fly me from atlanta to
miami

hurry up
fast

don't make me
wait
you ain't
tizzop

To poetry,
poor writing it,
rich in culture

I grew tired of being poor, so I looked for something to ******,
my own pardon that I was not the one who invented poverty.
In experience, where I smoked up, I dared to think for myself,
and became a worry, when I learnt I lived a poor quality life.
Doubt is uncomfortable, dangerous moods are addictive and
they’re at point blank range, ready to fire. I became privileged
when it comes to life and there’s nothing worse being in a crowd
that all you can feel is loneliness
https://www.amazon.com.au/Her-Darcy-Prince-ebook/dp/B07GBCMWHS/ref=sr11?ie=UTF8&qid=1536705076&sr=8-1&keywords=darcy+prince

It started off as a simple plan to rob a man to pay the Man
I thought it would only be once, but it turned into something that I could not stand.

I felt guilty because I knew it was wrong, but Paul kept harassing me to pay it all. Peter, not expecting to be taken again, but it happened again and again and again.

I knew it was wrong to Rob Peter to Pay Paul!

Was I a crook? Was I a thief?  All I knew was that I needed relief.
So, no matter what it would take, I would continue to Rob Peter to make all ends meet.

Paul, in turn, wasn’t a friendly man.  All he did was hold out his hand.  Give me! Pay me! It’s due today.  You see, Paul had consequences if you paid him late.

Stuck between a rock and a real hard place, I knew I had to do something before it was too late.

I put a gun to Peter’s head and took his money and turned and said, “I did it Paul! Now, here you go.  The money for the car note, groceries, lights, a new coat.”

He looked at me with no remorse in his eyes.  A look that I really despised. He said, “Great.  You did it.  Now, do it again.  Unless you do something different, you will be doing this again, again, and again—my friend.”

I was richer on the street than
any riche who swung his wrist
like a pendulum swaying like
others owed them respect.

Throwing leaves of wealth at
us thinking we were migrant
gardeners picking, cleaning up
there garden of smirking pity.

But while they slumber in sheets
of old slave mills. I have gratitude
that my sheets are full of my pain.
Full of tears, on cold woeful nights.

I collect myself in dignity of living
below others feet, but my riches are
what I've learnt, that put me higher
than any would be kings or thieves.

Words are that which  empower me
as I slumber on clean sheets of syllables,
weaving into my dreams. Then woken
by a librarian letting me humble my mind.

This place is my castle that never falls,
where I have risen higher than there feet.
But still I gaze from below, as I do not need
a castle, the streets are my pages this I speak.

lilies, esoteric riches