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Ylzm Jun 2019
Cain killed Abel, for Abel was favoured.
Losers need losers, for then nobody wins.
Rather a robber be king, and all be robbed.
The mark, a small price to despise the favoured.
Why Trump? Because *******! That’s why.
Luna Wrenn Apr 2019
you crept in my window
in the middle of the night
to steal all i had
right from me
nothing left in sight
place your hands around my
mouth
and now i can't breathe
the loneliness has robbed me
of everything
Anthony Mayfield Mar 2019
How dare you
Pillager
Plunderer
Robber
Vandal
Thief
Lover
Mine
How dare you reduce me to rage
White hot and safe
Safe for my plate
From which I consume mounds of animosity
For the atrocity
For on that afternoon
I died
And I'm still not alive
Because of you
Because you were mine
You were my lover
My thief
My vandal
You robbed my heart
But then plundered my dignity
And pillaged my sou
How
Dare
You
It's a painful to shame to have to hold this close
Iz Dec 2018
You’re the robber
Holding the trains in my
Heart up
You demand all my insides
I hand them over
You demand hostages I provide
Every person I have ever been
But somehow it’s not enough
This life made you greedy
It robbed you of your love
Chiquita May 2018
Robbers take what we hold dear, not only materialistic things. You broke the typical robber stereotype.

I don’t want to close my eyes anymore. I’m afraid I might find you - again. Robbers don’t necessarily come in the dark. I can still see my reflection in your eyes, pleading. My whole outlook on people changed. I don’t want to see anymore. You robbed me of my sight.

My skin is a living paradox. It is hot to the touch, because of bottled up anger, yet it is cold. It is cold where your fingers once danced graciously over me, like a dancer gliding over the floor. You never told me you could dance. I now refuse to touch my own skin. It doesn’t feel the same anymore. You took my sense of touch when you left.

We went for strawberry milkshakes when we met, just before... Strawberry milkshakes were my favourite. Notice the past tense? I want to confront you about what you did, but I cannot face you. I tried calling to no avail. The words burned in my throat and I became mute. I ended up not saying anything at all. Strange, my voice and my sense of taste left with you.

I can still smell you beside me - roses and regret. I try to avoid roses now. I bought a bouquet out of spite, in a desperate attempt to get back at you in some crazy way. I destroyed it. Nothing came of this, except the realisation that I cannot bare the smell of roses. My sense of smell was taken away by you.

I still hear your voice echoing in my thoughts. The sweet nothing’s you whispered. You were right when you said that nobody will know about this. You were wrong when you said that it wouldn’t hurt, because I’m still in pain. I cannot even listen to certain voices anymore. The more your voice echoes in my mind, the more my hearing fades away. You stole my hearing.

Robbers can be charged with breaking and entering. Why can’t you? Isn’t a lack of consent exactly the same? A simple guy like me, could never trust a woman ever again. You are a robber, and you robbed me of my senses.
Longer piece, not exactly a poem. New to writing.
Alienpoet Sep 2017
Existential views
Church bell blues
Christian old news
Messiah complex
Respectful specs
Saviour syndrome old tech
Love in the heart of the wild
A sky cannot be outsourced or out styled
It has millions of vistas and views
I will never be old news
We are the sky
We will never die
Or sink into religious why's
Who is Daniel Hooks?
Neither a robber or a crook
Just a man who looks
Into the depths
like the mind who crept into a unfinished novel
I keep your secrets in my hovel.
Kunal Kar Dec 2015
The alcohol has set in,
The jazz has lighten the mind,
With the wine rushing,
The rays of that far end memory.
The Beatles were on the old tapes,
While the old man reached his deck,
Brought out an crystal glass,
A drink was poured and served,
As the hands rose to her brown hair,
Shades of a beautiful lady poured up,
Eyes dimming with the black,
Yet clinging at her face.
She seemed hot in her sadness robe,
While her hair played to the song,
A sundress night on a cloudy sky,
For she was the robber,
That robbed me of my security,
With a dagger of hope and life.
Tuned to this lost night affair,
I laid my heart and eyes on the tables,
Rowed the boat to her,
Stood beside with a smile,
She was crying goodbyes to her past.
Then we talked through difficult times,
Shared a shy smile,
Like a beautiful song,
I turned and we touched our drunk lips,
She leaned and this hands hugged her,
Lost in that classy moment,
The time ceased and the tapes played,
A lost love song.
'Hands off,' says the bag of cash to the robber.
Or, wishes it could have said,
Because it was an inanimate object,
While the robber was not.
The bag of cash was just a cotton satchel
While the robber was all flesh and blood.

'Where are you taking me?' the bag of cash silently wails.
It doesn't see the light of day
When the robber stuffs it into the trunk of his car.
Alone, the bag of cash occasionally jumps up in the darkness
As the robber's sidekick -- his car
Rushes him to an alien place.

'I have been forsaken,' the bag of cash mopes.
Once the robber takes it out,
The bag of cash will have to die.
It cannot imagine the horrifying thought
Of the robber slitting him open.
Its organs -- the wads of cash -- will all spill out in a puddle.
What did the bag of cash deserve
To meet with such terrible fate?

But the bag of cash hears a gunshot
Once, twice, and thrice.
And a flicker of hope lights up within it.
It sees the light of day again as the trunk opens
And, to its delight, sees the robber
Cuffed by the wrist and wearing a scowl.

'I can go home now,' thinks the bag of cash,
As the police officer takes it into his arms.
And once it's home, back in the vault
It can relay the frightening experience
To other bags of cash, bursting with paper bills and eagerness.
A little something I brewed up while I was DMing some of my friends last night. I kind of like this work a lot, to be honest.
Effy Royle Jun 2014
the robber sneaks into
my space of illuminating
sadness
trying to piece together
the things that make me
tick
soon enough he thinks
he has it figured out
placing screws in the abyss,
knowing that if I tock he did
something
wrong
i want to tell him that
nothing will work
no matter how hard
he tries
my hands are broken and nothing
will ever
make them tick again
as much as they can try
as much as i'm already turning my
cogs to start again
the robber takes my broken hands
but just for a bit
"let me borrow them" he says
when he brings them back they are
rusty and used
i want to tell him that it hurts to tick,
how just because i was condoning
the robbing; i wasn't accepting it.
but i don't say a word
i just croak a broken tock
and let him rob me
all over again
this wasn't supposed to be a **** oriented poem, but that's how it turned out. idk, there's a sequel as well.

— The End —