"malnutritioned" poems
Verily this day April fourth, two-thousand and seventeen; there's a boy and girl using razors as allayments, making veins as paintings.
Verily, this day April fourth, two-thousand and seventeen; there's a mother holding her young one in ashes, guts with limb's sketch the war-torn scenes.
Verily, this day April fourth two-thousand and seventeen; a father toils on concrete and soil, breaking sweats for a dollar-
Fifty.
Verily, this day April fourth two-thousand and seventeen; a fiend shoots fire in their blood with syringes, whilst kin makest family arrangements for other's to
Come visit daughter's and sons
In boxes whilst they sleep.
Verily, this day April fourth two-thousand and seventeen; a poet and poetess write, O' how their word's do excite, whilst they
Dieth daily from secret pains unseen.
Verily, this day April fourth two-thousand and seventeen; a young woman's locked in
a semi trailer, smuggled by men from foreign labors, O' how her life shalt be
In a room with many strangers; she
Seeks to die yet wants to live.
Verily, this day April fourth two-thousand and seventeen; there's a broken child in
Many ghettos, whilst elite buy wives stilettos, dope dealing is the only survival, just to put some food in malnutritioned
Mouths.
Verily, this day April fourth two-thousand and seventeen; theirs a soldier in many lands, making wealthy men richer, whilst their bullets fly, they come home with the images they've seen, devastating guilt-messed up heads.
Verily, this day April fourth two-thousand and seventeen; there's God Almighty who's been with each of these people, in their souls he dost seest through, passed their skin, and flesh and bones. He knoweth
Their pains, hurts, he seest their loves,
Loves lost, though none of these people
Once hath stepped into a church. Though
God is not about religion, just for all to
Know his son; who took all of their pains
Two-thousand years ago up on the cross he gave his love. As each of these many spirits from all walks and ways of life, were all just the same, perfectly made and beautiful in God Yahweh's eyes. So his arms wilt always be open to those who hath that feeling of not wanting to live, for he sent his son yeshua hamashiach, (Jesus the Messiah) for God's own son for mankind's salvation didst he give. For poet as thou doth read mine words please do know this one thing, thou art not alone, for dear God Dost love thee, his arms art open for thee to come home to him.
© Brandon nagley
© Lonesome poets poetry
Apr 4, 2017
Apr 4, 2017 at 4:18 PM UTC
With one night stands and sleep arounds
the social stigma is reduced to grounds
that begin with coffee one malnutritioned morning
and end with morals being left at the pound
independence isn't what anyone has found
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 11:36 PM UTC
The age, when they are supposed to play with toys
Picking up the broken & trashes for others, these Garbage boys
In the piles of disposed plastic chocked their story sentimental
The boys, dusty body so frail & gentle
Wrapped in clothes, tattered torn, dull & discolored like them
Surviving against the rules of Darwin
Too starved & malnutritioned & no one cares
Only the open sky & thrown food, they share
In the chaos of every city they have to find a place to sleep
They collect the things, what people call waste & cheap
No parents, no future, just the harsh life on the road side
Living in their small world unaware with pride
Shiny cars & luxury clothes, sparks their eyes
Telling that they have dreams,
But Their memories full of hate, insult & razed
Which are permanent & can't be erased
Unexpected rains, deadly cold & sweaty summers
Not every one of them end up like a Kite Runner
When people sleep comfortably in their sweet home
They stand there with the fainted & blurred shadow alone
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 2:08 PM UTC
*The contraption they made for me wasn't made of mahogany or pine. It didn't have my name carved on the side or top or woven in between a lovely vine.
The mask I wore was hard and plastic, reaching down my throat, stealing my voice, my choice, my right for air, my only care.
I'm inconveniently sewn wrong. Stitched little ***** with a piece of my hair going nowhere, breaking, splitting, and firing a blank flare. In that me made contraption, that not so piney box. I need to detox.
The mask grips my face tighter, the spider beneath the box is a fighter but not me you see. No no not me. I'm the malnutritioned meal deal for the arachnid to steal. I close one eye grieving the salty cheek, I can feel the watery streak leave it's message bleak across my pale cheek.
This plastic prison wasn't comfortable or maced with satin or lace. I understand for light years beyond my grasp of taste that once upon a time ago I must have lived a life of disgrace.*
Mar 2, 2012
Mar 2, 2012 at 12:56 PM UTC
In this world of madness
Where sunken eyes pour in sadness
Mothers wail for their malnutritioned child
While firing of guns and bombing protruding wild
In this world of madness
Where programs are set as awareness
People have become racist ****** other religion
Taking over places, claiming their own region
In this world of madness
Where mind conspires, no rest no calmness
As lies are polished to shine like truth
Youngest abolish their education during youth
In this world of madness
Where you and I just sit back and witness
The extinction of animals from our radial planet
Humans on the otherhand,
fight to become a leader or atleast a senate
In this world of madness...
©sim
Oct 11, 2017
Oct 11, 2017 at 4:42 PM UTC
*
*sound of wilderness
has come to pass
machines of men
have come to age
children no longer
go outside
it is not safe to
breathe
the traffic is
too much
and streets
are all crowded
old buses are filled
with people who do
not have time to live
there are no
stars in the sky
the sun is masked
by the tall buildings
water is no
longer free
fire is now
expensive
the night is
never dark
pierced by the
screams of a thousand
lights
without hope
or the warm sun
tired and
weary
people watch the
tall buildings
stare them
down
watch the
neon signs
street lights
cars, trees
and music
pass them
by
one by
one
they are
forgotten
placed inside
decaying
old crowded
buses
one by
one
they become
so many
a town
a city
a slum
that speaks of
nothing
not a word
only silence and
more silence
and the silence
becomes so heavy
crushing dreams
of every new born
until the silence
begets a scream
begets a machine
with a hammer
that knocks
on their feeble
doors
flatten their
denude walls
for opulent men living in
the silver clouds
in tall buildings with
neon signs
men who
own
hope
the sun
the buildings
the mountains
expensive cars
diamond rings
salaries
army
old crowded
buses
traffic and
winter smog
birds chirping
by the windows
voices talking
in the room
people tired
and bothered
hunch over in
their despair
coiled up in
corners
waiting for
the batteries
to run out
suffering in
silence
telling their
fractured stories
that speak of
nothing
not a word
only silence and
more silence
until the silence
becomes so heavy
that speaks of
nothing
not a word
only silence
until the silence
begets a scream
begets a machine
with a hammer
that knocks on
feeble doors
flatten the
rustic walls
to mine the rubble
and mint more sky for
opulent men living in
the silver clouds
men who
own
hope
the sun
the river
the moon
the mountain
summer
spring
golden sunsets
expensive cars
exquisite laughter
each worth more
than a lifetime
of impoverished
daughters and their
sons
angry fathers and
women they beat
mothers and
****** and
beggars and
millions upon
millions
without hope
or the bright sun
silent as
a scream
silent as
a whisper
silent as
violence
and it speaks
of nothing
not a word
only silence and
more silence
passed down
impoverished
malnutritioned
millions upon
millions
such is the
world
without hope
or the bright sun
each laugh as expensive
as an entire lifetime
suffering in
silence.*
*
Mar 17, 2023
Mar 17, 2023 at 9:47 AM UTC