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Alex Scaife Jul 2020
All that was fixed floated before
My eyes. Blood ridden rags flew like doves
Of peace outside my window.
Pictures of slaves framed as freedom

Ink in the pen replaced
With blood and  yellow bile.
Dylan McFadden Jun 2020
Behold the King upon His throne
Who utters judgments set in stone
He gives the wicked what they earn:
The death for which their own hearts yearn

Though oft for filthy, guilty men
Whose sins no scribe could tell by pen
This King, in love, steps off His throne
And trades their rags for His own robe

.
Radhika Krishna Nov 2019
Here she lies
On the cold, hard ground
Crying to the wind
Trying to make a sound
"Matches to light, if you've got a penny to spare"
A bundle of rags is what she is
Completely threadbare
The windows are aglow
With incandescent light
The townsfolk in merriment of Christmas night
"Matches to light, if you've got a penny to spare"
There's no one outside
To neither hear nor care
She lights a match for herself
In defeat
The match flickers and dies
Like the light from her eyes
"Matches to light, if you've got a penny to spare"
Her whispers stir
The chilly winter air
Inspired by Hans Christian Anderson's fairy tale
Cecil Miller Mar 2018
Your crusty new day eyes
Have long been opened wide.
You're not at home.
You're out in the world,
Where I can't hurt you.

I know our time has passed.
I can't bounce you on my knee;
Look into your eyes and see
No matter what mistakes there might has been;
That you love me.

I ain't always been a white hat guy.
I got no answer, if you ask me "Why?".
I'll never have a claim to innocence.
There's no excuse for it.

I've no right to write
What your heart has kept inside;
I can't be forgiven.
Though I'm no longer your monster,
I am your ghost.
Sometimes, I bet I'm screaming in your dreams.

I caused pain and much despair.
And I know it's too late to save our past.
But hopefully these few lines
Can spare other lives from similar despair.

I know our time has passed.
I can't bounce you on my knee;
Look into your eyes and see
No matter what mistakes there might has been;
That you love me.

I ain't always been a white hat guy.
I got no answer, if you ask me "Why?".
I'll never have a claim to innocence.
There's no excuse...

And it weighs on me
Like sopping rags
That cling to my body
When caught out in the storm.
I thought this was going to be a country song. It is not.
George Krokos Nov 2017
I'm interested in the prospect of exponential growth
and often wonder how some people are able to cope
when they find themselves in favour with all the hope
of realised dreams in life due to their efforts or oath.

Or where there has been a sudden increase of wealth
such as those we hear of who rise from rags to riches
for there are many true stories told of people's niches
and the way they have acquired a fortune by stealth.
__________
Written in 2017.
Poetic T Apr 2017
My words are fractured                      
                   but my thoughts are undivided.

My fingers are tapestry of both,
                    stitching them incompletely.

But to some these things make sense.
Dark Ink Mar 2016
They say that times were tough then

That money was very tight

But I remember my childhood

And I know that can't be right


Mom would cook our dinner

Dad came home at five
We were all sitting at the table

Waiting for him to arrive


We wouldn't eat from a microwave

Or a restaurant down the street

We all ate Mom's home cooking

And boy that can't be beat


We didn't eat in front of the TV

Or with a phone in our hand

We weren't plugged into a stereo
bopping to the latest band


We would all sit at the table

Everyone in their place

There were never any surprises

We recognized every face

Brothers to the left of me
Sisters to the right

That's the way we ate dinner

Every single night


We laughed we joked we talked we ate

We were a family don't you see

Though some may have been raised poor

You can see it wasn't me


We ate collards we ate biscuits

We ate fatback and blackeyed peas

We said yes sir we said no sir

We said thank you ma'am and please


So when you talk of family life

Or how it used to be

Though many had more money

None were as rich as me
Bill murray Sep 2015
Someone say
Filth, ****, dirt,
Just ask me
I'll take off my shirt.
Aparna Mar 2013
The sugar, the ice, glazed upon the cream buns.
An array of plates of delicacies.
The roasted pig, grunted while being chewed.
Or perhaps, that was the man who chewed it.

She stood in rags waiting to be served.
'What would 2 pence get me?'
They snickered and giggled as she,
Bought a stick of butter for dinner.
Nilotpal Dutta Jul 2015
my clothes are not torn out,
so what?
i can still write a poem
hunger isn't killing me,
so what the k?
i will still write a poem.
i ain't clouded by poverty,
and there's no hole in the ceiling
to see the stars on a clear sky.
so fu
*
g what?
i will still write a poem.
i am 'poles apart' a condition
like the  Pink Floyd's  "Division Bell".
but i am still writing my poem.
i don't read them to people,
friends, strangers or everybody.
anybody? but nobody might read them,
and I still write the poem.
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