"destitute" poems
There's one thing
I have to tell you.
I can't stop uttering,
anything about you.
Whether its about the midnight rain
and how it describes your voice so well,
or the way you won't stop singing,
till you're satisfied and sewn me to sleep.
If I look at the dark orange spotted afternoon,
or the satin red leaves of autumn.
I'll know its been a while since I've thought
of you.
If I hear the chalky barren concert of concrete,
or the uproar of the arid wind.
I'll have forgotten what your voice
sounds like.
If I feel the reticent tremble of winter,
or the cold bitter piercing destitute bed.
I'll remember why our adulation had
my heart in a headlock.
I cannot give you the world
or my name.
Because I do not own them.
All I can give you is my love and lungs,
that is all that I have and hold.
All I'll ever ask of you is for your voice and love.
You make my head lighter with just
some notes you sing.
Sep 23, 2011
Sep 23, 2011 at 1:09 AM UTC
so it is, so it be.
life granted me a boon, come to me, the honey.
not the merest of coating, but a power enrichened,
capable of driving out the slow acting, daily killing,
poisonous venom.
makeover, coverup of tears of ancient marriage-madness,
black swan hate disguise, her lies, venom injection of
coffee blood staining love pretense, now just scar tracks for a
new boulevard.
the slow pour, the golden russian amber intertwined tones,
tongue tasted, inside me now, revealed in slow exiting, beauteous,
mellifluous tears.
you dance with the stars, I watch you watching,
clueless that my thee-flavored tears, dance and pour down
my face.
destitute, nearer my God than thee, god blessed this child's life,
love gifted from sweet bees, late in life, flew from my computer screen and sonnet-stung me with antidotes of
love n' honey...
Jul 3, 2013
Jul 3, 2013 at 3:39 PM UTC
Our destitute is solitude
I promise to get the best of you, then
take my time with the rest of you.
make up your mind with what you want to do
and I will put it on you the way only I can do.
Jan 23, 2018
Jan 23, 2018 at 10:02 PM UTC
The city spearheads the futures we sincerely sold,
As it pluckers your pennies and your coins of gold.
I felt poor amid the auras of their fearsome metals,
Cowering in the clothes of our daily struggles.
I am destitute enough
To bleach out the interests of my cards,
To shatter your savings for a disabled future,
To rummage the stock markets for apertures.
Yet within you exhales tentacles of the color Yellow.
Yellow as in,
The scattered stars that scorch the injured sky,
The mellowing voices of neon artificial lights,
The apex of fire alight in frostbitten nights,
And the yolk of hope my cheers rely.
So while you chase the sun
with your copper-clad hands,
remember but this:
all that glitters is not gold,
It’s the color Yellow in these eyes I behold.
Aug 31, 2017
Aug 31, 2017 at 10:56 PM UTC
**† † †
A quorum of biblical scholars
turned their doubts into thousands of dollars.
Armed with Document Q
they revealed nothing new
but the dirt neath’ the white of their collars.
A proud “health & wealth” Oklahoman
was renowned as a gospel-tent showman.
While the scriptures he twisted,
their tithing assisted
his rise from poor hick to rich Roman.
A sexually diverse professor
(assured he was not a transgressor)
spoke only of openness
glossing sin’s brokenness;
rainbows and tolerance—yes sir.
A Mormon, who lost his own ephod
Realized he was running quite slipshod
and invoked Joseph Smith.
(Yes, it may be a myth—
but it’s not like misplacing your I-pod…)
A Christian whose faith was prophetic
held to views that were truly pathetic.
This crazed Pentecostal,
not quite an apostle,
had taken an End-Times emetic.
A sober and staid Presbyterian
was distrustful of thoughts millenarian.
After smoking some bud,
he awoke with a thud;
in his sleep he’d become Rastafarian.
A preacher who fleeced his disciples
overdrew his own balance of scruples.
He was finally captured
(defrocked and un-raptured)
and rent by his destitute pupils.
A sister who waxed Pentecostal,
mistook herself for an apostle.
Speaking pure glossolalia
she sure could regale ya’
with prophecy; crazy—but docile.
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 8:12 AM UTC
the sounds are there, they come through walls
right around the corner
they're not visual, they're miserable and in need
they're equal opportunity exhibitionists
lovers of a family get together, taking everything in
parasitic and aware, destitute and stuck
but they're also there at the wrong time
the wrong time for the person who's alone
the wrong time for a person who's disconnected
because they want to be enjoying peace and quiet
alone
by themselves in an old house
with summer outside making its noises, crickets
trees rustling under a jeweled sky, the pinnacle of up high
breathing in the home air of cannibus, lotion and food
being disturbed is far from a thought, but unavoidable
simultaneously
because the house has a strange history
the basement floods, and the machinery kicks in
the mind ponders as the constellations wander
the nights grow and shrink, the body is dry, bone dry
the shower is turned on, soap, shampoo
lost in the mind on autopilot
until the spine stiffens
its without a doubt that I'm not alone now
a minute ago i was the master of this house
a minute ago I was naked in the hallway, smoking a cigar
now I've been usurped and I just want to barricade myself
in this house that I've live in for 15 years, now i beg for permission
to stay just one more night
I beg because how could I possibly fight
It's my conscious or the pontius pilate
I hope it's the former, because if not, blowout the pilot light
There's little hope for re-ignition or stellar recognition
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 2:30 PM UTC
What am I?
Just a boat on the sea.
Sailing softly with the winds gentle breeze,
I have seen rough and calm.
Soft and chaotic,
With no rest in between.
What lighthouse guides me to its safe shores?
Am I destined to ride the waves with no light?
No, maybe not, but I cannot tell the future.
You who travels paths less taken,
Those who seek refuge from the rain.
Take haste and seek quickly,
For the storm comes without warning again.
And if you cannot see, will you hear?
I am not wise but foolish,
Destitute and foolhardy.
But I will seek the lighthouse,
In order to get in before the storm.
Dec 25, 2015
Dec 25, 2015 at 7:48 PM UTC
A final inhalation, farewell to oxygen
submitting to oblivion
a conscious lack of everything.
The very absence of air, sickening and
desolate, destitute, despairing
tearing at my aching lungs,
my vacant mind.
Call me a vagabond, a wanderer
entrapped in the extrasensory.
My breath escapes.
The empty core within myself rings in tune with the extant and extinct.
Neck arching, mouth agape
a single note transcends my lips of stone
unadulterated, unwavering, a melodious sound
building and joining in harmony to create a symphony of
life, of
death, of
everything we cannot comprehend.
Sonorous and assonant
my soul cries out
at ever-growing volumes.
My eyes begin to flicker and fade away.
God, can You hear my screams in space
in this vacuum, void of sound?
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 2:54 AM UTC
Muted, muffled, dull thud on concrete,
Staggered, drunken, half conscious nobody,
Starved, seeking, worried about payments,
**** in hand, knocking on the wrong doors,
Fire and brimstone stoked in the belly,
Mad, strange, appetizing burlesque eyes,
Obnoxious smacking and licking of parched lips,
Rolling on half rationed legs,
Quiet, sullen, mournful footsteps,
Presently placed awkwardly one in front of the other,
Memory serves correctly, destitute, reprise,
Thunderclaps and crashing roars,
Almost forgotten, with great relief,
Soon, very soon, to be lost forever,
Candlelight, sobbing vigils, no power,
Nail, Nail, Nail,
Praise in the box, graffiti walled,
Like a bathroom stall, just as ******
Docile dissolving vessels,
Brought to the commonplace dropoff,
Settled down and greatly relieved.
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 11:38 PM UTC
Briskly walking with his head *****
Money and treasure, he aims to get
He is in a stampede, chasing wealth
Acute shortage of ‘humility and gratitude’
Compels him to slaughter a multitude
The desire for more than enough
It has crystallized and made his heart tough
Oblivious about ‘humility and gratitude’
Man agrees to squash the destitute
Unaware, that he may face the same fate
Even then he piles up his plate
When would he be humble and grateful?
For the things which make his life blissful…
Even while swallowing all that is unlawful
He persistently denies being shameful
His conscience reminds him of ‘humility and gratitude’
But he refuses to change his haughty attitude
Let me remind you that life is temporary
Nothing in this world remains stationary
Just like dust your stay is transitory
These two traits, ‘humility and gratitude’
Can help you to acquire beatitude
Don’t forget your final abode
Where good deeds won’t be sold
Remember, the fables of the brave and the bold
All of them possessed ‘humility and gratitude’
From all this, you may conclude
It is the purity of our intentions
What Creator expects from his creation
Everything else is mere illusion
Being a human, demands ‘humility and gratitude’
Oct 24, 2010
Oct 24, 2010 at 7:27 AM UTC
There is an image
Working to free my mind
From violent dawns
It probes at the backs of my eyes
It tells me I am prostituting myself
Here in my bedroom
In incestuous union with myself
I hallucinate and fantasise about
Doctors sons, butchers boys
Teenage thieves, deserters
Drug pushers, scandalous rent boys
Vagrants, pimps, prostitutes
And silk lingerie and don't care.
I sit destitute of thought
An insonce dissonance of macabre music
Playing out melodies of an image in my mind
Apr 12, 2012
Apr 12, 2012 at 4:42 PM UTC
When things seem difficult miserable
Life is turning away from you
Intimidated and worn out you remain
In darkness at a corner you examine
Watching the sky as it disappears
Reminding the lost beloved ones
How beautiful and caring they were
Vanishing without saying goodbye
Shortening your long life span
And leaving you destitute and lonely
Deeply you wonder
How life can really be unfair
To honest and good people like you
But all you let go off
And focus to mend your life
And strengthen your heart
With good and caring friends on your side
Opening the picture of brightness
Knowing GOD holds your hand
Leading you to your success
Stars embracing the whole sky
And you know your journey has started
In pursuit of your purpose
Slowly matching from dusk to dawn
With smiles and determination
In whispers you read your heart
ALWAYS STAND STRONG
May 24, 2014
May 24, 2014 at 1:25 PM UTC
A single life so worthless, that poor fly,
Sooner than its timely moment to die,
As commanded by my unnerving will,
Its incompetent life I chose to ****
Put more simply, for disturbing my peace,
Its feeble and destitute life I ceased.
Yet my bloodstained hands always remained clean,
Once crimeful killing had become routine.
What almighty and sinful God am I
For unsparingly judging who must die
By my sword, without remorse or regret,
The slaughtered fly under my gavel, I forget.
An evil power from no source or spring
Springs power in me like a maddened King.
Mar 19, 2018
Mar 19, 2018 at 10:43 AM UTC
Some call it bi-polar
I prefer manic-depression
It fits us better with adequate expression
We live our life in swooping loops
We strive at our peak then it droops
And the doleful drudge is destitute
Until all progress stops and stoops
To a halt, face down in mud and roots
And then we rise
Called back to life by a guiding light held deep inside
Sorely self-aware, we work until we burst
Droll desperation, at our best when at our worst
"Wow you got your **** together you lost and soulless ruffian."
Then we hit our peak and it all starts back up again
Feb 18, 2017
Feb 18, 2017 at 3:08 AM UTC
1754
To lose thee—sweeter than to gain
All other hearts I knew.
’Tis true the drought is destitute,
But then, I had the dew!
The Caspian has its realms of sand,
Its other realm of sea.
Without the sterile perquisite,
No Caspian could be.
6k
The beloved country Africana can boast of is Ghana. The manana of Africana black star is Ghana A nation rich in culture and natural pasture.
Its nature reflects the creatures’ caricature
We are black reflecting our true beauty.
And we are packed with captivating ability. The typicality of our nationality brings unity. Who knows whether our safety lies in our variety?
This unity amidst our diversity is our reportage. About twenty-four million are surviving in our age. Over sixty ethnic groups and fifty-two major languages. There are hundreds of dialects which are to our advantages.
In W/A, Ghana records the highest percentage of Christianity… Yet the modernity of our sanity portrays minds of malignity. But the fraternity of our humanity builds our community. The variety of our morality and privity builds our society
Who said Ghana cannot be capaciously superfluous? We have the very illustrious and exuberant resources. The elites and the voracity are harnessing the recourses. The destitute remains poor and the gentry linger the forces
Our democratic government is an African paradigm. Our peaceful political regime is of no pantomime. Who of course would help us measure corruption? The whole nation would have tensed up to eruption.
If not the gargantuan wayomelogy of the wayometer. Who knows whether the next tool would be attameter? Who wouldn’t love to be a proud Ghanaian to enjoy our hilarious fila and jargons tongue can employ
Mar 22, 2012
Mar 22, 2012 at 7:52 PM UTC
Forlorn as a destitute child,
I wandered to the distant wild;
Through a peculiar lonelier wood,
Like a wave, roving as fast as I could.
Not long, I came by a myrtle river bank
Where early boughs grow wild and rank.
There my eyes kissed upon wild flowers,
All grandly dressed in neon colours,
Rhythmically whispering lullabies,
Ineffably upon velvety indigo skies,
Whilst swaying in a friskier dance,
That could render naked eyes in a trance.
At such a mesmerizing sight,
I drowned in a pool of sweet delight
Hence in wonderment shook my head,
And in a velvety voice whispered:
"Flowers, flowers, flowers, flowers
What brings about thy Ineffable colors?"
**And all flowers smiled and smiled,
And exuberantly all thus replied:**
"At dusk, when fair maidens of the night
Grandly dress in flocks, of burning bright;
And madly smiles about skies above,
Oh! Their opalscent eyes we flowers love:
So, from their pulchritudenous color;
So lies the mysteries of our allure."
At such a mesmerizing reply,
Sweet delight oozed from mine eye
Hence in wonderment shook my head,
And in a velvety voice whispered:
"Flowers, flowers, flowers, flowers
What brings about thy ineffable colors?"
**And all flowers smiled and smiled,
And exuberantly all thus replied:**
"At dawn, when the day's watchman
Doth weareth his novelty crown,
And treads upon yonder skies above,
Oh! His golden crown we flowers love:
So, from his pulchritudenous color;
So lies the mysteries of our allure."
At such a mesmerizing reply,
Sweet delight oozed from mine eye
Hence in wonderment shook my head,
And in a velvety voice whispered:
"Flowers, flowers, flowers, flowers
What brings about thy ineffable colors?"
**And all flowers smiled and smiled,
And exuberantly all thus replied:**
"When envious veils of dusk engulfs day,
Paving the fairest Empress way;
To grandly grace on yonder skies above,
Oh! Her rainbow robes we flowers love:
So, from her pulchritudenous colour;
So lies the mysteries of our allure."
At such a mesmerizing reply,
Sweet delight oozed from mine eye
Hence in wonderment shook my head,
And in a velvety voice whispered:
"Flowers, flowers, flowers, flowers
What brings about thy ineffable colors?"
**'And all,' all flowers smiled and smiled;
I mean, smiled, smiled and smiled,
I say, smiled, smiled and smiled,
And happiness bloomed in the wild.**
#bliss of solitude
©Kikodinho Edward Alexandros
Jumeira, Dubai
6th August 2017
Aug 6, 2017
Aug 6, 2017 at 10:09 AM UTC
Not only are we going to **** you
(Subsequently leaving your wife and children destitute)
and glue your head to the wall
(It's called taxidermy, alright? It's a profession. Professional.)
but we will also perch this Santa hat
On the smallest tines
Of your impressive
Set of antlers
(The kind any other buck would
bow and scrape
to behold).
Because it's that time of year again.
Here's wishing a very
Merry Christmas
To you, your wife, and children.
Dec 29, 2012
Dec 29, 2012 at 12:21 AM UTC
I see Beauty in a **********
Whose feelings you cannot convolute.
I see a Businesswoman in a **********
A **** with brains, destitute
she made a business plan.
At least she did business studies and
accounting at school, sells her body to earn,
A living.
I see a princess in a **********
because no man can resist her.
You know when she starts curling her hair
Even Pastors **********
then we bring the Saints Holiness into debate.
Have you ever seen a ********** aspirate
"I want you" ?
**** Her voice alone gives ****** healing,
Arouses ****** feelings,
Pumps vessels, frightened by the spark in her
eyes, hormone adrenalin give your heart rate a
fast accelerating beatings.
I see charisma in a **********
Married men,leave their wives in bed and
creep to the streets corner just to cuddle with
prostitutes, it was I who said, there's beauty in
a **********
I see Beauty in a **********
I've seen Loyalty in a **********
Yes I did. How? What do I mean?
Because she ***** all men in the same manner
and charge them all the identical amount.
That is Loyalty man.
I said, I see Beauty in a ********** and
I wasn't lying.
There is Beauty in a **********
The Beauty that makes Preachers at church
retire,
The Beauty that make married men divorce,
The Beauty that makes Jay Z forget Beyonce,
The Beauty that makes Julius Malema forgets
his political position
The Beauty that makes Jesus Christ want to
come back, to save his descendants from sin.
The Beauty of a **********
Men have seen it.
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 8:53 PM UTC
Broken lines on subway walls, twisted dolls, and high noon cat calls
This is the way I see life
It is a micosm of our failed society,
with a beaten down view on stained glass, shattered on the empty church floor begging us to pray over a God that we can't see or touch.
Kneeling in front of the wooden church pews, with two bruised knees yelling out in pain our convictions into some sort of religious echo chamber of somber and remorse
So, you want us to believe in what is real or what is not!!!
What is this so called life you speak of?
It sounds like a messed up Shakespeare tragedy
A sad tragedy that surrounds every living soul like some God forsaken circus freak dressed up ********* in a clown suit
A souless tragedy that beats down the door of our hearts then shreds it into tiny pieces, only to leave it on the ***** kitchen table to rot in front of us
Yes, that so called life
Its hard to imagine what I have seen
what I touched, or what I have felt inside
I cannot explain it in simple words, it's complicated
It's more bad than good, destitute and diluted, forgotten and then deleted
It has all become a tragic piece of me
Why? Because I live it every single day, every single minute, every single second and every single breathe
So, let that sink in. Just tragic in a way, tragically distorted mindless thoughts trapped in each one of us.
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 1:08 PM UTC
Loneliness!
Loneliness!
Creeps into full room unseen.
The fatherless child of loneliness.
Stood up in solitude.
Unnoticed in noisy melee.
Rips a soul to shreds.
A vicious circle.
A cycle of lies.
This near friendless soul.
A choice ingested.
Used to flying solo.
Habitual situation.
Being Alone.
Loneliness eats.
Delicious at times.
Most of the time.
Writing autobiography.
Just moments on a tapestry.
Love is still.
Still and silent.
Need love.
Just doesn’t fit.
Can’t do it.
A self-fulfilling prophecy.
Opulent at times.
Destitute at others.
Upward moving.
Stranded in whole self.
In a world full of nations.
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 5:11 PM UTC
I sit with beer, all destitute, to write this alcoholic poem,
Tomorrow's far away, but a catastrophic omen
With beer in front, the task at hand, I should not have a chance,
Yet goggles clear, my writing dear, with future shaking hands,
I'll give a cheer, I'll down my beer, haste towards the achin',
So then I'll wake up, fill my coffee cup, and make some ******* bacon!
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 2:14 PM UTC
Gunboats ahoy there’s pirates about
Speeding from Somali’s shore,
A fast flimsy boat and some black skinny men
With grenade launchers, cannon and more.
They’re coming to capture the tankers
They’re coming to capture the crew
They’re coming to take you hostage
Because fat cats will pay cash for you.
It’s happening more every day now
Ships are held to ransom for gold,
This contagion is out of hand now
The Somalian pirates are becoming so bold.
Hard men in the west prepare crackdowns
Gunboats sail for the Gulf as we speak,
With instructions to shoot to **** now
And make eradication of pirates complete!
But you ask, why is this happening?
Why does a man, a pirate become?
What instigates this crazy morphosis
From fisherman to pirate with gun?
Somalia has no Government to speak of,
It collapsed and went long ago.
No law or army in place here,
Life is dangerous, chaotic and low.
Some fat cats made use of the vacuum
They ditched toxic waste in the sea
They irradiated the coastline region
Making this a poisoned place to be.
The coast folk were dying in thousands
Sick mothers lost babies and kids
Black illness spread madly in villages
Then blind panic and pain hit the skids.
Some fat cats made use of the vacuum
They trawled the coastline clean
Somalia’s fishermen were destitute
The catch went from vast to lean.
The villagers were starving and hopeless
And what was pain became death.
The leaders appealed for salvation
But those with the means, had turned deaf.
Who would take this problem on now?
Who would make these ******** pay?
Most turned around and shunned them,
The world had turned and looked away.
So hit transgressors where they’re vulnerable.
Strike in sea lanes where it’s free.
Hit them near the Horn of Africa.
Attack with blades of piracy.
Hooray for the small man’s justice.
Hooray for his skinny, black shanks,
Please God help their quest for deliverance
For the West has arrived with their tanks.
Now I ask you, in all fairness
To stand back and view the scene,
Where the richest and most powerful
are doing something that's obscene
For not only are they poisoning
The most vulnerable race on earth
But compounding it with genocide,
And I add, for what it's worth,
The West, in righteous arrogance,
are crushing poorest fellow man
In his struggle for survival
Against their mammoth, global hand.
Marshalg
@theGate
Mangere Bridge
25 April 2009
Jan 19, 2010
Jan 19, 2010 at 7:33 PM UTC
but you are smooth in full regalia
reptilian in your lounge suit
your westchester upbringing
shows in your brooks brothers snake skin boots
so she knows your from old school money
and plants a perfumed eye on your rear end
it sticks there like sweaty glue
every inch of her polished skin
fermented at great expense
and you thought suntans were hard to pay off
try having the ***** pickled in whiskey
but the divorce would leave you
a destitute sideshow on rodeo drive
with nothing but your mansion and your jag
standing between you and the unwashed masses
so you make her slap on another layer of makeup
you drop another crotch rocket happy hardness pill
and slip a few more bucks over the border to Switzerland
and drop a quick prayer to the twin god of Morgan and Stanley
that the market holds for one more day
lounge lizard
pushing seventy
with a twenty two year old ******
on one arm
and the keys to the rolls clutched in your liver spotted hand
your ready for anything
you may be king of the florida keys
but
gotta respect the cash flow
if what your pointless poison
bites off your **** more than goes into your mouth
then ya gotta wonder kiddo
if moving back to the homestead
in Spuyten Duyvil
might be better than lettin lifestyle carjack your life
that twenty two year old ***** you got poured all over your lap
has more spider in her than girlish charm
shes a train wreck waiting to happen
ill get ya to the border safe and sound
don't 'cha worry bout that
have you headed north
fore they even know your gone
may be the king of the florida keys
but it high time we get ya
back to brooklyn fore they bury you down here
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 5:47 PM UTC
Lay no blame at her feet,
she of victory, torch of light.
Lay no blame at her feet,
an eagle soaring, trade her might!
Lay no blame at her feet,
for chaotic nations, destitute and plight.
Lay no blame at her feet,
the wicked crowned, wealth takes flight.
Lay no blame at her feet,
her majesty waning, her people benight.
Lay no blame at her feet,
'Taker of Blood;' red, blue, white.
Nov 15, 2016
Nov 15, 2016 at 2:20 PM UTC