Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
PE Scott Nov 2020
In the streets of Delhi advertised on every sign,
Is the British army’s need for you to buy buy buy.
It may cost your turban, your home your family, and the worn clothes.
But it’s for the greater good right? of the empire of them ‘s and those.

When you pass the gender and notice his cracked lips,
And coughing and dying son,
You feel sympathy as you would for anyone.
But you can parch him as your son cant starve too,
And that’s just the law of the untouchable that are below you.

Despite your status being not much better,
You walk a stranger to their leering eyes,
As you were the clean white sashes and ties,
But they don’t realise the shackles you are also in.
As the phrase goes that you see on all the ads.

“You can’t make your own confections,
You can’t save your own possessions,
You can’t even built out of your own wood,
Because for the good of the empire of the greater good,
You will serve to pay the fees that are higher than you can afford to do.”

When you think of that as you walk these deep streets you can’t help walking in a way of shame,
As you know you can’t blame these overlords,
But the submissions and laws of old,
That they stole and now uphold.
Never to be loss of my shackles,
I pass these streets, and go on to Mumbai for the next delivery meet.
PE Scott Nov 2020
the bird pecks the acorn,
fighting through the casing's steel,
the bird breaks his beak and falls to the floor,
the rainbow of his wings failing in spiel.

the floor becomes a deep red,
the acorn waggles and girds in its success,
not realising that his compatriot he had spent all the moons with was long dead,
and it falls with the passing winds of distress.

It hit's the floor in the same place,
bouncing off the stone statue corpse,
the acorn stares to the bird's face,
knowing that it won’t peck anymore marks in its force.

the acorns rolls next to the bird in solemn shifting agreement,
knowing that it's barrier and breakdown is imminent for its bereavement.
An old poem that i really love, I'm happy with how it looks and didn't edit it since i originally made it, I hope you enjoy!
PE Scott Nov 2020
here a short poem.

purrs like an engine,
the caring hold of the leather,
brushing with sandpaper to release like ground tension,
like an earthquake… the destructive extreme weather,
destroying all in its path.

— The End —