belly full and begging for release. I’ve starved my days, yes all of them and longed for nothing but peace.
So leave me to my deadly sin, I’ll pay for it in time
for you have yours which I know not and gluttony is mine”.
Our land refers to Africa
witchy woman May 2020
soft serve
sun baked motel
peeling walls
of pastel painted hell.

tear stains from
a child’s eyes
They laugh and drink
she sleeps and cries

motel pool
the only solace
of the eternal the heat wave.

baking in the Florida sun
day after dull, dreary day.

she views her mother
as a friend
nothing more
no means to an end
no hope in store.

a party rages down the block
she watches from her balcony
thick night air broken by gunshots.

moms drunk & laughing
1:34 am on the clock

she’ll never see
a Christmas tree
with presents stashed beneath
the closest thing she has to Christmas
is the food truck that rolls around
every other week

the closest thing she has to friends
are stuck in the same broken homes
when her moms out partying
and they’re all gone
she finds herself alone

in a dimly lit motel room
TV blaring cartoons
purple and pink light from the sign
“Vacant—2 Beds, 2 Bed Rooms”

she’ll never have her dad
come and kiss her goodnight
she barely remembers him,
a blurry face
mom and him always in a fight

awake mid morning,
weary skies and rain today.

she just wants to go out and play
she dreams of being somewhere else

what it’s like living another life,
on another day

but not today.

sorry darling, not today.
nick armbrister May 2020
Bar Steward Town 8
Do you satisfy your wife?
Let me do that to her

Things like that happen here
Nobody thought odd of it

Not even to the ****** couple bonking
In the school yard after hours

All the town's folk were this way
Thirsty and drinkers all the time

It was sort of local pride
Just like nailing a hole

Lots of ***** warm beer
And skanky holes

That type of town
Awesome people
CC 191 2020
JIMMY BOOM SEMTEX
A man with secrets known only to him and God,
he walks along the machair with pride.

He's unbothered by the ghosts of the waves and water
because his destiny lies on the shore's other side.

A brave and bold young man with dreams of a better life,
he's now begun to put this goal in motion.

One more drink at the Rosie Tavern before he goes
to say goodbye to the friends and men he knew so dear

Or maybe one more walk around the neighborhood
to say farewell to the family he held so near.

Come aboard the ship, ye brave and bold young Robert,
for there's a fortune to be made across that western ocean.

You'll be leaving behind memories of that coal burnt town,
but pay no mind to the darkness that'll be falling.

When songs of the old country bring tears to your eyes
think only of your strength; your legacy is calling.

Ye brave and bold Robert, you'll have all the fortunes you can see
Ye brave and bold Robert, you'll break the shackles of poverty.
For my grandfather.
Chloe DeAngelis May 2020
Father, thank you for the liquor
The whiskey that tastes like my absent grandfathers candy
The hottest atomic fireball
Cinnamon and sweet, liquid sunburn to make my adulthood at 17 complete
Mother says I’m not allowed to become an alcoholic
And I won’t
Her baby girl knows how to survive a teetering edge-
She taught me how by pushing me to it
I promise mom
Dad calls me lazy, selfish and jokingly a lush
But I’ve never been those things
Despite what you think
Despite the dangerous flavor of a good drink

What do you want me to say
That I don’t like it?
That I haven’t tried
Beer, gin, champagne, whiskey, bourbon, wine and *****?
That my childhood was still a childhood when I never knew where I stood
Where any moment we could’ve been homeless
Where I could’ve lost my footing?
I was never allowed to live that dream
Ah me, I’ve struggled with poverty since I was 3
But you refuse to see.

No, mother, you can stay in the fantasy
I won’t burst your bubble
But me?
I’ll take my ****** reality,
and a sublime fire whiskey
On the rocks please
Tara May 2020
When will it end, the sorrow, the pain?
What will we lose and what will we gain?
When the guns have no bullets and the missiles no fuel,
When the bodies start to mass and the blood starts to pool.

What will they create, but chaos and war?
How could we win and who sets the score?
When friends become enemies and we lose Wisdom’s sight,
When the battle is over and both sides lost the fight.

When will it end, the anger, the hate?
When will we learn from our past mistakes?
Are we to be remembered as isolated and weak?
Cowering from the prejudiced differences we seek.

Where will they go, the forsaken and lost?
How will they live and what will it cost?
When the land becomes barren and all hope disappears,
When the love and ties of family are no longer revered.

When will it end, the sadness, the grief?
Who is the hero and who is the thief?
When they build a big wall and send more men to fight,
Taking more lives in the dead of the night.

Who will we blame when the tears come like rain?
Who will be responsible for humanity’s slain?
When the finger is pointed at leaders and their deeds,
Where justice has fallen to corruption and greed.

When will it end, the suffering, the hurt?
How many corpses shall we leave in the dirt?
When will we choose peace, when will we choose life?
Choose to shield each other from evil’s sharp knife.

Will it be worth it, the famine and death?
Will we know peace before our last breath?
When we cast out our brothers, both by arms and by blood,
Loyalty and honour, left in the mud.

If we end it with battle and fire and lead,
We’ll end it in disgrace, and we’ll end it dead.
If we end it with war and anguish and guns,
We’ll end it in terror for when judgement comes.

But.

If we end it with allies and fealty and trust,
We’ll end it with dignity and we’ll do what we must.
If we end it united, and make them understand,
Perhaps humanity’s salvation may yet be at hand.
Entered this into a competition a while back (didn't win). One of my favourite poems.
Agrima Apr 2020
a masked woman was talking in a murmur and an old man with a distasteful cigar was talking loudly.
the child in the street next to your house was crying and his elder brother was secretly smoking a pipe. her mother had gone to work at the aristocrat’s fancy mansion and her husband had passed away two terribly lonely long years ago. the man who greets you everyday with a cheerful smile yet weary eyes is back to work. polishing shoes for five cents.
the woman who looks at you suspiciously every time you try to peep into her window while walking by her house is buying flowers today.
with the infinite number of people doing infinite number of things, you are in your room, slow music and dead lighting, by the fire when it’s cold and close to the open window when it’s raining, you are counting.
one, two, three.
maybe four or maybe more.
last week the electricity connection got cut because you couldn’t pay the bills on time. yesterday you didn’t receive the newspaper because you can’t afford it anymore. and today’s morning was awful because you woke up with a racing heart as you saw death in your last night’s dream.
you can count eleven. eleven problems.
it is all too much for you to bear.
life is terrible. life is nasty.
you desperately want to give up.
now let us both, you and i, take a walk down the road.
let us look outside your four walls. that woman in the mask was not wearing it out of her own will.
that old man smoking that distasteful cigar lost both, his wife and son in one go. that child in the street next to your house wasn’t crying. he was pleading for food. pleading for life. and a child could only cry. his elder brother secretly smoking a pipe hasn’t learnt to smoke from his dead father or not even from his widowed mother. he’s been pushed into it. he has touched the flame and now, he has found solace in getting burned slowly by the same flame. their mother is a single parent, a worker in that fancy house, her dreams are crushed and responsibilities have levelled up. she yearns for her husband’s love.
that man who polishes your shoes for five cents, greets you with a smile every time you come to him because somewhere, he has falsely accepted that he belongs to a class below yours. there’s nothing more miser and pitiful than that.
that woman who looks at you suspiciously every time you pass by her house doesn’t do so out of hate. she’s scared and hesitant because her childhood abuse haunts her till date. her movements are still controlled by her past’s demon.
and now, let’s resume your counting.
but i think you’d stop doing it yourself.
not one, neither eleven results into anything.
if you’re now going to ask me why she had been buying flowers, let me tell you.
that woman whose past haunts her still, that man whose hands groped her when she was young, that man, her grandfather, died a few days ago. it’s a family ritual, you must know too. putting flowers on the graves of those you’ve lost. to remember them once they’re gone. to cherish the moments you’ve lived with them. she’s going to put flowers there.
but even you know, merely putting flowers on his grave is not going to remind her anything about him.
nothing about the times they’ve lived together because even you know, she’ll never forget. and never cherish.
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