"quotas" poems
The city takes your soul block by block
While you sit on the curb in mismatched socks
Trying to retain your extremely weak but steadfast streak of being unique
Cities aren't 24-hour Christmas
The trick is to remain ambitious
Hands in your lap
No eye contact
Going tap tap tap on your Citizens app
While discreetly doodling a Sharpie spaceship on the subway seat
Hitting the street
With sick beats in your feet
Cuz thoughts of quotas and quarters won't quell a quintessential quest
To push the city to its limits and try your very best
To keep biting your nails behind elevator doors
Cuz no chewed-up hands are exactly like yours
A balancing act
Trying not to get trapped
Or smothered by facts
But undeniably
I love what's inside of me
My heart keeps me alive
But what I love makes me live
The city takes my soul
But I've got soul to give.
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 3:16 AM UTC
I'm sad and alone and everything I touch turns to gold,
but that's the life,
amirite?
Money's the only matter that matters and some kids three worlds away are getting kidnapped and killed for quotas while these kids are worried about their quote of the day. And,
by kids,
I mean little girls at age three being sold on the streets and in between sheets in countries that aren't all that far away, and little boys whose coloring pages are filled with explosions and guns cause it's literal
war
they're waging. But down the way, parents are posting posters in their children's rooms prompting inspiration: it's something about peace and love-- I mean, that's what they all say.
Well, I've made my peace with the pieces of this prayer, a priest standing golden over me as I throw my diamond-encrusted hands to the air and scream, "Someone
save me."
But these people don't care.
I am a man of gold with a heart of stone and no one cares because, frankly,
Neither do I.
Statistically speaking, everyone in the States clings to the belief that if they just earned an extra fifteen percent wage annually,
then they could live happily.
But,
darling,
when everything you touch turns to gold, statistics don't
quite
fit
the diagnostics.
I
am the outlier, the outright liar, the purveyor of pride that cost me my life but
who cares? I mean,
I've got my money.
I've got my money in a capitalist country that feeds off circulation and circumstance that leads brains to short-circuit short-cut economic politics and slaughter chances, rather than enhancing the value of a life that money can't add up to.
Welcome to the slaughterhouse.
Welcome to the tolerance of intolerance of humanity. Welcome
to the closing scene, where we can be seen on the Globe, on William Shakespeare's pun-fully named stage cause that's what all the world is,
and so's
this gold.
It's a play,
cause some day the curtains will close and all my props will remain on the stage and I am sad and alone with my heart still fo stone but without any gold. I've
lost
my
touch, and
without this cash I'll be nothing but a ten second news flash announcing to the rest of these underpaid actors that I've been knocked off my throne.
I don't think I was ever a king to begin with,
just a man who could forge
fool's gold.
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 4:09 PM UTC
My job is to bake cakes
I once magically created cakes of every hue
Cakes that tasted like fruit or cream
And others that were super sweet
Still, others that were filling and heathy
I was only limited to my creativity
Then the cake bosses
Ordered me to bake only vanilla cakes
They said that all cakes are the same
And my cakes must meet their standards
Yet their criteria was vanilla and plain
I was forced to throw off the fruit and cream
And mute the rainbow of colors
Even to add vanilla and sugar to my heathy cakes
If that wasn't bad enough
The cake bosses pressured me to fill unrealistic quotas
And to treat all of the cakes the same
Even though they are, naturally, flavored differently
Then my budget was cut and bakers were downsized
Next, I had more cakes to bake and less time to prepare
I was even told to do without eggs and milk
But the cakes must meet even higher standards
How does this taste?
Does it leave a bad taste in your mouth too?
It's not a piece a cake
But I choose to bake on
Believing that I can still bake special cakes
The batter just gets thicker everyday
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 6:21 PM UTC
My mind is expanding,
But these grades are demanding.
Though my ways stand out
My GPA is not outstanding.
What good is knowledge,
If you can’t prove it on paper?
I WANT TO SEE THE WORLD!!!
But getting good grades is safer.
So I must be productive,
My right to dream has been abducted,
I once considered reflective struggles constructive,
But marginal quotas interrupt it
I’m feeling inspired,
My drive is now fired!
Oh but I can’t attend to that now..
Because I can’t study when I’m tired.
So I put it off,
Dreams are lost,
Robot mode on,
in a society of full of
scholarly knock-offs.
"Serendipity does not exist,"
"You’re choosing to fail if you’re choosing to live,"
"Why live creatively if you can puff, click or sip?"
I’m in an abusive relationship with my To-Do list
Don’t lose track,
Don’t look back,
Because time is money
And honey,
society will tell you how you spend it.
If you just let it.
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 7:36 PM UTC
Homecoming body:
A grey cardigan strips down,
bonding skin to
night’s air,
penetrating
Chevrolet safe havens
drowned in lover’s spit.
My Mind
thanks Google,
enabling electronic bibles
to leave disciples stifled
with religious quotas,
an excuse to quote us —
“Trouble at the Border,
read the former
court room reporter
working for the,
sensationalized,
through remnants of
blood stains in our eyes.”
Midway through Chapter 1 —
reeks not only of
of *** in the backseat —
but of Venezuela’s shorelines.
Of her high school hallways.
Of the intrigue of the unexplored Mexican neighbor,
her freedom amidst constraint,
where Visas
lease us
advertising campaigns
for maquiladora made lampshades.
Despite their protest,
common sense
lent comparisons,
a consequence
of stories told in reverse.
They hover over Venezuela’s familiar curves,
her long black hair straddling my shoulders.
Jan 5, 2012
Jan 5, 2012 at 8:00 PM UTC
Joel's ten month old only child, a son, had just started walking as Joel was sentenced to jail for three to six months for fighting, after charges had been filed against him. Each time a court hearing was set Joel went, but the dates were always post phoned. Joel meet Sena a tall dark skinned buxom twenty nine old French speaking woman, just off the coast of Ghana. They married and through mutual friends came to America,and settled in Germantown. Sena spoke French to her dacca. She was a devoted mother and wife. Each time that Sena dropped her child off at daycare, she covered dacca's face with kisses,before heading for the indoor fruit stand that employed her. Joel always cocky and prideful,all of his life,drove a black Lincoln with his girlfriend closer than a flea on a dog, and met sales quotas when required. Granted one phone call from jail, Joel spoke with his rejected wife Sena, asking for bail money, his once proud and sarcastic voice breaking. A lawyer informed Sena that since charges had been filed ,the conviction had to stand. Joel now sits in a shared cell occasionally looking through the steel bars in lock down, gazing up at stars that he once rode and walked under freely.
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 10:08 PM UTC
It is now we are forced to reckon with ourselves more,
As we try to return and enter again each door.
But alas a heart can barely take,
Rejected quotas of another one's state.
The burning irons hasten,
To ones icy glazing stare.
This the repeated motion,
Ending in failed flair.
What more can a fool offer to those of intellectual fair?
I have digressed almost every notion,
To which this mind compares.
Of springtime and summer moons,
Heart-filled seasons with lazy afternoons.
Is not love here and gone too soon?
A special place in one one can belong,
At times only ending.
In sweet bitternesses song.
Dec 26, 2015
Dec 26, 2015 at 1:12 PM UTC
The south african student. Abroad in the states. A holiday of quotas. This moment, falling into the pools of whole ethics. Difference in bothers. Perception of the receptionist.
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 3:22 PM UTC
So I’m Now An EXPONENT...
of Rhymes That Are POTENT... !!!
No Numbers or Quotient...
Can Limit Their Motion... !!!
INFINITE Like The Ocean...
Or Big Swarms of Locust... !!!!
FOCUSED On SHOWING...
How My Thoughts Be Flowing...
With Notions of Motions...
OVERTHROWING Like Boulders...
Dropped Onto The Shoulders...
of Those Who Are COLDEST... !!!!!!
When It Comes To Them Showing...
More Love For Life’s Soldiers...
YES Those Who Have SOLDERED...
This World For These... JOKERS... !!!
Who Deal In LOW Quotas...
of Hope For... Young Voters... !!!
They Make Things Seem HOPELESS...
But... NOT To EXPONENTS...
of Flows That Are FAULTLESS...
Because They’re NOT JAUNDICED... !!!
They’re STRONG NOT Distorted...
So... Do NOT Export Things...
Like Drugs For Those SNORTING... !!!
Exponents Be FLAUNTING...
SKILLS That Are DAUNTING...
To Those Who Be Courting...
Ideas of... SLACK Talking...
Or.... Lyrical WARRING... !!!!!!!!
Because They Are DEEPER...
Than.... Manic Street Preachers... !!!
What We Do Is Teach Ya...
Like... KRS Teachers... !!!!!!!!
Through More Than Your Speakers...
Exponents Like These Do Not Fear Disease...
Because Our Beliefs Supersede What Is Deemed...
To Be PURE HONESTY By The Powers That Be...
We REJECT... FALLACIES...
But Acknowledge That Grief...
Is Something That’s Seen …
FAR TOO REGULARLY...
By People … BENEATH …
All These HIGH Flying THIEVES... !!!
So RECOGNISE THIS... !!!
Exponents of Lyrics...
Who Write Things Like This... !!!
Are Clearly What’s Known...
As... ABOVE The AVERAGE... !!!
ARROGANCE Is DISMISSED....
But We REALLY FLIP SCRIPTS... !!!
Because......
Whether WRITTEN or SPOKEN...
When Poets Start Flowing...
And Their Rhymes Start GLOWING...
As If They’re... ALL KNOWNG... !!!
Then You KNOW You’ve Read Words...
From... One Of Those KNOW As...
..... " The REAL EXPONENTS ".....
Aug 26, 2020
Aug 26, 2020 at 2:10 AM UTC
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| | | 1: 1: 1 Adolf ****** step 4.
Oct 17, 2018
Oct 17, 2018 at 5:33 PM UTC
No, I don't want to write a sonnet;
to self-lock in an octave
only clasping a rusty key
-volta-
leading to another office cubicle
efficiently labelled sestet
for its six undone quotas
waiting coolly for my
calculating.
I want to untuck my shirt, Whitman;
to unleash words to gather at seams
then tear them open
like bursting blood cells crowding
out of a wound.
I do not want to fit
flesh into a 'perfect' Barbie membrane,
let me stretch the skin taut as sheets
so I can feel the redness
and gouge underneath.
Clarity glazed the Classical sonata
opaque; staves of controlled fantasy
so imaginable, like an illogically
round orange, sliced
in concaves fat
with pulp, each ripeness methodically
connected by thin breath threads.
This is why we have madness, need it;
bless the ****** of brilliance in Beethoven
symphonies, the metallic muscling
of Ginsberg verses, electronic with strange beauty, holy
and unholy, every ****** mess
in between
The heart can't suffice
by merely inhaling
glitter; I can't dare remember the sane
pretty sighing of a Petrarchan
uttering; canned love,
a predictable malaise packaged
neatly in a bland tome, most likely
beige, with the fashionable odor
of bookish age
And so, serif-writing sweetheart
please don't ask
me to write a sonnet.
too comfortable to tuck my shirt in,
I won't touch I won't touch I won't touch
Oct 31, 2015
Oct 31, 2015 at 4:38 AM UTC
Once above my face the Sun did
weave a joyous spell
And rested calmly upon the backs of
the great stone Giants
Whose stance used bring early night
to bear on these tired eyes of mine.
And the dutiful Moon too, did smile
down
Reassuring me with her presence
Patrolling the dark heavens till the
Dawn would order her away.
Down the wild slopes rode my
children, brimming with life
Their blood ensuring my Youth
forever, or so I thought.
Watching over their shadowy green
lanes, noble cedars and majestic pines
Vigilant watchtowers upholding our
green faith:
Caressed the Bloom's feet I did and
raced the drinker's pace
Precious memories slowly eroded as
now in lonely exile I dwell.
First warning I got, carnage floating
downstream
Severed trunks of trees and their
stricken branches
Finally laid to rest upon the worm
eaten lock gate -
Saw a mass exodus taking place,
whole tribes on the move
Telling of trouble coming and of a
world soon to disappear;
Pagan storms they brewed ominously
overhead, their seed
Did burn my skin and burnt through
the silver scales
Crippling the little fishes who'd bury themselves prematurely in that cold
graveyard depth;
Those blissful birds too, that used eat
out of my hand,
As my countenance grew steadily
more gaunt and pale
They too, did decide to leave, seek
food elsewhere.
And the ailing flower wishing the old
days would return
As my ears they began to pick up a new sound growing louder all the time
Gnawing away like a worm in my
brain, the razor-toothed saw
Singing in the woods his eerie Death
song
Leaving in his wake a grisly trail of
murder and mayhem.
My own days numbered then; I saw
the savage leaders come
With their strange ideals and talk, of
quotas profits and costs:
Who beside me built a Fortress, a
sinister smoking structure -
O! those Dark forces it sent forth to
finish me off
Looting and burning, laying waste my
beautiful Kingdom
My exiled Spirit indeed, all there is now to tell of that terrible cost.
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 6:52 PM UTC
Tea With Yoda [50]
Having a Tea Ceremony,
with Yoda in a pagoda,
they say life’s a ladder,
He says it’s more like a totem,
trying to make ends meet for ends meat,
by exceeding expectations & meeting quotas,
trying to make my six senses see as clear as my mentor’s,
a Sensi with stressless sensibilities yet infinite responsibilities,
He’s a mature mixture of past scriptures & vast futures,
the perfect fusion to provide ideal solutions effectively,
to dispel all of the confusing illusions that currently occur,
so that my six senses can make sense of it & see clearly,
& that’s exactly why I’m grateful He’s my mentor,
I clear my mind when I enter his temple & listen attentively,
He’s Mr. Miyagi, Professor X, Stephen Miles, Morpheus,
Gandalf, Splinter, & Obi Wan, all rolled into one,
His composition is awesome so when taking lessons,
I make sure to be free of all distractions going on,
attempting to not take meetings yet people keep calling,
but phone’s off so I don’t see nor take note of the notifications,
I just go off like a boat on the edge of Niagara with no motor,
got expense taste life’s great though no time to be wasting,
gotta find a way to keep speed without delay & without haste,
because patience is key but time won’t wait,
so I stay totally outta touch with the clubs & the whole scene,
so focused I don’t even notice those overblown cokeheads,
light so bright that I’m always getting it in even when I go out,
light always burns but never burns out even at it’s lowest,
heard them mention a question but didn’t return the gesture,
was unsure of their motives plus the question sounded loaded,
goin' all in outta control only thing I limit is my exposure,
on balance with my talents in a pair of New Balances,
meanwhile they’re still trying to gain their composure,
I swear to God I’m not a rock nor in a hard place,
but I do rock Ohms on mountain tops complete with boulders,
shout out to Colorado though I boast low key so no bravado,
soul sans ego, modest & honest like a Buffalo Soldier,
no need to buy game it’s already in the bag sewed close,
& I’m relaxed shoes off spine upright aligned in the Lotus,
having a Tea Ceremony, with Yoda in a pagoda,
having a Tea Ceremony, with Yoda in a pagoda,
they say life’s a ladder, He says it’s more like a totem,
trying to make ends meet for ends meat,
by exceeding expectations & meeting quotas…
∆ LaLux ∆
@aaronlalux
from THHT3: Dark Lights & Bright Shadows 9/9/19
Aug 30, 2019
Aug 30, 2019 at 5:12 PM UTC
I have been offered the position of a Poet,
In the office high above the fields
where my ripe and naked heart
has labored carelessly,
And the daily quotas of insecurity
were nowhere to be met.
I've worked hard for this promotion,
And even harder to decline it.
Mar 12, 2019
Mar 12, 2019 at 1:23 PM UTC
I CALCULATIONS
A bird from the window
Pecked at my papers
Lined with my scores.
Now trees are dead,
And papers are gone.
This is the computer age.
I will break it down for you.
I even made a list,
Would you like to count?
II THE LIST
1.This is the computer age
Of digitized proofs
And
2.Authority attested identies,
With participants' certificates.
3.Our own words have lost meaning
4.We are now vessels
With our definition stapled on screens
And
5.Meagre salaries
Tagged on our foreheads.
6.We are our grades.
7.The given guidelines,
Projects we finished overnight.
We are the cheated test scores,
8.The printed marksheets
From the renowned buildings.
9.We are a bunch of degrees.
10.We are a box of experience
With a reciept of coffees we bought,
We are a cv of what we did.
11.We are the said lies
And
12.The stress calmed by mummbled slurs.
13.We are the second employee
Shouted at.
And
14.We are the hundredth consumer
With company approved needs.
15.We are the salesperson with quotas to meet.
16.We are the owners
Of a dying business,
A pending debt.
17.We are the numerous people
Of covered faces on the streets
18.And exposed bodies in the world wide web.
19.We are the constructed
Digital photographs
With deconstructed heads.
20.We are a bunch of numbers
21.We are a bunch of numbers
22.We are a bunch of numbers,
23.When did we become
24. A 0 or a 1?
People shouldn't even fit in a whole encyclopedia
And yet here,
Are you looking for a number 25?
III RESULT
Well I gave the papers to the bird,
She put it in her nest
And made it warmer.
You call me crazy
But I will always
Call myself a free bird.
Jun 4, 2017
Jun 4, 2017 at 9:54 AM UTC
Go there for your rota
There for your orders
Fill up the quotas
We'll bill for you quarters
Report to your foreman
But watch for construction
Cause if you get hurt you've damaged our property
Did you not read the Company policy?
That defines you as the Company's property
That waivers your say in autonomy
The conglomerates got you in lock and key
We put the dollar back into idolatry
If you're upset you can rent an apology
We're a family forged in bureaucracy
No I in "team" but there's "con" in economy
Were you expecting rights?
Were you hoping for fairness?
My friend you're indentured and pleasure's exempt from your tenure so venture back down to your slum
That's provided at generous prices
Your worth is determined by your sacrifices
A small term of service when down of the surface
Interment's a freebie that comes with the purchase
We work
To earn the right to work
To earn the right to give
Ourselves the right to buy
Ourselves the right to live
To earn the right to die
Mar 11, 2020
Mar 11, 2020 at 6:47 PM UTC
We are at the mercy of the city, they said.
Trapped and bound, it wasn’t pretty.
We are the kids who have accomplished nothing.
The kids who lived too fast.
The kids who didn’t live at all.
Wanting to be something, facing the fall.
Laughing in the face of darkness.
Pretending to do our jobs while they drop pennies.
Here and there, bounding everywhere.
Facing the end of the map,
Opportunities landing everywhere but our laps.
Then the lights come on, at the game’s end.
The charade is over, no time left to pretend.
Pretend to be grown, happy, and alone.
Together in this land of the infinite unknown.
Cliche’d and replayed and lost in the many quotas.
Not enough going on anymore to really take note of.
Aug 15, 2016
Aug 15, 2016 at 11:31 AM UTC
You are not a narrative,
not prepared, not braced
save for your teeth.
Your eyes, surrounded by
shields of glass have their
quotas of emigrate emotion
to fill like morning mugs,
so they're seldom gone
from their post upon the
crossing bridge of your nose.
Your eyes, with their Chernobyl centers,
like candied apples with caramel lace,
blanketed with coldness and a
cunning vision glaring from the pupil
with a sparkle smirk.
Your cheeks are, like you, high and haughty,
bones pressing against the cream of your face
like a lover needing release from these
non-consensual bonds.
You seem to have a thing for blondes
and non-committed things: shrugs and loves.
Your podium skirt, your pedestal boots
do little to solidify. You are sly liquid
slipping between mental cracks
and broken minds like Eden's serpent infestation.
You're the breaker of greater paradises.
You revise the despised accent to suit
you like a tailor, a censor, black bars
going lengthwise across your chest
when you wear that dress
and vertically in your future.
Get used to grey.
You're a marker, standing tall like a tombstone,
dates written in sharpie, a conviction epitaph
from your days of being corrected
by greater minds you accept like false diplomas.
A crimson bracelet once twinkled
around your wrist, or so you say
with your eyes. You think you've died
before, once more to live.
Maybe once you were someone worth a ****
before you turned into prom incarnations.
You seem to think that, like the wine
your daddy bought you, you have a kick,
and even though you're all leg, your
thighs were never good enough for you
and maybe you show them off too much.
Like a hotel, you try to accommodate
other souls within you, a biome,
but there's only vacancy inside your heart
and that's the pool with the broken filter.
Your sign mouth, neon lips all aglow
promote you and your greater
philosophical concepts written
from eight thirty to eleven
on notebook pages and margins.
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 8:57 AM UTC
A white porcelain
Porcupine
Sits atop
The stool
Beside a resting
Toilet and silent sink
Drains are clogged
Must be the fog
Airing up
Inside the room
Thick and heavy
Full of cream
Like a hot
French Pastry
Soap melts
Into a fine cappuccino
Skin is soft
Not smooth
Rugged
Tired of the water's touch
Lips separated
Leaking drool
An earlier soft drink
Makes its appearance
Sake makes my soul
Gold and sublime
A snowball I received
To the face
Magical cocktail
Island tragedy
In Paris
Couped up
Stuck in a bathroom
Head bobbing
Up
And Down
Swaying
Side to side
Direction unchosen
Ears sweetened
By a tranquil
Heavenly sound
A song
Heartfelt poem
Layne's voice
Shouting from the void
Guitar strings
Beats of a drum
Native quotas
Unremembered
Just peace
No hate
Possible gain
***** to be given
Snowflakes
Fall upon my brow
Hissing in the heat
Chilling a man-made sea
Fingers tingle
Fabricating a jingle
Eyes swell
Blochted art on the walls
Feet numb
Deciding to stick around
Like a sore gum
Withered with gin
My armor
Solid arms
Continue to fall
Down with my divinity
I am Lucifer
Shining meteor of false hope
Chest heaves
I begin to grieve
Hope for a dawn
Pray to hear a new song
But here he comes
I am bleeding
Shaken by the storm
Overcome
Laughter
And crying
This means
I am dying
But,
Is the time right?
Feb 15, 2018
Feb 15, 2018 at 11:35 PM UTC
( this work is livicated to the six children who will die
in the so-called "third-world in the time it takes to read it)
Drip, drip, drip says the stand-pipe
in the shanty town
as the young mothers gather round
plastic containers on the ground
listening to the drip, drip, drip
of life ebbing away
the riverbeds have all dried up
the wells are mineshafts to the past
the irrigation channels of their *******
are polluted now by the Cuckoo's Nest
the powdered-milk...the dust-bowl fields
the quotas met......the land reveals
the hand that rocks this cradle
is the one who lays the table
with "third-world" debt their able
to rob and **** and disable
as the dehydrated bodies blow away like ashes
the multi-national faschists........
with vampire banks decashes
the breast-milk of the masses
witha ****** drip, drip, drip
from the ******* of the mothers
the corporations smother....
the babies in their sleep
the cuckoo comes as a thief
with a free sample and a brief
case full of deceipt............
may I make a suggestion?
"ASK SOME QUESTIONS"
As you eat your chocolate
and drink your coffee
and smear ice-cream on your lovers body
and NESTLE down to the land of noddy
to dream of countless trucks and lorries
ferrying the cow-juice and the slurry
burning the forests in such a hurry
more cattle and cash and burn and $lash
leaves a gaping ****
in the dried-up flesh of Mother Earth
and 4000 babies every year
yes 4000 babies every year
return to the DUST....
BOWL..............BREAKFAST BOWL
CEREAL BOWL..........SERIAL KRIME
CORN and MILK spells CORPORATE CRIME
dished up for your childrens belly
in front of telly-tubby tellies
Chocolate bars and candy treats
robbed from the swollen teats
of mutated udders
whilst the cow's baby brothers
are herded into crates
and served on rich mens plates
the mothers stand and wait
and listen to the rate
of the DRIP
DRIP
DRIP
of spilt milk down the drain
the governments explain
and bury their shame
under mountains of grain
and excess champagne
and if you BEG
you get Easter eggs instead
served up by the "head"
whose saviour bled
with a steady DRIP
DRIP
DRIP
and I scream and jelly
and biscuits and cakes
make bovine mistakes
and cheesy diseases
from the milk that turns sour
reminds us every hour
of this KATTLE KULTURE HERESY
of babies dying constantly
with a DRIP
DRIP
DRIP
Jun 17, 2019
Jun 17, 2019 at 11:57 AM UTC
The thing is
The system don’t give
Two *****
If you did it
Quotas and budgets
Require them
To prosecute
Innocent men
Looking for numbers
Not trying to solve
The problems
They got all the power
And you wonder why
I am slightly unnerved by them
Justice is just an illusion
Suits and robes
Don’t make right
All that money
That goes to them
Now you know why
I question how they decide
What to do with my life
Jun 6, 2015
Jun 6, 2015 at 5:27 AM UTC
Proposals of intermediance, pearls to girls of sunshined radiance, playful tactics ruin the feeble mind, where states are select best of roast, biggest of all checks!
Pay it forward uropian mix-match of everything best!! Keefe pebbles to match rebels on machines called J-Pay, some get out early, retreaters and women beaters in their cages must they stay!!
What a day when all will be one, to not muse and pretend that were dumb, but to realize where and what we are!!!
Fast lives,
Fast cars,
Doth thou have all that thou needest yet?
Hath thou gotten old?
Didst we forget?
Remedic comforters,
Strategic Plunderer's of downfall Capitols!!!
Quotas you cannot meet if your presidents of Debauchery's height!!!
Thy ancient falcon,
Timeless pitching,
Your a runner in thy night!!
Neuraligias numbing stretches the tied suit evils,
Lorn away,
Away,
And away!!!!
Lingual we are when the lights call you for action!!!!!!!
To tired for innocent play?
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 12:19 PM UTC
The form
the flux,
the constant
becomings
the duty,
distraction,
the running
of motors,
the quotas,
the breadline,
the rising
and shining
the hiding
a stupefied look
in your eyes
Aug 11, 2022
Aug 11, 2022 at 12:36 PM UTC
Im so so sick of the life that I live.
Stuck up in the past,still don't have a **** to give.
Smothered in stress,pain in my chest.
Want to talk up,but where to confess?
Filled by lies that life does best.
Now the only thing left is death.
I expected more,but got more much less.
No joy in my life,just down and depressed.
**** up in the mind,like a man in a dress.
Take these quotas take a good quess.
Life gives you shit,with muchless rest.
And is too dark,I call it shady,but is a mess.
I cry daily,even with love in my chest.
By a unfair lady,who no better than the rest.
so I suppressed..
these deep emotions,
A lil *** and in my drink,I avoid commotion.
a couple shots to be sedated,lost in a dream,of death im faded.
till I snap out,and I awaken.
Rubbing both eyes,pupils not dilated.
looking both sides thanking god I made it..
My soul was departed
but then god saved it.
(thank God I made it)
-By Emmanuel Jv Hernandez
3-21-12
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 10:10 PM UTC