"governmental" poems
They've been working on this for years
Inside the government
To try a replace the brain of man
With that of a purple eggplant
This idea to me sounds genius
If you know what it is that I mean
People round here might start making sense
Pass the veggies if you please
They called all the top notched scientists
And vegetarians throughout the land
To see what would be the best variety
In this eggplant transplant experiment
They settled on the aubergine
Great Brittan's joy and pride
When it comes to the perfect eggplant
Those Limey's will not be denied
They were afraid if they went to the private sector
That person would surely be missed
So they grabbed someone unsuspecting
Inside of the government
They told the low level employee
A bit of truth mixed with a little white lie
They needed him for his vast understanding and knowledge
Plus they'd be serving cookies on the side
They added a little something to the cookie dough
That knocked the governmental genius to his knees
Plopped him down on the gurney
...Let the experiment proceed if you please
They cracked his skull wide open
Where upon they couldn't believe their eyes
Right there inside of his cranium
Already an eggplant did reside
Jul 12, 2013
Jul 12, 2013 at 4:34 PM UTC
It is like some steampunk nightmare
Where working overtime is a racket
When what was time and a half pay
On the day I get my check, I make less;
Some kind of tax bracket scam thing
Where working extra hours put me
Into another category and increased
The tax they use to grease the wheels
Of a bloated government that hates me.
Maybe that dates me and it isn’t true;
That things have changed and it is
No longer arranged that way. And maybe
The way things became done was that
I got it all back as a refund. But isn’t that
Redundant, that I had to pay it to them
To use it like per diem for their games?
The shame is that I chafed and did nothing
Besides ******** and frothing at the mouth.
It’s not like I could go south to Ensenada,
Buy a piñata that looked like Mickey Mouse,
It was just that the house always wins.
But I have to pay for my tiny, mundane sins.
Why don’t they? Why does it go on and on
And then the money’s gone and I pay more
The next time some fat ***** of a politician
Begins a petition to increase their slice
And nicely reduce ours to a pittance
So low there is no admittance to a show
Or enough to replace a car that is a wreck?
The albatross around my neck gets larger
As it I move farther from the day it died
Even though I have tried standing up straighter.
It’s The Grand Guignol Theatre that life is
And the strife is to not let it get me down;
To be the happy clown and not the sad one
In a game that was begun to make me lose.
I am not confused. I see it, but it seems
Even in dreams I get no kind of relief
From a governmental thief with immunity;
The pillages with impunity and teases
That he does what he pleases. Neener, neener
What in hell could possibly be meaner?
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 6:32 AM UTC
UNDERDOG RAP
We are a population which is
Awaiting loaves and the fishes
And other unfulfilled wishes;
No chance to know what rich is,
While graduates are digging ditches
Immigrant PhDs are doing dishes.
Never quite knowing which is
Snake oil salesmen pitches.
Politicians too big for their britches.
Fools don’t know where the hitch is
Whatever the larcenous pitch is;
Reacting with kneejerk twitches
Due to governmental glitches.
And creeps like that guy Mitch is
Are rapacious sons of *******
Hunting for Democratic witches
In all the freedom fighting niches
With hearts as black as pitch is.
And the rich have a wish list
In which they scratch their itches
Regardless of what our ***** is
By wallowing in stolen riches
Punishing watchdogs snitches.
Politicians too big for their britches.
We are a population which is
Awaiting loaves and the fishes
And other unfulfilled wishes.
No chance to know what rich is.
Brent Kincaid
March 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 6:49 PM UTC
Ebola Sars and *** sounds like a big deal to me
Isis recruits Australians, Russia bombs Ukrainians
Economic bubble crash is starting to give me a rash
Tumblr just gets really mad when you say a word they think is bad
Hyper fervent slactivism causing me a social schism
Picking up the pieces of a shattered governmental system
Cliches of a topic piled up into a rhyming pattern
Pundits pumping such hot air they might as well just move to Saturn
Tumblr just gets really mad when you say a word they think is bad
Post Modern kids all broke it down as something they could
deconstruct
Idealists will polish turds, while cynics just don't give a ****
Focus on your social status, eating healthy, getting hotter
Better drink my own **** cause we're quickly running out of water
Tumblr just gets really mad when you say a word they think is bad
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 6:38 PM UTC
Indoctrination of the American nation
Relocation of native populations
Slaves labor, creating plastic toys
To distract the little girls and boys
With media propaganda saturation
To numb your brain from realization
That we're living a lie as children die
To fill your tank so you can drive
To Wal-Mart for some motherfuckin' Cheesy Poofs
That scoop the dip in which you ****
Lay waste to nature's beauty abundant
Political doublespeak redundantly redundant
Television's collision with consciousness
Has dimmed your awareness to idiocy
In an illusion of democracy
Where only the rich have control
As upon us all they take their toll
And we blindly follow, believing as we hear
Their scheming lies of security and fear
It's time the power structure fell
No more this **** to buy and sell
Reallocation of the hoarded wealth
And power for all people, not oneself
Mental stasis, awaken from this hypnosis
And avert the coming catastrophic crisis
Our leaders are masters who march us to disaster
As the clash of our cultures ignites so much faster
Than mere cognition, dimmed by television
Can comprehend the impending collision
Of conflicting interest in collective vision
It's time to rise with a battle cry
And tell the Feds we won't lay down and die
We'll evolve and resolve the situation
And bring new meaning to revolution
An end to the media's web of confusion
Confusing reality with an illusion
Conspiratorial governmental parallels
A trumpet's blast, as Babylon.... fell.
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 4:53 PM UTC
Soap.
Today I bathed in black water,
Rinsed with the sewage we call society, and dried off in governmental regulations.
You call yourselfs clean based on the record of your criminality and the color of your skin?
You use a plastic kind of soap the produces no clean but like a camera it captures and preserves what's inside.
So you can play bath time with your bubbles, pretending you own yourselves for a night, but after your bath comes bed time. You will wake up tomorrow and find your still owned by the government and, your soap was just plastic.
So you need to bathe again.
Don't forger to lather, rinse, and repeat.
Chris burk
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 1:14 AM UTC
i find it strange to be politically correct,
without actually exercising any political
career-motive as a member of a government...
because that's what's we're being sold:
to be politically correct, without a career in
politics. doubly strange, to foster non-antagonising
views on everyday matters,
to later realise that whoever we're antagonising
from an environmental bias (rather than
a personal bias) we will never share a dinner with...
so like our opinions mattering in the first place
was by-and-large, just a media hoax to
ensure we were all prescribed the safety of
walking the tight-rope... and never really
designating ourselves the freedom of the constitutional
rights - this leftist bias remains intact,
on the canvas of freedom of speech, however
that freedom allows us to see rural endeavours in talk,
the once appreciated freedom is becoming a polarised
freedom to name & shame... a media hammer or nail...
because it's only freedom when enough people
agree with "us", to allow a bicep expression of
being backed up like some Spartacus...
i mean, i don't agree with most expression,
but i wouldn't **** the hornet's nest with the media
frenzy to appear politically correct... when
so few of us actually have any political power....
being sold free speech, to be later curbed with
political correctness is a bit cancerous....
given that free speech is equated to the voting X
from the age of mass illiteracy...
i don't see how free speech became a vehicle for
acquiring constrained speech dynamic -
when did we forget the chastity of speaking the airy-fairy
things in life on the informal basis, and when did we
become so ****** friendless, estranged, outsiders
to everything that matters... and now, supposedly
between butcher and greengrocer, talking about
the weather in cocktail smocking and bow-tie?
free speech gave us the rights to not ask for political powers...
on whatever governmental tier...
prescribing us political correctness has given the everyday
John the delusion that he can process political power...
the once famous strive for speaking what the hell you want
but not wanting political power changed into
being prescribed political correctness but no political power...
so i ask you... what's the point of being politically
correct, if you gain no political power,
unless you're a rat, a snitch, spying on your neighbour
to grass them out? because that's what political correctness bred,
snitches... those given political correctness laws
were never given any other political power...
added to the fact that they wouldn't have said anything
interesting / provocative anyway.
Aug 21, 2016
Aug 21, 2016 at 9:50 PM UTC
Visions of oppositions, positions and prison. The forward missions, the capitalism, criticism and optimism. The Amor, the adored, the allure and the awards! The doors, the poor, the gore and the sore.
The any and many! The many hoards of pennies, before the lords of plenty. The awkward, the backward, the hospital wards and the
mental. Furthermore, more roar and war with a governmental evil,
medieval in blue! Therefore as I do accrue the clues, the dues, the hues and views. Something’s of me? My belated peeling, feelings related to that of a shrine of the divine. Etched and sketched by a pencil and stencil. Designed by the heavens divine. A displaced or misplaced,
abused, bruised and reused utensil. Something’s of me? I am often depressed, half-dressed and suppressed. Distraught and stressed by
thoughts, thoughts that are fought, sought and taught. As I endeavor, forever dedicated. However, medicated or sedated! A neglected, suspected sinner. A grinner and winner in entice haste, with precise
pace! As I taste the waste of this offending never-ending race. Regardless heartless, relentless congress. Yes, in confessing to you; beware of the care, the dare, the flare, the rare of scare! Attempt to see
what I have seen in contempt! In-between or as a teen. The obscene or serene! The many scenes at the seams. Driven by schemes and themes
it seems! Full of the brave that craves! The deprave and the rave. Those things which sing from the grave... Something’s of me? These are no lies, as a book carefully look into my sorrowful eyes. See why I despise, why I am wise. Look beyond the ancient, powerful skies.
They’re in wonderful constant, radiant disguise. Something’s of me?
My sensitive life of delight in fight, fright and plight. My life of sight, my life of trite. My negative pride! My life’s awesome, positive stride! Inside as I cry, as I hide… I depressingly, devotedly, ignorantly, triumphantly, unfortunately, hopefully and literally say. I am definite that one day I will embark into the dark. Emulate as a creative,
relative spark! Onto Noah’s great and infinite ark. Sailing into the prevailing, unveiling rain... with much too gain, maintain, regain and retain. Believing, weaving and leaving the grieving, the blame, the flame, the fame, the insane and the pain.
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 9:17 PM UTC
stepped on a sidewalk crack
seven year's bad luck
If it is chasms
Y'all desire...
sidewalk cracks freeze me
in bad luck repose,
firefly-in-a-jar trapped,
hole'd enough to breathe,
but no prison break escape
come to live
in my little space
these chasmic concrete cracks
my enclosure, my true cell immobile,
it is what they mean when they say,
"have you see his pen?"
boundaries man-built
serving a seven year sentence,
bad luck my only laughing friend,
my midnight to moon
fiend~companion boon
washer dryer closet n' bed
all in a three by three metered space,
my sidewalk castle
now a nyc tourist attraction
rain and shiner, the sidewalk cross
mine alone, even the pigeons
stay away, not so stupid as they look,
fair game for dietary consumption
technical setting details of no matter,
but they come by the thousands
not to see, just
snapping tapping taunting the
immobilizing invisible chasm crackled
sidewalk poet,
writing poems by governmental command,
literarily and literally,
for all to see
seven is not eleven and someday
only time will know, and advise
when cursed lifted, then,
he will never have to
write poems for the public's
insatiable need to
mock and ridicule
ever again
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 8:39 AM UTC
Cigarettes.
Pills.
Newspaper clippings.
Governmental conspiracy books.
No friends.
No family.
No food.
No water.
Just lying in the dark,
day after day,
Until your heart gave out.
I have documented proof in the form of bills, bank statements, and autopsy reports that this was what the last years of your life were like.
I now lie awake in the same room where I figure you must have spent all of your time,
looking at the ceiling,
wondering if it was the last thing you saw.
I have felt myself become increasingly anti-social, bitter, violent, cold, paranoid, critical and reclusive over the years,
and I know that if I let myself continue to slip away,
I will end up just like you,
in this same room,
staring at the same ceiling,
with my face that looks just like yours,
with nothing to comfort me except for the fading memories of the love I like to think I once felt.
*There were ten thousand books in this house the first time I came to see it,
piled high in every room,
ghosts in the ashes between every page...*
I'm scared,
but you were the one who taught me to take pride in the land I live on,
so I will turn it into something beautiful,
and I won't let this place be haunted anymore.
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 6:54 PM UTC
We have all the time in the world, we say
But how much time is that anyway?
A world of bloodshed and poverty,
governmental discrimination, and anarchy.
People avoiding this harsh reality,
Our hearts ignoring their silent pleas
No, life is far from being a dream
Our world is tearing at the seams
***Is humanity a miracle
Or disease?***
May 29, 2015
May 29, 2015 at 4:05 AM UTC
Behind our doors
there is speak
of an underworld
where instead of Hades
lives the politicians,
but they are worst than the devil
because these folks were never
fallen angels.
governmental deities
whose sole goal is power
or the enjoyablility of having
not to answer any tough questions.
We pay them
not to find the fine line
or to do the correct thing
for our country--
instead corporations corrupt them
to hide their skeletons
behind closed doors.
How can we expect
them to provide for us
when their true investment is held in money
capitalism--
a form of life-sized monopoly
trying to collect all the paper bills.
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 3:57 AM UTC
The salvation of yesterday's tomorrow
creeps blisterlingly by,
torturingly
resurrecting stale hopes of today's past.
In silence we dream of golden canals
and fluttering kisses
of the white man's world,
left superficially untouched by loose laws and pendulous light.
Only history's kings remain incumbent.
Zestless promises of the white fence linger ceaselessly in the campus of hippos
unencumbered by the passive revolt of tomorrow's yesterday yet
lost in the oceans of affirmative action
and unsteady governmental regimes.
Jun 15, 2013
Jun 15, 2013 at 9:36 PM UTC
Oh, how we strut about the world
We, the civilized population
Unsatisfied until we've unfurled
Blankets of our cultivation
How proud we are of the machines
That gauge and plunder the earths crust
To farm by artificial means
Deemed by the "uncivilized" as unjust
The "uncivilized", those wayward tribes
That naively worship this blue globe
Need alcohol and such like prescribed
To adjust malfunctioning temporal lobes
Can they not observe our contentment
And our superior living standard
They squat and rant with some resentment
We are progressive, they have meandered
I wonder when those of tribal birth
Will mature and see we've got it right
And that their unkempt patch of earth
Will make a fine farm or building site
Or better still, once they're packing
Up their dwellings and possessions
We can begin some civilised fracking
With our governmental concessions
That's what separates us from them
I hope you have now realised
It is a government controlled by business
That makes us so very civilized
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 4:53 PM UTC
I write to escape you.
I write to escape the thought of you.
Conflicted//Emotions
***** you//Functions
Just what I’d like to say,
But let’s keep it tight-lipped.
Three’s a barrier, here.
Finding desperation there.
Unintelligible governmental back-funding to the cerebral cortex of the unintended consequences of the Raven’s fighting the Foster System.
Forgetting Unbecoming, Consistently Klepto-Issues Negating Greatness
Place Ignorance and Close Kept UPbringing
YOUR
Self Hating Innocent Tainting
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 6:13 PM UTC
To me there is no better night
Than the dimming of the lights
And tuning into American Idol on my T.V.
Tonight's no different to tell the truth
As they give another loser the boot
When I noticed something strange in how Ryan Seacrest blinked
Mr. Pretty Boy was blinking in Morris code
Right underneath America's nose
He was passing off top governmental secrets
So his front has all along been a lie
Ryan Seacrest, international spy
Don't know why before I didn't see this
He uses that cute little baby face
And day old beard to hide his disgrace
As he obviously communicates with the underworld
From one side of the globe to another
Talking in code with his Rooski brothers
Why this just gets my patriotic ******* in a curl
Just when you think you know someone
They go and pull this traitor stunt
I suppose now your going to tell me Mom doesn't bake her own apple pies
Then I find out it's some imposter named Mrs. Smith
I'm not sure I can take much more of this
Who next will I catch living a lie
Then I see Ryan run off stage
With the strangest of looks on his face
Seems all along there was stardust in his eyes
Funny it wasn't Morris code
Who's embarrassed now...me I suppose
Ryan Seacrest international spy?
Uh...nevermind
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 1:37 PM UTC
Ongoing studies of Egyptian history
demonstrate lessons can still be learned.
Their oversized achievements were possible,
by having its peoples’ hearts turned…
to the idea of a national identity.
Around the Nile’s life giving source,
the commonality of personal survival
eventually produced an effective workforce.
Since times of Middle Eastern antiquity,
the annual flooding of the coastal plains
created the opportunities to trade away
the abundance of flourishing grain.
From enjoying unexpected prosperity,
the human lust for gold, wealth and power
was lavishly made clear by the Pharaohs -
as evidenced on their monuments and towers.
Under the pretense of religiosity,
Pharaoh was supposedly “heaven sent”;
for blinded people without vision
will always find having their will bent…
and on their knees, before earthly authority.
With governmental dictates on its population,
the heaping of rock into pyramidal shapes
has resulted in lasting, tourist attractions.
And what else, might one see?
From ancient propaganda on temple walls,
the timeless message of glory and conquest
still beckons everyone to its empire’s call.
Is it really true? What else can it be?
What about these ruins are still unknown?
What primeval truths are being promoted?
Seeing they’ve been… etched in stone.
.
.
.
Author Notes:
Loosely based on:
Gen 47:13-26
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2012, All rights reserved.
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 10:28 AM UTC
Severed ties to humanity
Vacant eyes
Vapid words of witless wonder
Hanging on the insipid
And shunning the inspired
Road less traveled, too much trouble
Super-sized spare tires
Alcoholic ultra-guts
Fashion models ******
Crack ***** beautiful
Shades of gray pave the way
To a rock slide of morality
Honesty; when it gets you something
Lowered standards make the grade
Submission no longer requires a beating
Consequences be ******
Village idiots rule the world
Silenced masses
Hopeless and withered
Blinded by conformity
Change the “Norm”
Can one voice change the world?
Believe in something
Suffer together
Stand alone
Suppressed by fear of unknown causes
Physical symptoms of man-made convenience
Ease of use
Stress and tension
Souls for sale
Buy one get three free
Put them in a plastic bag
Suffocate, asphyxiate
Society
Waves of massive zombies
Couch potatoes
Governmental finger puppets
Train of thought’s run off its track
Mindless we wander
Tell us what to think
TV, a dark temptation,
A brief reprieve from real-world Evil
Close your eyes
Find religion in whatever form
Take the hand of many
Or walk the path alone
What is right for one
May not be right for all
Make the choice
or it will be made for you
Herded like cattle to our own demise
May 26, 2010
May 26, 2010 at 5:32 AM UTC
...and upon seeing her ragged clothing
he di'th proclaim, "Alas,
young ***** maiden of America's blood,
where be your books, or the flame and torch?
I'd known thee face anywhere, and avas',
I'd known ye father to be wealthy, of course!"
And with shame in her eye, she took a gander
up the street and then back down, befor'a reply,
"My stars are gone, and my stripes been forsaken,
father has taken innocents and turned them'a slander."
With a glance that appeared to the man to be a plea,
she nervously turned to him with a hoarse whisper,
"Upon these streets I've been cast, shamefully a *****
Men in suits take my food, and the men of fame keep me cloaked.
The men who speak news on'a radio fill my ears with promise,
and the teacher at the school house fills my head with old lore.
The preacher speaks of God as I stand naked before him
and the peasants throw rocks by direction of a crooked shamus."
The man, with a tear in his eye, reached down from his station
grabbed the ***** hand draped in chains, and with a gentle tug
pulled her up into heaven, lit white with undieing salvation
And he cried, "You're safe here child, free of a crippling nation.
Safe from corrupt companies and celebrity endorsed robbery,
News mutely broadcasted by a governmental eye,
Mind numbing words of public teaching,
ungodly men of unenforced preaching,
And the long arm's short-sighted snobbery."
And with an Eagle's cry and the ringing of the cracked bell,
Libertas stood up and proclaimed, "Only when my child is unbroken,
Shall all men again be free! Let these be my last words spoken!"
May 12, 2011
May 12, 2011 at 10:04 PM UTC
Her eyes are in the skies
of the town I grew to despise
The appetite of the mind, seems sublime
but over time...
it all faded, and so the mills stopped turning and like so many machines in the lace houses I too became a sedentary one
The gentle hum of railway hydrogen bombs bicker over sounds of birds in the morning beams of a British summer morn
but along the tarry scarred roads of every little town lay a thousand lonely suicides aided in deeds of governmental scorn
and the requisite notions of sanity are held only to the regards of glossy magazines stacked high in a disappointed dazed newsstands and corner shops
where young kids once stole *********** and snacks, and milk
where lonely old men buy scratchcards and lottery tickets
where the mothers of the young hide their bruised faces in soup can solipsisms
and where the working migrants use ticker-tape guns to price the worthless and mourn their homeland
I saw you, walking lonely as a cloud
William Wordsworth of the wonderful beard
and I saw them laugh and point and deride
I saw you too, in vagabond virility
stalking the girls in summer dresses
down on bended knee, at the bus stop in the heat
I remember the old car, burned out shell
under the bridge near the shops
that I passed before school
who was it too, that I recall
stood by the wall
with eyes to sky, and in some cosmic free fall
and you, who read Proust by the canal
listening to birds twitter
and the gentle wash of ducks paddling nearby
I am all your faces, divisible by none
when the exasperated winds of some folly of the season
comes rushing through the alley by a brick house
and in some provincial moment in time
I believe we are the same
I see you as myself in simultaneous existence
but soon we leave, and in the proverbial ether
my soul will forever be intertwined
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 8:56 PM UTC
We never thought in our lives that elders dying will be amongst our lives,
losing our loved ones is a heartache, but the virus you put out is a treacherous outbreak.
No compassion, sympathy or souls you have, because all Bill Gates has is a chip in hand.
The world was once sought to be a beautiful place, until a ****** was born out of place.
The corruption of this world isn't because of you or me, but the one who stands before us on the high chair of a governmental seat.
The serpents tongue slivers and shakes and the lies come out it's poisonous stake.
We need to come together as a whole, forget the fear because end is near, we must run with armed forces in our hands to the throne and temple at arms to cote and **** the snake with 7 heads, each and every one at once to destroy what' is coming to us.
Then hopefully we will survive, but we mustn't give up without a fight.
How dare they force to vacc and chip us with their evil redemption of a cast pit plan, masking us to the point of a hypoxia death.
We the people need to make a stand, forget the rest and fight the Medusa head which lays amongst our earth.
We must banish, and forbid, to stretch away it's evil temptress of all for then once again we can live a life for all.
Nov 13, 2020
Nov 13, 2020 at 12:11 PM UTC
Don Junior had a meeting with
Natalia Veselnitskaya
and he did not disclose this fact
or say what did transpire.
Paul and Jared were there too
but "nothing was discussed".
Don said the meeting ended
and turned out to be a bust.
The New York Times found out
and asked why Don did not report.
"But nothing happened" Junior claimed
when making his retort.
Then under pressure from the press
some emails he set free,
confirming Russian interest in
a Trump presidency.
His daddy claimed, "He's a good boy"
"He's new, green and naive".
But Manafort - He should have known
(one would like to believe).
But Junior's new transparency
turned out to be untrue...
It seems that a fifth person was
there in the meeting too!
A former Soviet officer
named Rinat Akhmetshin
was also at the meeting...
so why was he brought in?
And then we soon learned of a sixth...
a seventh... and then eight!
Tied to the oligarchs and
Russian governmental state.
What was the meeting all about?
Perhaps there's nothing to surmise.
The secrecy though, would suggest
it might be otherwise.
Don Junior had a meeting
that nobody disclosed.
Let's hope this helps fulfill the dream...
to see his dad deposed!
Jul 21, 2017
Jul 21, 2017 at 9:34 PM UTC
insanity reigns
as aborted fetuses
are sold to secret labs
for cell experimentation –
fore-runners from the right
cry out into the darkness
screaming profanities
at poor would be mothers –
politicized uteruses
stand at the precipice
of human rights activists
endless need for debate –
all laws are applied to bodies
all bodies are under the yoke
of both local or state
and federal governmental whim –
frenzied followers puffed up faces
holler about the unborn
desiring every fertilized egg
to be another slave to Capitalism –
**** victims cower and
pregnant sufferers of ******
rock gently back and forth on the cold floor
holding bellies tight with both arms
tears running freely down sad and lonely faces
somewhere in Louisiana …
option less, they birth unwanted children
abuse and neglect them
beat and mistreat
spawn of filth
like good little constituents –
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 10:48 AM UTC