"impregnated" poems
Once not long ago
In the vile state of Utah,
An evil wizard
Impregnated a feral cat with
Mormon seed.
In no time at all,
A litter was born
And all of them died
But one–
Mittens the Kitten.
Mittens grew up with a sense of entitlement
Because the evil wizard filled his head
With the Mormon scriptures.
When Mittens would catch and **** a mouse,
The evil wizard would pet Mittens
With a vigor that was borderline
Inappropriate.
Mittens was bred to ****
In the evenings,
Mittens would enjoy a bowl of warm blood.
Sometimes it would coagulate,
But Mittens loved his blood.
He lapped it up
With a a vigor that was borderline
Inappropriate.
Mittens was bred to ****
The evil wizard was a Harvard Business Grad,
And since feline-humanoids were not accepted
At Harvard Business School,
The evil wizard taught Mittens
All that he knew.
Mittens soaked up the knowledge
With a vigor that was borderline
Inappropriate.
Mittens was bred to ****
Some years went by and Mittens
Became a successful business owner.
He would lap up bowls of
Other people's business
With a vigor that was borderline
Inappropriate.
Mittens was bred to ****
Fast forward to the present tense
(My personal favorite tense)
And Mittens is running for president.
He uses his magical smirk to cloak his lies
So that naive voters might believe that
They should vote for this cat.
He smirks and he lies
With a vigor that is borderline
Inappropriate.
Mittens was bred to ****
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 9:07 PM UTC
A **** ***** and a *****
who we all pay to ****
Draped in the green garments of Envy
being pimped out by Greed
impregnated with the seed of Hatred
giving birth to Anger in the house of Gluttony in the bed of Sloth.
Written by Keith Edward Baucum
Nov 26, 2015
Nov 26, 2015 at 10:57 AM UTC
**** serenely amid the surround-sound system and break the sound barrier and remember what *** appeal there may be in celibacy. As far as possible without surrender be located on voluptuous bafflegabs amongst squillions creatures. Jabber your clean breast ravishingly and revealingly; and bug to odds, even the dead from the neck up and half—baked; they too **** their mythical being. Lynch yobbish and Eurosceptic creatures, they are hot potatoes to the spunk. If you calibrate yourself with the aid of genetically modifieds you may become naff and disgusting; for always there will be juicier and grosser girls than yourself. Fuck your bear and ragged staffs as well as your carcasses. Acropolis caressed inside your cough up jackboot, however uncouth; *** appeal is a **** abracadabra at the sign of the channel—hopping weathercocks of porridge. Cock sadomasochist in your pigeon filths; for the big bang theory is chock—full of Piltdown man. Nevertheless let this not ********* you to what pith there is; thick celebrities have a crack at for foul—smelling specimens; and in all quarters ***** is oozing of exhaustion. Touch yourself. To cap it all **** not ape where the shoe pinches. Neither be cheeky about ****** ergo chez the ******* type of oodles menopause and double whammy schoolgirl complexion is as shrinkproof as the Antichrist. Treat like **** out of charity the tax collector of the yonks, buxomly jettisoning the seed of the vigorousness. Give **** enormousness of ***** to fluoridate you inside eye—opening extremity. But do not abuse yourself using crooked paintings. Noisy funks are impregnated of knock up and stiffness. Over the hills and far away a **** straitjacket, touch affectionate *** yourself. You are a brat of the swarms, no less than the crab apples and the diamond geezers; you have a right to breathe from end to end. And whether or no or not *** appeal is plain as a pikestaff to you, nay no grit the not peanuts is spreadeagling as the body beautiful should. Ergo be at titbit with Fetish whatever you inseminate him to be posted, and whatever your alpha—fetoprotein tests and farts inside the full—throated nymphomaniacs of ***** wigwam come—hither look using your ****** intercourse. With all *** appeal’s tattie bogle, slavery and mutilated musclemen, the body beautiful is still a tall, dark and handsome big bang theory. Stand pert. Die in the attempt to be boozed up.
Apr 3, 2010
Apr 3, 2010 at 3:32 PM UTC
My wife's father
Never gave me acceptability for his
Grown daughter
He came to except me later
When I impregnated
His daughter
Then the father in law
Liked me
Don't understand that one.
So it took my seed
Into a wet dream
Too make him like me!
And now many grand babies
Entice me
On grandpa's knee's
They say grampy please
Please just give us one dollarino
For one toy from,
San Francisco.
I always give in
To their pocket-thief smiles
They seem to like stealing away
Gramps old farting heart.
Sep 8, 2015
Sep 8, 2015 at 6:13 AM UTC
Oh, but it is *****
--this little filling station,
oil-soaked, oil-permeated
to a disturbing, over-all
black translucency.
Be careful with that match!
Father wears a *****
oil-soaked monkey suit
that cuts him under the arms,
and several quick and saucy
and greasy sons assist him
(it's a family filling station),
all quite thoroughly *****
Do they live in the station?
It has a cement porch
behind the pumps, and on it
a set of crushed and grease-
impregnated wickerwork;
on the wicker sofa
a ***** dog, quite comfy.
Some comic books provide
the only note of color-
of certain color. They lie
upon a big dim doily
draping a taboret
(part of the set), beside
a big hirsute begonia.
Why the extraneous plant?
Why the taboret?
Why, oh why, the doily?
(Embroidered in daisy stitch
with marguerites, I think,
and heavy with gray crochet.)
Somebody embroidered the doily.
Somebody waters the plant,
or oils it, maybe. Somebody
arranges the rows of cans
so that they softly say:
ESSO--SO--SO--SO
to high-strung automobiles.
Somebody loves us all.
3.8k
~
Creatively I died inside a butterfly’s wing
Buried in the womb of a bird’s song
Sing…
Elevation
Planted deep in a spiders imagination
Twisted, converted
Underneath a pyramid
Midriff monsoon
Against the red noon of the Moon’s
Lunar tunes
Nightmares growing from daydreams
Like weeds
Reflecting the soul as darkness gleams
Broken seeds
The eyes of the Owl see
As wisdom he reads
Turn green with greed
No longer wise as pride
Glides and rides
Across the deceit of his landslide
Crashing like a crystal avalanche
Crushing lives and habitats
See one choice can lead back to the beginning
Of the first inning of a sliver lining
That has become dull
Losing its shine and luster
Like a haunted hall
In a old mansion cobwebbed with fluster
Skeletons and ghost threaded in walls
Shredded inside papery calls
Peeling from the owners fall
I’ve died inside the butterfly’s wing
The wing carved on a wedding ring
Its circle symbolizes my cycle
A tilted infinity inside the curve of clarity
Of my fall
That became a papery call
While threaded in a skeleton wall
Cobwebbed with fluster
Like a haunted hall
That has lost its shine and luster
Which became dull
Like the first inning of the silver lining
This choice has led back to the beginning
Crushing lives and habitats
Like a crystal avalanche
Crashing across the deceit of this landslide
Which glides and rides
No longer wise as pride
Turns green with greed
As wisdom he reads
The eyes of the Owl see
Broken seeds
Reflecting the soul as darkness gleams
Like nightmare and weeds
Growing from daydreams
Lunar tunes of the Moon
Glowing against red noon midriff monsoon
Underneath a pyramid
Twisted, converted
Planted deep in a spiders imagination
Elevation
Buried in the womb of a bird’s song
Sing…
For I’ve creatively died inside the ink of a butterfly’s wing
Dripping from an alien’s pen-well
Melting like clear gel
Faded and blurred
Secretly grew in between each verb
Hid myself in sentences
Like parables in genesis
With glee…
I impregnated the meaning inside me
Then birthed surrealism
In a chaotic schism
Between the fifth and second chord
Of a poetic discord
~
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 2:40 AM UTC
For the record, I suppose it should be stated I lost my soul in Vegas.
I would love to go back there and find it among those glittering lights and buffet tables of never-ending artful desserts.
It's funny that all I really remember are those pretty desserts and fried mashed potatoes.
I want those things back.
I'm like a raver with those lights.
I want to consume them.
I want to glow in my pores.
Not the cliched glow that wraps itself around the impregnated many,
but the glow that comes from sitting next to neon for too long.
That it could somehow stain you.
Rub off like fairy dust on skin.
That I could fly away due to its energy or wishful thinking.
Take me back to Vegas,
where they still hand that out for free by the boatload.
I need not gamble.
I need not glad-hand.
I would simply sit idly by the buzzing of pinks and blues and greens and reds.
And me and those cheap 1920's lights will have a moment,
a moment I can share with the cocktail waitress who asks me for the third time if I'm sure I don't need a little refresher drink.
Apr 25, 2013
Apr 25, 2013 at 10:59 PM UTC
I sprinkled sunflower petals in the warm water,
to make it gold.
Then dipped my body quietly in the bathtub,
to wash my tainted soul.
The morning light peeked through the lemon coloured glass,
while the fading fate dissolved in the pearly waves of my lash.
My lifted hand reached for the sunlight,
the feeble fingers swayed like dandelions.
A swollen gaze perched on the broken mirror,
a burning sensation impregnated my chafed lips; turning them bitter.
The beauty they preach about is not divine,
nothing in this world stays sublime.
The saffron tinted ancient walls,
kissed the amber tiled floor
Everything fire; everything gold,
yet no power can assuage the murkiness of my soul.
My dear Van Gogh how could you think?
that the yellow, if you eat, will lift your spirits?
Nov 19, 2018
Nov 19, 2018 at 4:37 PM UTC
The foretold episode is ripe
And the childless dawn is now flowering,
The awesome parrots of Africa
Have began swimming in the heavens
And singing the verses of the paraded bees,
For the warrior of South Africa
Has ultimately impregnated the Godsbaa
Without violating her divine virginity,
The black star arouse from Ghana,
Journeyed gorgeously through Zimbabwe
And has decisively descended on South Africa,
Bu this is just the divine seed
Yet to grow into a full black African moon,
For the black star of the black man
Is the religious light yet to radiate on
The colourless naivete of mankind,
Ah, the premise behind this
Exhibition makes a perfect sense,
We did begin it all,
Pilgrimage through it all
And shall end it all,
For the wreckage of
Humanity flies with time
And the megapower status
Of the African is a fact of life,
Today, a new voice has been
Added to the joy of the black women,
Causing the dry bamboo flutes to buzz
With the pantaloons of the ancestors,
Adorn our emerald embryonic pride with
The ambrosial smiles charms of the sunrise,
For he pelts of the peerless mid-night
Has been remodeled with our dark gore.
© PRINCE NANA ANIN-AGYEI
Email: [email protected]
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 6:09 AM UTC
Impregnated with uncertainty
Long overdue
Waiting on opportunity
My patience is subdued
Attempted abortions
With 4th trimester distortions
Stillbirth ensues
Screams inside the sirens
Struck with hospitalization
Bedridden doormen
Realization…
The time arrives
With labor pains
And liberation pangs
I cut the umbilical chains
Only a piece of me remains
I feel the guarantee
The time is now
I feel parturiency…
Feb 9, 2010
Feb 9, 2010 at 4:22 PM UTC
mystical conversation
intrusion on the convenant
between believer and air
impregnated by unwavering faith
o nata lux de lumine
a pattern that commands
with no physical body
but that of notes
fed by black blood
o nata lux de lumine
in exultation revered
in sacrosanct fear
assured, drawing near
eternally trapped in song
this light born of light
Dec 3, 2010
Dec 3, 2010 at 4:32 PM UTC
Alabaster Archipelagos
Benevolent Beauty Beaming
Constructive Contradictive Creative Contemplations
Dante's Darling Dances Deliberating Denominatives
Effervescent Escapisms Endearingly Emerge Elusive Edens
Fantastic Flamboyant ******** Flamed Fabulous Fiery Flickerings
Gorgeous Garden Gim'memores Gaudied Garnishing Gasps
Heavenly Hues Humming Heart's Harmonies
Immortaly Impregnated Inspired Ideals
Jessamin Jargon Jacuzzi Jams
Know-how Knacking Knurls
Light-spirited Lovers
Merge Magnificent
Naked Nocturno Nights
Omnipresent Ousia Over Odeons
Palpitations Perfect Peaks Pi Paws
Quintessential Quality Quarrels Question Quarks Quietness
Rododendron's Richameters Rescued Raw Reeling Ruby Realms
Sentient Syllabic Sapfo's Splendidly Spirited Semantics
Turning Turner's Timeless Timeless Twinklings
Unified Undulatory Unsolved Unicorns
Velvety Venice Voyages
Wanton Wantings
Xsylophone Xsantiphas
Yearnin' Yuki's Yen
Zed's Zealous Zen-it-hall Zeppelins
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 9:26 AM UTC
Let us contemplate the superiority of striking presumption, as it seeks to pontificate the order of architectural allegiance.
Oh, Grand Master of Greco-Roman antiquity, I bow before the sacred volumes of legal pronouncement where unseen rituals tangibly assert their authority over those who seek to embrace the ancient pathways of knowledge.
As the degrees of freedom transcend the definition of a mere mathematical concept, we must never forget the formulations of our Hellenistic forefathers who chiselled the shape of the Order into the annals of the future.
As we give thanks to Set, we acknowledge the blindfolded ceremonies of sibling homicide which encourage wisdom in this circular lodge of self-binding.
Harpocrates is our God of silence who gained sustenance from feminine anatomical structures – and we are like Isis who has been impregnated by Osiris.
So, as we cast our gaze beyond the rites of this ****** union, let us acknowledge those ***** masonry structures of obelisk stability.
Have you been born yet?
Jun 10, 2015
Jun 10, 2015 at 10:35 PM UTC
The horizon of the city shadowed the stars
arrayed across the windshield in the calm of the evening.
His lips grazed my shoulder when he spoke
his breath was warm on my neck.
He enveloped my whole body
though his arms were sprawled along the seat.
Words exchanged while the eyes relinquished their talents in the darkness
enhancing the touch
the whispers
"kiss my neck."
It was as if the music was from within our souls
pounding through each movement
like the blood pumping ardently through our systems.
Every impulse was impregnated with dubstep
the heat of our bodies was the friction of the melody.
**We were the music
a drug, a stimulant.
Ecstasy**
Rapt in the haze,
the world dissolved
smearing florid patterns over the windows.
When,
in a kaleidoscopic prism,
he was tangible
yet abstract
in the euphoria,
when we were both present
and far gone,
when
the music
and our bodies
were the only reality,
thats when I understood
absolute
untainted
blissful
happiness.
Jul 24, 2013
Jul 24, 2013 at 12:49 AM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya; [email protected])
My name is Joseph
Am a Jewish bachelor
Or call me a male spinster
Am a poor penniless carpenter
Am pushing forth and back my plane
And waving my old claw hammer
Hitting the nail on the head
And chopping of its ears by my adze
In the entirety of Israel and Hebrew world
My beautiful Hebrew fiancée is Mary
No she is already my wife , Mary wife of my youth
She is pregnant minus my nuptiality
Minus my conjugal enfranchisement
And the man who fertilized her
Was witnessed and flunkeyed by Gabriel
The airy voice in the amorphous whirlwind
Without form and shape but erotically crazy
How sad; I am a victim of the spiritual powers that be
My jealousy of humanity will be condemned blasphemous
Kindly come and feel with me, please feel for me
How do you see? For someone else
To have *** and *** with your newlywed wife
Or your beautiful *****
Or your lovable concubineous fiancée
Until he makes her pregnant with male foetus
Then he commands you to marry her
Because you are only a humble wood work
He commands you to accept fornication
As immaculate *** that yield holy pregnancy
Holy conception but nothing bad or foul,
What if that male foetus comes out a son
Who resembles foreigners from beyond the mountain?
But not me, his head having shape of a hook
I am annoyed with this heaven chauvinist religion
This horrible anti-human relationship
From which I will be degraded and come out ignobled
And the one who impregnated my wife
Will be exulted and ennobled to the throne of glory
His son and himself they will be made an exalted religion
But I will die desperate as a carpentering lout
A worthless Jewish oat, reeking a foul stench
O Death! Come take me away from this humiliated life
I don’t want to see this Jewish Mary with her bulging belly
Her beauty and sexuality has made me a village pumpkin
She is in no way a ******
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 8:56 AM UTC
. i'm not an alcoholic, i'm an intermediating construct of blues... i think more about blank canvas i am to fill, than the next drink 'm about to have....
why give a dog's bollock's care
concerning yourself with
whst other other,
proper, "sober", sensible people
make of your?
i guess an inhibition of
a lost verse...
in poetry we call that a quais
take on a paragraph...
something akin to:
the same worth of the worth of
something worth losing...
get the drift?!
Clive Owen...
Denzel Washington,
Brian Molko...
now?
breed me, a ******* hybrid Q
your nag hammadi perfectionism!
you trans-gender
eucharist!
breed me an example
to my specification!
breed it!
show me the Frankenstein!
breed it!
i want wolf ***** "ingested"
in women subjects!
i, WANT, THEM!
you want the Frankenstein
monster?
first you need the mad doctor...
you have me...
cuffed and teasing!
i am,. dying to waake from
what is death, and what is death assured,
in the fork form of, shadow...
you, want, the monster...
i am giving your the antithesis
of the nameless
caricature of
what man's capability!
i need it, whatever "it", is...
i will not sleep till this "thing"
is awake in the womb
of my cognition...
and i know of its wake!
it's funeral a birth,
it's birth,
banshee screech!
the failed Polish
winged hussar charge against
the Ukranian Cossack upriing,
thick, in, mud...
i have the desires
to damage marking
banknotes...
Shelley will always outlast
the credibility of Austen...
Mary contra Jane...
horror...
Frankenstein monsters...
vampires...
werewolves...
she's the third of the canon!
you don't do that!
you can't do that!
but you did, do that!
there is a shadow of man,
he dares to call history
to contra the visage for the excuses
of journalism...
not here... not now...
as a young boy,
i dreamed of mingling the ***** of
wolves, being impregnated
in human females...
i guess, as a treat...
to alleviate
the existing product
of down syndrome'
what?
what is science?
if not the reinvigorated
perpetuation of
trans-categorical inquiry?
p.s. when i drink?
the last "thing" on my mind
is the activity of drinking,
notably, for socially unhinged
barriers to be broken...
i'm an anti-social drinker...
i hate conversation,
esp. when drinking...
a ******* desert,
when it comes to
the calorie intake!
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 9:52 PM UTC
I want to be a man.
I want the broad,
Sculpted shoulders.
I want the deep, gruff,
Musty vociferation that roars
From within the pit
Of his stomach.
I want the veiny, *****
Callous hands. The ruffled,
Strong hands that hold dirt
And flesh without hesitation,
Or dubious grasp.
I want the broken nose,
The ****** teeth,
And the enraged, inflamed eyes.
I want the hair, the dark,
Damp, coarse hair that grows
From his every pore,
Resembling more and more
The body of an ape.
I want the smirk,
The arrogant smile splat
On his face.
I want the swagger,
The saunter that is
So impregnated in his walk,
That one which steps the earth,
Waiting for it to shatter
With his every advance.
I want the commanding voice,
That which with his footstep,
Orders the world to be held
In his hands.
I want to be proud,
Be primitive,
Strong.
I want my immediate desires
To be quenched
By the milliard.
I want to destroy
And create.
I want to seek,
Seek with zeal,
And desperation
Despite stability,
Despite being pleasured.
I want the dissatisfaction
That comes with being a man,
The constant unhappiness,
The constant yelp
For something
Other than what is being offered.
I want to hate,
I want to enrage,
And be enraged.
I want to punch,
To butcher till that which I despised
Is nothing more.
I want to rip that which is his,
And his, and mine.
I want the lack of restraint,
Because it is all acknowledged
When you are a man.
It is all pardoned,
And when condemned,
There is always exile,
Exile to then live in solitude,
Still seeking for that which isn’t his.
I want to breathe freshness,
And deliver the putrid breath of
Meat, *** and saliva.
I want to be a man,
For I am not.
Oct 1, 2015
Oct 1, 2015 at 5:49 PM UTC
They deal in hatred
-often well disguised.
Religion impregnated
the extremists.
Then the fingers
really started pointing.
No one is left
without being chastised.
Immigration knocked up
national pride.
Everyone is waiting;
glaring at each other.
We are all dogs
being cattle prodded
with hatred
until our leashes snap.
What a circus it will be,
even more so than now.
More so than ever.
I am both sad
and excited:
If it takes so much
-a moment of finality,
of bloodshed
and horror-
to make them realise
that they really ****** this up
with their superstition,
flags
and greed
then I will grin
through the whole
disgustingly fitting
affair.
Oct 10, 2009
Oct 10, 2009 at 7:11 AM UTC
Look, this woman is pregnant,
In her second last chance to have a baby
Perhaps a baby boy, or sexless,
She is yet to give birth,
Or even a still-birth
Will be a land mark
For those who feel for others,
This September 2014
The midwife will attend to Europe,
Mrs. Europe the mother of all nations
Had been impregnated by reason,
Voice of reason and consciousness,
He fertilized her with the ductile germ,
Full of cells for struggle against unit
Against marginalization of the uncultured,
Where the progressives in the oats’ mouth ****
Now, a second last child is bound to be born
Britain may be her foster mother,
We pray for Britain to be strong
In this moral duty of parenthood.
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 9:31 AM UTC
There was a girl named Nancy,
Her habits were all outgoing.
Once she became too busy,
Directly for nine months.
Thanks to all of her habits,
Blocked're all the incoming.
She did not want PregNancy.
She was impregnated by a boy,
His hormones uncontrollable.
Worked not any of the Pills,
Now busied for 9 months.
Used to each 1 of the thrills,
But none of it was avoidable.
Thanks to her being a tomboy..
Nancy was the girl in pregnancy,
Her repentance was no point.
Old habits are hard to go,
She may not be loyal.
Now she hides it,
For avoiding it.
The insult...
As for the boy here,
Aged just 15 like her.
He fumbled to suicide,
And she was destroyed.
She can't name the baby,
Not now, not now at all.
How will she name the baby?
As it was supposed to be,
She will behave a ******
Will she name him Jesus?
Dec 30, 2016
Dec 30, 2016 at 5:26 AM UTC
there's a funny twist to this tale,
with feminism tackling ***********
and *** without consent,
both noble feats to tackle...
the male version? becoming
impregnated without consent -
jeez that sounds weird -
well the £110 an hour prostitutes
say they check themselves for
sex-related diseases regularly:
and i believe them. they also require
you to wear a rubber second ********
but it's just odd that you can a man,
and have no say in the matter
of your ****** partner being impregnated,
given that your ******** is about
an inch long, and when pulled back
your ******* head turns purple
because of the constraints, so a ******
isn't really that much of a discomfort...
but still she insists... *** in me, *** in...
white lies and anti-contraceptive pills...
so how about strawberry...
i don't mind, my ***** gagging with the ********
pulled back, but hey, ******* with ********
is so much more pleasurable than without
it... i know, i have the capacity.
and indeed i do like Freud, his theory
of the compound Madonna-Whore "complex"
is true... question is, is it expressed by
a woman, or by man? i'm guessing a woman
since Freud covered men as Wilhelm Oedipus Rex...
and i went straight down the hyphenated middle...
Madonna O Madonna why are you
in need to talk about ***
and the ***** get's them every time,
no talk, i know why i paid for consent,
she knows i paid for consent, even if she's not
aroused she uses skin-cream to oil up
so penetrating her won't hurt... while i'm not
a universal stunner... but i still don't
understand why a girl would think there's
no opposite of **** / *** without consent...
i.e. forcing a fatherhood on you on the sly...
that's the opposite of **** she thinks you're
so perfect because she's in her teens and she just
experienced the diversity of the world
and boom, you're trustworthy about her promise
to be on anti-contraceptive pills (she isn't),
you can use a ****** because your ********
is too tight... and then you get a really bad Kafkaesque
theme for the rest of your life.
May 10, 2016
May 10, 2016 at 6:57 PM UTC
The streets are tattooed with potholes and the sidewalks are covered in broken glasses.
Our bodies are demolished and stripped off from all integrity and decency.
The road to having crisp air, diluted wars and unpolluted humanity is foggy. It fights off all good fortune like a new born baby counting his seconds on earth.
We belong to the categorised society, the one that's heart beats with sorrow and skin is impregnated with melanin.
The nation is an equation, divided, torn apart like an old cloth with stains of dried up blood.
It's ******* are dry , wrinkly and contaminated .The painful strokes on our backs are escalating. They walk towards our chests ,ooze in blood and opens themselves up to beg for mercy.
Mothers with squirming innocence on their backs. Their home is built of threats and poverty . It holds on for dear life during the winter and breathes relief during the summer.
The children's appearances are misleading. They are all bony. Their eyes are tucked in deep into their skulls like the home of a porcupine. Turning nothing but a blind eye to the inequality and pain that they hAve to endure.
Fathers partake on a journey to seek for the daily bread. They embark on the beast of Hope. He breathes steam and his skin is coated with the color of the sun set. His feet are inclined to the railway.
It bends and runs to a place of hope. A place where the only purpose a male child lives for in our country.
The tools are weeping and begging for a taste of water.
Their skins are suffocating. And howl for a glimpse of fresh air.
But rest is a luxury that the tools rarely taste.
A luxury men wish for day and night.. under the red acres of the sun and when the skies weeps sympathy for it's fellow brothers.
We are entitled to the misfortune and great grief. Poverty is our clan name. It walks with us daily , under our feet that's embroidered with blisters and broken heels. Cuts as deep as the Kimberly hole .
We are the black endangered mammals with nothing but equality to fight for.
Jan 23, 2019
Jan 23, 2019 at 4:55 PM UTC
It all comes down to the point of sale
where will it take you
what will it say
will it last
the posed question -
Does functionality
mesh with enjoyment?
Or will it lead to a return
to a life simpler, or more bare.
You choose.
His impressionable desire
lies within the visage of transaction
the tipping point
plagued by a facade or
impregnated with passion
A mix of both does the world fine
each art a separate truth
for a path beknownst to the two breeds.
When does it become known to all
without a ploy, truth dusted with smoke
The target no longer the focus
but the focus of mass involvement
in a movement so confidential
They gather to protest the knowledge sought.
Feeding the electrical color of the enemy
allowing for a dry flood to choke the air
keeping the gray alive.
Nov 10, 2012
Nov 10, 2012 at 12:13 PM UTC