"macs" poems
I went to the Cordon Bleu
And my name is Pierre
I work in the kitchen
I’m a French chef extraordinaire
With fine French food
My name is synonymous
But I am an addict
I attend McDonalds Anonymous
When I make a quiche
I just want to hug it
But I keep getting cravings
For a Chicken McNugget
Fast food or French food
I am conflicted
Fast food or French food
Yes I am addicted
The 12-step program
Keeps me on track
I have to fight my desire
To binge on Big Mac
I pretend I’m a food snob
My life’s full of lies
When I buy burgers
I must wear a disguise
I should come out of the closet
Admit my transgressions
Then they would accept me
For my fast food obsessions
Maybe the other chefs
Would heap me with praise
If I smothered my Big Macs
With Sauce Hollandaise
Aug 10, 2014
Aug 10, 2014 at 10:07 PM UTC
The world is my canvas,
I am the rainbow that illuminates it.
My colors fill the open spaces surrounding me.
I see beauty with my eyes closed,
I speak my wisest words without a strain in my vocal cords,
I lead an army with no weapons.
I speak when I am not spoken to.
I create Unity and destroy resentment.
A man I once bought dinner for
had a body filled with darkness ,
I met his lurking shadow before I was introduced to his warm soul.
"I can't make it another day"
"this is no longer a game that I can play"
"I want to break away from my fate"
"3 big macs and a bottle of ***** that will help me think straight"
"I have this hole in my heart but its feeling more like a never ending weight"
his overused cardboard sign hung off of the side of his garbage filled shopping cart.
his fingertips froze against my palm
we talked about his life
his brother and mom
their drug addictions
and how he has survived so long,
he was 32
with no home.
he understood life in only one tone.
i feed,
I listen,
I speak influential truth.
what I said to him,
through my guitar callused hands,
saved his delicate life.
Purple vibrated through his toxic chest.
Purple.
the color of
wealth
power
creativity,
independence
dignity and wisdom.
purple filled His veins.
My weaponless army will proceed to expand.
and my soul will always be available for helping hands,
my guidance will forever lurk in the dangerous shadows,
I will speak when I am not spoken to because
speaking out of turn
saves souls.
and one day, everyone's soul will drown in purple.
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 11:01 AM UTC
the other day i sat alone having lunch in a McDonalds.
i found the Big Mac enjoyable and the wedge fries good enough
but what i truly loved was the cold-ass Oreo McFlurry.
actually, that's a half-lie because the cold-ass Oreo McFlurry
wasn't the only thing i truly loved from that McDonalds lunch.
when i was McSpooning the creamy goodness using my left hand,
the hand that should be reserved for ice cream related endeavors,
this girl wearing a polka-dot dress and a beret came in, stood in line,
and i heard her order: Big Mac, wedge fries and an Oreo McFlurry.
she anxiously tapped her right foot, the foot that should be reserved for tapping,
and i felt love for the first time in months. i didn't know her but i was in love.
it was the kind of momentary love developed for strangers that makes you think:
**** I wish we could sit together in silence at a McDonalds, mouths full,
eating Big Macs, wedge fries and McFlurries being the envy of McDonalds residents."
and then the stranger asks for her order to go and the universe collapses.
the momentary love begins fading slowly and the fantasy is enveloped by greasy fast food smells.
reality is a ***** girl in the polka-dot dress and beret.
it's been 5 minutes since you left. i miss you.
it's been 10 minutes since you left. i've tried forgetting you.
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 9:31 PM UTC
They squirm inside their clothes
tweed, chiffon tiered skirts, and bows
of their grandmothers’ sepia, halcyon days
with lumberjack flannel and Kerouac quotes,
but it’s more a matter of age than size,
these charging, listless, candid creatures
with hairstyles that can only be described
as gravity readily defied and self-cut,
frequently dyed to shades that swing
between black coffee and New York poetry
deep imagism and social realism against the backdrop
of American Apparel ads on scratched up Macs.
They slouch up and down trafficked Newbury,
dropping names like Morrissey and Bukowski
pausing now and then to pick up on the ennui
of twenty-three, and how they will one day live la vie
Dharhimian, running on American Spirits,
James Dean, Truffaut chic,
a monthly check from their parents,
an apathetic sneer at holding anything too dearly
and how they hate that word—hip-ster.
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 6:44 PM UTC
O Babylon! Your God is a sport-utility vehicle, a VCR, and a two-car garage!
You delight in images of killing and artificially-large-breasted women!
Your arteries are clogged with Big Macs and a thousand pieces of Kentucky-Fried Chicken!
Your God is Technology. Your God is Progress.
Your skyscrapers rise to the heavens! Your astronauts fly to the moon!
You clone sheep! alter genes! make a mountain into a parking lot!
Your fields flower! Your grain-bins groan under the weight of the ripe corn!
But the land of your soul is a desolation.
O God of Henry Ford, the Wright Brothers, and Bill Gates,...
All the nations adore Thee!
(Pretty soon they'll be ordering Papa John pizza by cell phone in New Guinea....)
Your God is Mammon.
After the movies, after the Quarter-pounders-with-cheese, super-size fries, and a large Coke,
after the evening news, the Hostess cupcakes, golf, beers, and swimming 20 laps,
the hunger will be the same as the day you first felt it, O Babylon!
the thirst of the soul, O Babylon!
Aug 1, 2017
Aug 1, 2017 at 2:24 PM UTC
Mexican food from that joint near your dads
The pooling spotty blood on my bitten lips
My mothers words
My fathers driving
Sadness is
The look she gave me when I told her what he did to me
The burn marks on my hips
Fogged up glasses
Cheap *****
Smoking a cigarette all the way down to the end
Joy is
His laugh
The way the baby hair on my arms stand up when it’s cold and I feel alive
Italian food made together
Olive jars
Macs soft ears
Dec 19, 2022
Dec 19, 2022 at 7:37 PM UTC
watching the rain,
river flood,
down the steamy,
windows.
my mind jumps back...
...back to those sweet
and careless days,
of a country chilhood.
when we made boats.
of halved walnut shells,
with toothpick masts
and fantail sails,
then sailed them
in kerbside regattas.
when marbles were worlds.
fought for,
in hand drawn,
colleseum-like circles
on dusty driveways and paths.
when we folded and flew,
the news of the day,
on strings,
high, to the sky and beyond.
when we made castles.
of sand and mud,
we were, then,
childish royalty,
the back yard our kingdom.
as the water sheets,
down the window panes.
i hope,
these creative joys and victories,
will not be lost to my son.
in this age of technology,
where, leapads and xbox'
kindles and webgames,
tempt them,
to play in a world,
of pre-created splendour.
looking through the water,
i am reassured this will not
be the case, by the sight,
of father and son,
in yellow macs,
stomping puddles,
for the splash.
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 12:54 AM UTC
It is usually best to avoid
crushing hopelessness, to swerve
and defer disaster, but even so
the world is well and truly ****** up.
Seek solutions to this conundrum.
Try to avoid curiosity, a pernicious
strain of insanity that conjures up
irrational fears of orangutangs
with meat cleavers, lethally ascetic
Tibetan monks, bathroom carpets
of abandoned razors or Big Macs
rife with E. Coli.
Avoid metaphysical musings that lead
to questions of coleslaw, vegan
water parks, the Team Quadraplegic
Gymnastics squad and the horrors
of the Hilary Clinton Naked Network.
Seek refuge in the present tense to
escape the interrogation of mirrors,
the crafted answer, dacryphilia,
remedial rage, landslides of therapy
and memorizing each month's horoscope.
Consider that mercy is on back order from God.
Remember the best lines of an unread book.
Nap on a battlefield; haggle over imaginary debts.
Set fire to the umbrellas of passing strangers.
Stop to watch the loudness and burn the recovered dead.
Call up new magic for a dying world.
Find beauty in the irradiated glow of burning cities.
Try not to bounce existential checks or notice
the crumbling of distant walls, ruined outhouses,
and the immense bleakness of forever and ever.
Take up training small rodents and lighting holy fires.
Ignore the broken stars, long dead and beyond grief.
Discover the pleasure in erasure, enjoy the biology
of strangeness. Walk many miles without a map
beneath innumerable ladders carefully detouring
around immense flocks of rabid cassowaries.
Throttle the recalcitrant blue sky's silent throat.
Listen to the melody of car wrecks and smashed guitars.
Abandon assumed corpses to dreams of endless cold.
Appreciate futures you cannot believe in but never visit them.
Learn to diagram sentences in Esperanto then speak with toads.
Ignore the slot machine odds against your deepest desires.
Hide beneath the ravenous trees from time's famished maw.
Seek sanctuary in toothy optimism and complete amnesia.
Follow these impossible instructions to the letter
and you will become non-valent, invisible, immune
and no longer notice the world is ****** up
beyond redemption. Go on, give it a try.
~mce
Dec 5, 2015
Dec 5, 2015 at 10:53 AM UTC
Grocery Store Blues
gotta get on down get me some milk and bread
maybe some relief for this pain in my head
getting banged in the cart by this old blind broad
and those winey little kids shows my patience is flawed
slipped on a banana in the produce isle
twisted my ankle and fell into a pile
of baking taters we're all rolling on the floor
this goofy assed clerk saying what you do that for
got them grocery store blues
got them grocery store blues
I hate going but Im out of meat
my pantry is empty and I gotta eat
need some pickles and mustard and toilet paper too
crap I broke my glasses so also need some glue
knocked over a bottle of Gin now there's broken glass
everyone looking at me thinking look at that ***
now where are the toothpicks they're not on the chart
geez what's that smell did somebody ****
they're out of my smokes my favorite brand
like to give the check out dude the back of my hand
got them grocery store blues
got them grocery store blues
it's such a big hassle but what can I say
can't live on Big Macs every single day
Gomer LePoet ....
Oct 28, 2011
Oct 28, 2011 at 2:12 PM UTC
*Every Sunday without fail,
my father would set about getting us on the
family visiting trail.
A picnic was packed, along with our macs,
(Just in case of the rain) and into the car
we were packed.
A beautiful drive through winding roads,
over a bridge that made your tummy lurch,
onwards, to the Pen-y-Fal psychiatric hospital.
The Tudor Gothic style hospital loomed large to a
child in a car. Like a silent waiting beast from afar.
A Charming gathering of gables and chimneys,
disguised the interior of quite simply "the madhouse".
Set in grounds of 75 acres, patients played bowls, cricket,
and croquet. I thought the people and the grounds magical.
There was this secret place with adult children,
smiling, and talking to the trees, knowing of fairies,
I never heard their pleas.
As I grew older, I grew bolder, the same Sunday jaunt,
to our familial haunt, but now I was an explorer.
I was allowed in. In to the centre of the Gothic beast.
Green tiled, with brown heavy doors, antiseptic smell
that clung to every pore and cell of you. Stark walls,
scrubbed nurses, white coated Doctors and thuggish orderlies.
And after your eyes took in those sights, your nose that smell,
the noise crashed into you. Moans, cries, wails and pleas.
The sound of a thousand lost minds.
My aunt was one of the lost.
She never went home again.
She never visited her children.
She never visited her eleven siblings.
She stayed, stayed with her friend Pearl.
Who once told me I had Vivienne Leigh eyes.
She stayed with the randy Italian, the piano player,
the Downs people given to that 'hospital', that smell, that Hell.
She was in the belly of the beast.*
The Grade II Listed Building has been converted into luxury accommodation now, but would you sleep there?
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 5:45 PM UTC
I never suspected my cooking class would trigger my bulimia.
I guess maybe I should have, but it was never at the forefront of my mind when I was signing up for classes in the January of this past year. Currently, I am using that class as a GPA booster because I have an A everybody gets an A. But life still stares me in the face and says **** you" everyday my teacher who is crazy brings up food that sparks a memory. When we learned how to read food labels, I remembered how my parents drilled them into my six year-old brain. If sugar was listed in the first four ingredients, we could not eat the item. When we made Big Macs yes, we actually made them in class I always thought about how my sister and I were never allowed to eat McDonalds unless it was on my mom's schedule, and even then we were forced to get the smallest thing on the menu with the least amount of calories. Should we have objected to any of these strict dietary rules, we would be ridiculed on the spot. My dad made it a point to embarrass us and point out our food flaws in restaurants or, what I found to be even more humiliating, in front of my grandparents. I guess he thought shaming us out of our already established eating habits would work. News flash: it didn't. It won't. All it did was force me into a corner in which an eating disorder was the only option I saw fit. Once he found out? He got angry but did nothing to stop it. And I hadn't thought about my childhood in a good deal of time until this cooking class reminded me of it. Trying to enjoy any food at all now and have eating be a pleasant experience is difficult, but you can be **** sure I'll keep trying, regardless of my father's tirades.
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 12:11 AM UTC
oh my son colton i have the memory of christmas morning
when i asked you to get me something out of the deep freezer
and you found the 50 big macs i had bought you
because you were always wanting me to drive you
45 minutes away after bed time on a school night
to McDonald's
and after that you could have a big mac whenever you wanted
and even if you were mad at me 23 hours a day
there was that magical hour when i would wake up at 4 in the morning
as you were just getting ready to go to bed
where i would sit on that deep freezer
and have the bestest conversations
and for 1 hour we understood each other
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 9:16 AM UTC
the shakes own my body they make it harder to type so i peck at my keyboard like a ******** animal and i keep smashing the power button every time i hit the backspace and i'm afraid the whole godforsaken thing will turn off. macs arent bad though. i might be okay.
wow this whole ******* thing just went to **** can i even say that? i'll be ******* honest with you (aside from the avant-garde scene and the nihilistic WOKE poetry ensemble) i really don't know if i can say that or not? i mean when was PC invented? like 2008? **** you. that was ten years ago gimme a break.
jesus man the shakes are horrible tonight. they're so bad im really just relying on autocorrect to do everything for me but sometimes it misses and so do i. i could use diction on the mac but then they would have my voice and once apple took o ver the world id just become one of their drones or something.
i know why too. maybe the "substances" im constantly ingesting. (oooh "substances" s cary word ayh right. you're an idiot.)
or maybe its the lack of creativity and originality in everything i see and hear and do? maybe not.
(taking a break to ________________________________________).
all the bugs and trees are talking to me and you know what in not eve n gonna bother with typing at this point so if are still here then good for you,
.... six, no wait, make that, 12 bottles of wine. and some whiskey. and some champagne. and a jug of sangria. and...
it's XX:05 as I write this. so if you're awake and reading this then either you're a night-owl or you live somewhere thats not here or there.
i m really truing to see; the shakes off and I think in doing pretty well so i have to just keep it up. right?
im going to shrink down and sleep with my succulent. tomorrow will be where hell is waiting.
************* come in early. 2-3 AM. i always wake up right about then.+
Mar 21, 2018
Mar 21, 2018 at 1:16 AM UTC
184 gone and in great despair
one hundred eighty four trials and institutions. 184 new reasons to forgive
to use, to be confused, to lose, and to get loose all gone
they are all gone. gone for good, forever, for evers and everys, somewhere on Everest, or likely just high up in the sky. Somewhere in the chasm of iCloud or hidden on the hard-drive of one of my Macs.
Tired and Hurt, Anxious, Alert, all of me is frustrated my skin is doing different things, all of it is baffling and I don't even know how I'm going to try to keep mildly sane, all of them are gone and I'm a total wreck, I am.
One-hundred Eighty-Four Notes on my iPhone gone. They're all alone, all of them on their own. Me I'm just by myself and squarely overwrought. Confused and upset, I wonder if the Mac God's have tried to take their pain and loss of the Jobbs out on me. All these note's are gone and I don't know what to do. Do I swear? Do I sweat? Do I call Apple instead of setting myself to burn? What have I done? What have I done to come down to a blank screen lost of all its myriad characters.
The pages don't care, I'm sitting perturbed in my underwear, baffled, unamused, furious, and feeling used. My trust combusted, my one hundred eighty four are gone. And no one cares. All my notes are gone and no one knows. My poems are gone, I sing this song, but all my words are gone don't you know? They're all gone....don't you know! I want my 184. I need my 184- don't you know! I just can't ignore, my 184.
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 8:13 AM UTC
When people call me fun sized I don't know what to say.
Like if I was another size the fun would go away?
Some of my friends call me Nano, meaning very very small
A name I got in middle school and actually don’t mind at all
But this is because I own it and find it quite original
Unlike the normal comments that really aren’t forgivable
They say good things come in small packages but how can I know that’s true
When the world is full of big macs, and supersized taboos
Small things are always quiet, in corners or on display
I don’t want that fate for me, I’d rather be in the way
Making change is hard to do when adorable is your namesake
I’m activating feminist mode and trying to make an earthquake
No I don’t want to be your armrest, yes I’m tall enough for that ride
I’ll kick your *** at limbo, just watch me and abide
I used to wear high heels, to fit in with the crowd
Until a friend my size told me to embrace it and be proud
Now I wear flat shoes and am comfortable all the time
So when I’m kicking *** I can pivot on a dime
Sometimes my legs are tired from the height I’m trying to personify
So if you ask if I want a piggy back…that’s actually one thing I won’t deny
I like seeing it from your point of view even if it’s jaded
I do wish you could see it from mine though and find why my ideals have faded
“You’re cute when you're angry” they say, just like it's a compliment
But how would you feel if your emotions were reduced to words that aren't dominant?
When you grow up in a world where cute is your middle name
You don’t trust the ones that call you beautiful but who really is to blame?
Let alone if you ever hear **** being said in your direction
Have you ever heard of a man getting a cute ********
I’m ready for a shift and I can feel it in my bones
They’re aching to dance a new routine, with Beyonce in my headphones
Maybe that means they’re catching up, it’s about time for my growth spurt
After a life of half pint, shrimp and short stuff, watch as I convert
12/01/2016 Amanda Powell
Jan 6, 2018
Jan 6, 2018 at 9:01 PM UTC
I can’t sleep when the lights are on
needle in arm,
your very best friend died on my birthday.
you found out exactly two months later
two months of ***** kid paradise
ohio looked more approachable from florida.
his parents said you were the last to speak to him alive.
you were wishing to god
you had been sober for this conversation.
that year christmas was big macs and
sour apple jello shots.
It felt like riding in rockstar vans with men who were
my god and lucifer all at once and
you can call me Persephone
you can call me bad luck.
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 12:00 PM UTC
They say if you breath slower time it's self slows down
convincing myself if I had more time I won't just ponder around
Problems may soke down on as like intoxicated air
And yet the solutions are harder to find then they appear
They make it seem easy to find like plucking ripe apple off a tree
But now a days that's harder to find than a big Mac and a large sweet tea
I just want to do the right thing even if it's harder to choose
I don't want to look back and pounder on the misfortunes that I didn't set aloof
As I spent my time to terrible use looking back at the mistake I happened to choose
I only get to think about the future instead of living it now, convincing myself I have more time some how
I contadict myself and I seem to do it a lot and about this time I can slowly see my brain start to rot
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 4:31 PM UTC
I want colton back...
and
if i were to wake up from this nightmare
and
find that life is back to that day of sept 26, 2008
i would get out of bed
and
insist that colton take the day off from school
and
if i had been given another chance i would do it all so differently.
and
when he wanted me to buy him a grocery cart for $5
but i didn't want it parked in the front yard
making the house look all ghetto,
"oh what would the neighbors think??!"
i'd have let him bought it,
i'd have cared more about making my little big teenager boy happy cuz i dont care what the neighbors think,
the ones that want to judge, that is
....i am saying life is special cuz u only get 1 shot at it
and
you dont know when it will be over
so do the right thing right now
instead of wishing for a complete re do
on raising colton
...except the part where i bought him 40 big macs from McD's
and
hid then in the deep freezer
for him to find on christmas eve,
i was an A+ Mom on that day
and
that moment i'd keep as a part of his
life...
Sep 8, 2017
Sep 8, 2017 at 1:06 PM UTC
I am in my room
Surrounded by food and drinks
A camera in front of me
An outline of a monologue in my head
40 pieces of Chicken Nuggets
Two large fries
A large coke
And three Big Macs
I shall take my time, there's so much to discuss
Infinite Jest and the Culture Industry
American drugs and entertainment
Its sedative effect on the characters
I start with a Big Mac
Layers of soft bread
The salty cheese and patty enticing my taste buds
Between every few bites
I take a few fries at a time
Soft and sluggish, a slight saltiness on my tongue
How it's mashed by my teeth in mutual consent
Hal Incandenza, Katherine Gompert
Their use of Marijuana in secret
It's effects on the body and their addiction
A garden of salt splashed by the sweet rain of Coke
Flowing down my throat
I shall only worship a God who knew how to cook
And to enjoy a great meal
The medical Attaché's eyes
Gazing perpetually into the screen
Expiring in catatonic bliss
After the Big Macs
I attack the Nuggets
The beautiful effect of its skin
And the barbecue sauce in my mouth
The essence of chicken leaving my mouth wanting more
One by one
With more fries in between
More Coke dances in my mouth
Leaving a suave sensation in my throat
The years named after products
Year of the Whopper
Year of the Depend Adult Undergarment
Year of the Trial size Dove Bar
Mario Incandenza and Gerhardt Schtitt
"Life's endless war against the self you cannot live without"
And the tennis
The endless tennis, the dancing chess of the athletic body
It takes about an hour and a half
A time of bliss
Where I can please my YouTube audience
Where I don't need to think
And the only body part that needs to work
Is my mouth
Oct 27, 2021
Oct 27, 2021 at 2:18 AM UTC
You’d like to think such work was done by stolid, silent monks
Quilling ancient parchment in some great hall,
Stilted shafts of sunlight filtered by primordial dust,
Incense wafting on unseen breezes as only incense can,
Time measured in the tap of finger cymbals, the odd table-top gong,
But the reality was, as reality is wont to be,
The very essence of mundane:
An unprepossessing warehouse in an unremarkable neighborhood
In a better-days-gone-by northeastern city
All high ceilings, fluorescent lighting, owlish men and women
Hunched over not-quite-obsolescent Macs,
Rifling through squat, square metal cabinets
Filled to overflow with sundry clippings and clip-art,
Fighting deadlines and technical demons
In order to have camera-ready copy done in time
To meet the narrow print window of the small newspaper
Which committed these noble teachings to paper
(The pressmen watching them quick-step the plates in,
Bemused to an extent, but a print job is a print job is a print job.)
All of this in the past of course,
Certain things being pedestrian yet inexorable,
The newspaper falling victim to the nuances of readership and ROI,
The improbability of top-line growth, the inevitability of retrenchment,
Its press operations shut down and moved elsewhere,
The old press bay converted to the most micro of micro-business,
A concern selling chocolates and other sweets
(One assumes His Holiness is unaware of such events,
Although you’d hope that he would, upon hearing the tale,
Smile that particular smile, thousand-watt yet somewhat inscrutable,
And golf-clap his hands and chuckle, Sweeeet. Ah, sweet.)
Mar 31, 2017
Mar 31, 2017 at 9:44 AM UTC
needle after needle i payed my wages the rest is up 2 you
you may-be wrong an im bringing you down
either way at the same time we enter hell
wether you like it or not stay outta church
dont pray nothing will save you
when I RISE UP
IM GOING 2 MAKE A PURGATORY
A PERSONAL 1 JUST FOR YOU
IF I DONT GET ***** AN I DIE LIKE THIS-
**** WE'LL KNOW BEFORE I GO
I HAVE PTSD AN FLASHBACKS
VISIONS WITH A WOMAN ON TOP OF MY D
I PLEAD INSANITY
SHE FORGOT WHO THAT WAS
LUCKY I DONT LET ONE OFF
DONT MAKE ME DO IT RIGHT NOW
YOU ABUSIVE ADOMITE
IM IN POWER
I GET WHAT I WANT
STRICKLY BUSINESS
THE **** OF ALL PIMPS
THE MACS OF ALL MACS
THE TRUE G HAS JUST LAYED ORDER
PUT 2 WASTE AN DISCRASE
TRAGEDY 2 THE CAPITAL
THATS THE PLACE FUNDING EXPORTS
THE POPE RETIRED BECAUSE OF MY TRUTH
THERES 2 THINGS OUTTA THIS OUTCOME
DEAR GOD YOU SHALL FEEL IT
THATS JESUS OR EXODUS
EVERYONE IS DUMB AS DIRT
THIS ATYPICAL ******* LAY THE TOWEL ON THE LINE
CHECK PLEASE
LET MY ACCOUNT EAT IT
DEATH FAME RICHES OR THE PENITENTIARY
BRING THE STRAIGHT JACKET
THIS VERSE IS A CLASSIC
Mar 14, 2019
Mar 14, 2019 at 8:59 PM UTC
Have you ever made eye contact with the homeless
You stare into there eyes
Filled with lonesome was like a part of you dies
You wonder where they stay
Pray and even sleep
They stay hungry endless nights over
To those cold nights in October to the restless ones having to stay in government funded ones which Obama runs
You say your givin back man that ***** wak
People talking about blowin a fat stak
Meanwhile we got people eating trashed Big Macs
Tend to take this life **** for granted
Man **** I don't even know how to file for tax being returned
Money being currtened cause our nation in debt
But we expect too much sometimes
You stay on your own grind and get caught up in some crimes
Rough times call for desperate measures
Frim the poor mans liquors to the athletes getting quicker
Where does this money go
People travel full throttle
Just to find out happiness is nothing more than crying and drowning in a bottle
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 11:51 PM UTC
Ring around he covey
pocket full of pharmacy
money flew out the window
death to all that sin though
Free the owner of the slave
be the druggie at the rave
bless the ones that finger fun
hold me close I think I'm done
Now I'm off and on the run
eating big macs and dodging facts
no new thing under the sun
the thing is toppling see the cracks
Dec 8, 2021
Dec 8, 2021 at 4:23 PM UTC
My heart,
That which I have filled with sorrow,
And treasured with love,
Growing larger with each moment, second, dream I see
And smaller with each tragedy, disaster, mishap I feel.
What I feel you feel
Pain, anger, sorrow and depression
Joy, love, compassion, and empathy
When you fail
I am right beside you
You are working so hard for me
Heart attack
Abnormal heart rhythms
If I don’t take care of you we fail each other
And we fall together
You are in me
Working for me
And now I know how much I depended on you
You are there always
And what is the thanks I give you?
I eat Big Macs all day long
And French fries into the night
When I go you will be free of my sins
The way it should have been
So thank you,
From the bottom of…well…
YOU
Jun 19, 2015
Jun 19, 2015 at 5:52 PM UTC