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annh Sep 2019
Subway skip jive,
Off and on,
Up and over,
Been and gone.

Mind your wallet,
Watch your step,
Take your seat,
Turn right, lean left.

Token trav’lers,
Quick, quick, slow,
We’re underground,
And on the go.

‘I loved the abandoned subway stations, rushing past the darkened platforms, the sprawl of graffiti like old letters. Letters left by ghosts.’
- Hannah Lillith Assadi, Sonora
annh Feb 2019
pledges to purchase
intent on acquisition
baby-grow wishful thinking
they put money beside hearts
they found that it hard to be stolen
they found it hard to move  or run
fear of making it fallen
they put money at their backs
the thief likes that
the women put at handbag
motorcycle raps that
they put money on small wallet
the thief found it in his hand
the visa is found
money means happy for people
Phi Kenzie Aug 2018
Spending it to make it?
Now that’s money

Consumable and hoardable
folly’s quest yet necessary evil

How much is enough?
Too little?
Too great?

Does anyone deserve it
can you earn it and be happy
or is it all together absurd?
Money money money money money money
- Mr. Krabs, Gordon Gecko, Smaug
b Mar 2018
wishful thinking
keeps me drinking
the cherry wine that costs less than
the wallet i now keep in my front pocket
ever since it was stolen,

fool me once.

i palm my eyes
and rub my craning neck.
sore from keeping watch.
blessed to be cursed i feel at times
as its so hard to write with no perspective.
and if i keep these words in they might **** me some day.

what an honor to be king for a night.
all ive ever yearned,
to see his sword pierce my belly
at rest, at peace.
Poetic T Aug 2017
She was easy on the eyes
by her allure.

Momentarily we touched
Stealing my heart
              as well as my wallet.
Wallet not exist
Night until late. I wake up.
Everything: regret.
This was a haiku that my friend and I created. It has been translated directly from the Japanese, its original language.
Stan Gichuki Dec 2015
Who is a man?

Man is?

A man is a beautiful part of God's creation

A man carries cash. A man looks out for those around him — woman, friend, stranger

A man is wallet

A man is effort

A man is good at his job

A man owns up

A man looks out for children. Makes them stand behind him.
Style — a man has that. No matter how eccentric that style is, it is contrived. It's a set of rules.
A Watoot Aug 2015
Candle lit room
Illuminated by moon light
A faint smile from the unknown lady of the night

I found her wandering in the boulevard
She's smiling for a person with unsatisfied carnal desires

She undresses and starts spreading sheets above us
Faint scent of her hair
A beauty, no doubt

I listened to her stories with a lit cigarette
How she used to be an honor student

She undresses me and kisses me
She knows where to lead her mouth and hands
She moves- making me quiver with her damp thighs

I will never know your name.
Only the shared cigarette and your story

She slides it in- Moaning, scraping, pulling, tugging.
I lost myself in ecstasy falling in my vivid dreams in the hedonist dimension of the universe.

*She grabbed my wallet and ran.
She opened it; and saw a picture of herself in my arms as a toddler.
heart break makes me disturbingly weird.
Ishana Singh Jan 2015
You, with your supple and brown leather
I, with my gaze fixed on my father’s pocket
You, peeking out from its corner like a
Child playing hide and seek in a desolate ally
I, like the kidnapper, keeping an eye on your
Fragile movements, waiting for you to stumble
Into a dark corner and into my sinister embrace
So that I could get my ransom inside you, the
Little green strips of paper you contained
Toys, chocolates and kites my father wouldn’t get me.
You, with your expensive sheen, attracting me
To yourself like a gold ring attracting an eagle
Only to disappear as soon as my father left
For work and you, containing an enigmatic exchange
For little candies the definition of bliss to six year old me.
I, with my naïve mind thinking why I would get less
Candies and goodies when you would be frail
And devoid of those thin green leaves.
You, in the possession of my elder brother now
I, eight year old me, wondering if your gauntness
Made my father a dear departed.
You, I didn’t unravel the enigma of your long
Green leaves until I was thirteen and you
Resided in the back pocket of the Khaki trousers
My brother used to wear,
Now Tattered just like your old unkempt skin.
Dear Old Wallet, my dead father’s wallet
I liked you better when you were fat and fit,
Supple and shiny, brimming with coins and green leaves.
And when I  was unaware, little and innocent thinking
You were a miracle for I only wanted toys back then
only to realize I need a lot more
For I am now cold,  fatherless and bankrupt
But you are empty and thin, just like my
Dying mother.
Definitely not my style, but it doesn't hurt to try something new.
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