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GJLT Mar 2021
Helot today, and every other,
Go unpaid, go unmade,  
A broken body of myself,
Living in every possible way,
Save for my own,  
Always selling the soul,
The time that’s left,
Piece for price,
For profit, for my life,  
But yours to rent,
If you pay, please pay,
And it’ll be yours to store,
A deal nevermore.
GJLT Mar 2021
Society is a being,
A breathing, living thing,
It’s skin is always cold,
It does not wish to let me be known,
For it needs me to fulfill its will,
But I want to abandon it so,
For it’s claws are deeply rooted
Into my fragile skin,
It does not care if I bleed,
But I cannot find myself in leave, for
It’d tear me terribly thin.
Freedom is an indifferent escape away,
But until one jumps, all will stay,
And so I will live out the same day,
Over and over again,
Thus is the wail of the proletariat,
Living as undying strays.
Write between the lime juice lines,
And basil blood,
On the cutting board
To the rhythm of cooks' kitchen knives,

Write between the wet mop tendril trails,
On the reused restaurant floor,
As you carried to clean
A mistake some rich man made,

Write to the beat of the press,
Punching out the steel form,
In accordance with the curriculum,

Write in the silent moments,
Chewing homemade sandwiches
Through the cigarette smoked sunrise

Write between stun grenade blasts
After cleaning tear gas attacks

Write in between ****** boot prints,
The shape of the state seal
Congealed to the street.
Lewis Wyn Davies Sep 2020
My theory was written on the other side of town.
Eyes that had only watched the world through
a single pane of glass, found reflections all round.
Where I used to see grey, crisp formations of cloud.
Even in the house, blocks of door painted one colour
were replaced with dreamlike figures cutting cake.

Anyway, yesterday a man wearing a Union Jack
flag on his waist and sleeve told me his worries.
Five or six cars parked, eight or nine bedrooms
lying cold and lonely while in the south of France.
To lose count of the windows in one's life, I thought,
as he asked me about the proletariat. Luxury indeed.
Poem #16 from my collection 'A Shropshire Grad'. Inspired by a conversation I had with a neighbour.
Benjamin Dollar Dec 2019
The Veracious veracity of the voxpopli vernacular
Your voice does count
Benjamin Dollar Nov 2019
We take back the power, for the people,
We fight to the last, for the people,
We work together, for the people,
We ask no questions, for the people,
We accept all information, for the people,
We hate those we are told, for the people,
We sacrifice the individual, for the people,
We live and die, for the people,
For the people!
The people....
What people?
The worst crimes in history,
Where committed with the best intentions!
Graff1980 Aug 2016
Good men are slaves
to a system
that has them
trying to stay strong,
trying to pay rent,
to feed moms,
and their children.

They do the wrong thing
because they need money
for food, cloths, shelter
for car insurance,
for maintenance, and
for medical emergencies.

So, the goodness,
We would like to see
gets buries out of

Kind hands
become calloused tools
and the hardworking man
dies at the plant,
were other good men
are struggling the same
with some minor variations.

— The End —