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The first fruit I ever stole
came from an old man I don’t know the name of.
I know he couldn’t move
from his La-Z-Boy by the front window.
I know how his gravelly voice boomed across the yard
as he scolded me for taking peaches from his tree.
I don’t know why he cared.
I know my sister would smile when I brought them home.
And I know my brother had this habit—
biting only one side
until he reached the pit.
I don’t know what happened to the old man,
but I know the peaches started something bigger.
I know I later became a thief—
but also had this habit
of giving people fruit when they’d come over.
I don’t know if the old man knew my name,
or if he just called me the brat who stole his peaches.
I know they cut down that peach tree
when I was in ninth grade.
And I know
I’ve never had a peach so sweet
as the ones from the old man’s tree.
Marwan Baytie Jul 28
He stands on the pulpit, voice calm and wise,
Telling the poor to seek heaven's prize.
"Shun the world, take little, be meek,"
But never does he name the strong who steal what the humble seek.
He speaks of virtue in tattered shoes,
But not of the hands that tighten the noose.
He blesses hunger, calls it divine,
While feasting in halls built from stolen time.
He says, “Your burden is sacred and light,”
But his silence is heavy, darker than night.
For truth, when bent to serve the blade,
Becomes the lie by which justice is betrayed.
So, mark this preacher, soft of breath.
He sings of peace, but sows in death.
If he blesses chains and praises grief,
Then he wears not faith, but the cloak of a thief.
The wind writes letters in the language of  
fallen leaves, edges like burnt parchment.

The moon carves shadows of boughed arms,  
a question mark deep in the soil’s throat.  

Somewhere, she hesitates, the magpie:  
one foot in the underbrush, one in the realm  
of quicksilver and stolen syllables.  
Her beak glints with the moon’s loose change.  

What does she know of the weight  
of a minute’s wingbeat? She tilts her head,  
stitching the sky with a thief’s precision—  
collects tarnished seconds.

The wind’s letters fray, unreadable now.  
The magpie flies, trailing a cry that unravels  
time’s hem.
A poem co-written by me and AI. I take close to zero credit. Can AI produce art that is beautiful or meaningful?
Antonia Apr 24
what is this game
you wish to play?
what is this thing
you take away?
you want my light?
to feed your darkness
you want my love?
to feed me lies

you take everything.
and give nothing in return.

you’re nothing but a thief

thief.
Have you ever been so blinded by love that you ended up stealing from yourself?
Kezexxe Mar 12
A thief in the night,
You will not have sight,
And he will have a knife,
The thief does not give life,
He takes it.
Caesar Mar 10
Pick picket my soul
Take what was found
There’s nothing quite profound
Nothing of gold
Nothing of silver
Nothing but a trail of leaves
But not even a breeze
For thieves themselves are the wind
I could only hear the crunch of leaves
so pickpocket me, my dear thief
Persephone II Dec 2024
When she did shine
She shined like gold
Gold
That he loved to steal
Jeremy Betts Nov 2024
Hope and reality
Those two often don't mesh
While need and want
Battle the sins of the flesh
I question self preservation
Tracing these scars made fresh
I find myself reciting,
"Comparison is the thief of joy"
As I  hold my breath up to the rest

©2024
butterfly Oct 2024
You came in and stole it,
everything that was ever mine.
You stole my heart too,
with all the sadness that's within.
Nothing that was mine was left,
you took it all for yourself.
Jeremy Betts Oct 2024
Would my last breath
Bring you more relief
Than grief?
With the sod replaced
And me underneath,
Would you feel like your life
Was returned by it's thief?
Would your heart
Match your belief?

...please respond...

©2024
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