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you've been saved
now you should save every penny
take them to heaven
god doesn't have any

oh so you're bribing a judge?
son, i'm just making a funny
thanks for the gesture
i CAN make my own money

i give you all money
some just choose not to spend it
it has endless credit
THEY limit and then end it
bearing a face i can barely recall
wearing a body that falls through your arms
i was born with these phantom limbs
hands that can't hold anything
grip that won't leave fingerprints
nothing in my possession
i'll haunt the halls that were held from me
always at arm's reach
never in my possession
PMc May 9
REIT

My soul is a vacant lot.
Years ago sold to some shyster
looking to make a quick buck.
No one could live on those kind of wages.

The emptiness now a flattened yard
all sorts of wreckage leaking power steering fluid with anti-freeze
an environmental hazard if nothing else.

My spirit is an abandoned brownstone
where photos once tacked
on walls reminiscent of happier times
smiles were genuine, ties were taught
Sunday best meant just that – then and there
A home fully furnished with memoires back in the day
now foreclosed
shuttered.

My heart is an empty warehouse
years ago used to recycle broken promises, empty wishes, hollow, unrealized dreams
My good intentions could push through the hurt
a cost of doing business
never questioning the **** in – **** out logistics

Then, the last love broke away from the loading dock out back
on its forever journey to paradise
while I stood there on a rotting, empty platform
with the invoice in my hand
the NSF cheque written in blood
signed with my tears.


9/10 Feb ‘21
Honestly this is not as dark as it might read (honest).  It is a pragmatic look at love and love lost again and again.  I read this to friends who immediately asked me if "I was okay".  'I'm fine - thank you.  The truth needs to be told and I like to think I'm lighter for it.
Sharon Talbot Mar 26
Where do people go
When they are dispossessed?
When the home they know
Is no longer seen as theirs,
When their beds are tossed out,
And those boxes beneath the stairs
Regarded as trash by the soulless ****
Whose only motive is greed?
I have seen images of them in a group,
Walking down a road to nowhere,
Or out on desert sand, wandering.
Where can they go and not be harassed
By owners with no sympathy?
What boat will carry them to another shore
Where they are met with friendship
And not seen as enemies?
How strange and terrible to see them,
All walking in the same way,
Heads down and shoulders bent,
Many carrying a child
Or remnants of a home enfolded.
When they reach borders,
They are stopped and questioned,
Crowded, as are sheep in a pen.
So many are turned away
And some, desperate they become,
Board small boats with promises
To take them to freedom,
Only to founder and sink,
So that the sea becomes
Their last, dark home.
Others consider themselves lucky
To find a tent or metal van
Which they must take away
From those with property,
And keep moving, herded
Like those same sheep,
Yet now almost wild,
Huddling together with strangers
Near a fire in vast and empty lands
That play slow and vivid sunsets
To soothe the rootless host?
They tell each other stories
Of their home or hard journeys,
Give counsel to evade the dogs
That prey on those who wander.
And on those nights in endless lands,
And a dome not veiled by earthly light,
But dazzling the wanderers
With millions of shimmering stars,
That sends dreams of others gone astray
And they lament their fate as their own,
As unknown brothers and sisters,
Who, bewildered, weep for them as well.
This built on itself from a worry about where the people go when they are old or lose their homes. I then had images of people in a similar dilemma, at borders, such as the U.S./Mexico one, or refugees in the Middle East, or those made "nomads" by economic collapse and the decision to live in tents or vans, out under the sky--free but vulnerable. Also, some of this was inspired by "Nomadland".
MBJ Pancras Jun 2020
Where has gone the freak?
All my poems flew away,
My tears are searching....
My old account in Poetfreak is vanished. I don't know why? I could not find my poem in the archives also.
John McCafferty Feb 2020
The essence of affection
A virtuous condition
Factors in certain traits
and affirms who we make
Descriptions of conduct
are attributed properly

Spot of tea
Cuddle please
Come with me
Property
Long journey
(@PoeticTetra - instagram/twitter)
Ptax Kuro Jan 2020
In general, most things
moved to other rooms after disinfection.
Some of them, of course, kept the smell,
and were immediately thrown away.
Clothes were selectively
used as workwear or rags.
Found weapon was returned
to a safe. Under the iron bed there were even
two extra rounds. One tooth
with a caries mark.
The rest idled in closets.
MisfitOfSociety Jun 2019
The Product:

All that I see,
Are faces of fake people,
Scurrying around,
In search of something real.

“It is not yours it is mine!
I take that which is mine!
I keep what is mine!
I consume what is mine!

Get away from it is mine!
I don’t share what is mine!
I don’t give what is mine!
What is mine is mine!”

False eyelashes!
Make up kits!
L-shaped couches!
And television sets!
They’ve become the things they own.
The things they own, own them!

You are not your job!
You are not your salary!
You are not your wallet!
You don’t need this ****!

****** into the tv,
The product becomes you.
You do whatever,
It tells you to do:
“This is what you want!
This is what you need!
You just got to have it!
You won’t be happy without it!”

You think it will sedate your hunger for happiness,
But you come out unsatisfied.
You try to impress people you don’t know,
Or even care about you;
Too caught up on the outside.

“Happiness must be taken,
And I will take mine!”
A false idea of happiness,
It is not happiness unless it is given!

All the products you see on the tv,
Are begging you to buy your own slavery!

You are the product!

**** your money,
**** your property,
I hope you choke on it!
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