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He wore a figleaf and called it the finest cloth under his eye the scales of hopelessness lies      He just got a job as a mere labourer in the current government project and his braging about wealth and paper his baby has no mother and the clothes of yesterday are now mosquito coat or insect peching place yet the hope to live well is still alive inside me oh this tale is wrong about the tears from a teenage father
Bra-Tee Jan 2015
Ghetto conceived at night, aborted by the morning sun. The cost of living is too high! Even mother nature can't afford to raise the morning sun...

Pay-day: where is father time when you need em? Perhaps he'll come home tonight drunk again! With some leftovers from BurgerKing. Braging and singing about his brandnew Italian shoes that are now hurting his feet...

Me: Its Friday night, I decided to go out again. And seek for warmth in the dark shadows of my neighborhood. Death(gun) is my only friend. He's the only one who keeps me warm and my stomach full everytime I BANG him!
Peter Balkus Sep 2016
Table for one, but it's okay,
I'm used to talk long hours with myself,
and many problems we solved, believe me or not,
many lives we saved, many wars we stopped.
Definitely more than those sitting by the table for two or for four.

Table for one, well,
It wasn't that hard like it might seem to be.
I acted so humble and he was understanding,
no shouting, no fights, no arguments,
no waste of time, no braging off and no proving
who's better. Just relaxed discussion, quiet eye in eye
- no eye for an eye, like barbarians do.
No unconditional hatred and no blood,
just silence, with short breaks for an open talk.
A monologue turning softly into dialogue.

I couldn't hurt him for he was myself,
like my best friend, my mother, son,
or even more than that!

Table for one,
now many want to join
to sit by and discuss the world's issues,
how to live in Peace with each other, and stuff.

Table for one, it's completely fine.
I'm used to sit at it and eat and read and sleep and cry.
Since the day I was born, that was entirely choice of mine.
I'm not saying I will save the world,
but I will try our best, I mean we will try.
He wore a figleaf and called it the finest cloth under his eye the scales of hopelessness lies      He just got a job as a mere labourer in the current government project and his braging about wealth and paper his baby has no mother and the clothes of yesterday are now mosquito coat or insect peching place yet the hope to live well is still alive inside me oh this tale is wrong about the tears from a teenage father
Mateuš Conrad May 2017
i used to fight as a colt, 6 or 7.... being my age,
i used to knuckle and dust...
it was fun... then again at 14 or 15...
punching this irish in the kidneys...
     he later became a bouncer
standing at some odd spots
outside of nightclubs...
i haven't been in a fight since then...
     boxing with rhetoric
  isn't fighting, to be exact...
since it's only "boxing"...
       i can't remember being
in a fight of late... so how do i compensate?
i try to be a pervert,
   "touching up" a male cat's genitals...
i never do, because he comes at my hand,
biting and scratching it...
                   yep... and that's
equivalent to shrimps on a swing
singing: way way... wave!
              what a lot of odd *******...
i really do miss the odd rough & tumble
as a kid...
    when it was only between two boys,
that had a disinterest in girls...
or had no knowledge of the existence of...
the stated special compliment...
**** me... no... not special akin to a christmas
present, via thesaurus rex: unique...
          sss.... p'eh...       sh... al....
                no, wait, that's the christmas present...
dry-s, s,          p'eh          ti- -e- -al.
        s'pé'tial....  the 3rd syllable
being akin to the teleppone... or:
                     dial, dial *******! dial!
dynamo!
don't know about now...
6ft1... over 100 kilograms?
                       would i be good at boxing?
it was so fun fighting when i was a kid...
         well... i know i can drink someone out
of their braging capacity to down a 70cl bottle of
whiskey...
          sure sure, it might take me 2   /   3 hours...
but i'm making cocktails...
   and listening to cedric 'im' brooks
            satta masa ganna
humming along to: and that too equates to:
the last king of scotland, who took a stab at
                                             ruling zimbabwe.
i can't remember when i was in a fight,
if it wasn't being aged 6, or 7...
      i guess the only violent act i'm capable of
these days, is drinking 700...
and sitting "dumb", silent, "stupid",
                attempting to harvest a nod.

— The End —