"scrounge" poems
Somehow I scrounge through these jumbled words in my notebooks and I piece together this puzzle.
When connected it forms some idea of who I am - my brain... my heart...
it personifies my existence, so to speak.
Although, like all puzzles even when put together as a whole to form a landscape or object,
the cracks from the pieces are still present...
Now, from afar people wouldn't notice these cracks -
these blemishes in the photo,
but like a collage when up close, it becomes more evident -
the imperfections become more radiant or profound...
The glue so to speak for this picture of words - this illustration of life would be -
it is those cracks, those blemishes that make a puzzle - a puzzle... and a person - a person.
Each individual, as everyone knows, has different life experiences, different scars to form different pieces to make up their own unique puzzle.
One piece may be interpreted through skills or hobbies and another with goals.
Each and every second of a persons' life could ultimately be a piece of a puzzle.
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 8:56 PM UTC
I didn't have breakfast that morning,
I was going to be late for class and I ran out of gas, so I figured I'd take the bus instead, I've never been a rich man, and what money I do get, I spend it on cigarettes and flowers for a love that doesn't even exist
Sweaty and tired, just like I spend every morning, I finally get to class only to find out it's been cancelled, typical,
I scrounge around my pockets and book bag to find some change to get a snack, I didn't eat last night either,
A woman next to me saw me staring and she offered to give me some change, but she walked away before I could get a name,
Hearing my stomach growl I quickly stick the money in the machine and wait for the energy bar to fall down, but it doesn't, it gets stuck, and I'm left there just staring at it, and thinking about it for a while, how upsetting it is to realize that this is what happens every time
See, it's funny because this **** happens all the time,
They always come along to save me and offer me some kind of change, and foolish, I fall for it, hoping maybe this time it'll be different, but it never is,
They always leave before I seem to even get their name, and they leave me with something that I just end up getting stuck on in the end, and it drives me crazy until I can't stand it anymore,
It's so fake, everything is so fake,
The glass is so transparent and it really makes me think that I won't fall for any of it anymore, but it never fails,
Like, this time will be different,
I know exactly who you are, and I know exactly what I'm getting myself into, but I'm always proven wrong,
Or you always stop halfway through it all and just seem to leave me hanging, literally, like a snack stuck in a vending machine
So I walk back to the bus stop that morning, tired, and hungry, and just wanting to be back home,
I know it's just an energy bar, and I know what happened isn't really that big of a deal, but like every other morning, I could've really used the energy
I mean maybe it's good I didn't get the energy, I'm too tired now of this happening over and over to give any of it any of my energy anymore, so I digress
Love will keep offering me change to get some energy out of a vending machine, and maybe one morning I'll finally get it
Apr 12, 2017
Apr 12, 2017 at 6:48 PM UTC
I sold smack on a playground today
biding time to scrounge the rent--
Two months ago I had never even seen the stuff.
I'd never procured it for personal use,
let alone sold it.
Now I'm a full-time pusher of prescriptions
for problems that can't be cured,
a modern-day snake-oil salesmen
schlepping panaceas for every conceivable ill.
*Trying to cope with depression?
This'll give you a shot in the arm!
Your boyfriend just broke your heart
mere weeks after breaking your *****
Here's a ***** that you can depend on*...
I thought I was better than this,
but who can afford scruples
with bills to pay?
Internally
I struggle to compete
with people who would never deign to take note of me.
My revenge is in undermining their immaculate lives,
a pill-peddling Socrates
keeping creditors at bay.
I'd always envisioned being someone's hero--
at least being remembered for an act of creation.
Instead I'm an enzyme for eradication.
A cancer cell at best--
A ****** wrecking ball.
One day I woke up a sidekick
to a heroine that's never saved anyone...
Sep 21, 2012
Sep 21, 2012 at 12:53 AM UTC
When I grew up my mom would cut coupons and scrounge for change in the sofa to buy me a chicken nugget happy meal McDonalds. She would cut coupons and would only buy nectarines if they were on sale. I grew up eating bologna sandwiches with kraft cheese slices and potato chips.
I think your mom had different priorities.
The man at Starbucks, told me that opposites attract and I think that is why were together. He told me a Intuitive Innovative Feeler. Does that mean that you are oblivious and emotionless *** I don't think so?
Lately I have been whining a lot. Whining about where we live, what we do, what we don't do, how you act, how you don't act, about how your mom wants us to water the brussels sprouts that no one likes and clean the toilets no one uses.
Sometimes I say things to hurt your feelings. Sometimes I mean it. I word them so that they are as hurtful as can be and you never react. Is it bad to want to make you cry? You test my sanity everyday, you break me every day, and here I am still trying to chip away at the facade, the make up you cover up with.
I think living in the mountains has taught me about all the things that I don't want to be. I don't want to be cut off, I don't want to be nice, I don't want to be liberal, I don't want to be conservative, I don't want to see the same people everyday, and I definitely don't want to spend eleven dollars on heirloom tomatoes.
Aug 11, 2013
Aug 11, 2013 at 11:00 AM UTC
What’s the point of being perpetually safe,
Wrapped up in a bubble of faux perfection?
Where is your sense of adventure?
Your insatiable desire to search for what to love;
Be it people, places, things,
Or intangible pieces of yourself you’ve yet to meet.
Where is your spontaneity,
Your yearning to flee and face every lost corner of yourself?
Security?
Scoff at it.
That isn’t what you want.
You want dreams.
You want a sharp intake of breath,
The quickening of heart,
Sweat.
You want wonder and lust and to get lost
And to be someone who sees themselves
And smiles.
You want desperation
And fear
And heartbreak
Because those are the only things giving you the chance to grow.
You want self-discovery and enlightenment
And to readily await the next day in excitement
Rather than just trying to “get it over with”.
You want a reason to live, and you can’t buy that.
You can’t buy it.
You search and scrounge,
Beg and bleed
Until you’re reduced to ashes,
Until the world becomes saturated with all you’ve left behind.
You earn it.
You live it.
You love it.
You are it.
You’re passion,
Pleasure,
Purpose
Priceless
All in one.
You’re finally you.
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 11:07 AM UTC
When I attempt to think about my future, I know I can't. I know, I can only do what I can now to piece together my future like a puzzle. I want to get on T, I want to cut my hair shorter than my parents allow, I want more body modifications, I want to have a completely flat chest, but at the moment, I can't imagine what I'd turn into. A butterfly I'm not able to picture yet. I am at the moment, a small catapillar, not being able to pass for the gender I wish. She's. Hers'. That's not what I want directed towards me. I wants he's and they's. Male and neutral term are what I want my friends to use. Not my birth name, Kit. Kit Lucas Zachary is what I'll become when I get older and scrounge the money together to make that change possible. I must change myself and bold myself into what I want to be happy, even if that means I lose people, I can deal. If they don't agree with how I feel, they don't need to be in my life anyway. I can't say that I'm a boy yet, I can't say I'm pansexual yet. The violence that is occurring against my LGBTQ+ people locks my lips together to my parents, and possibly some of my friends, because I don't want them to be my demise. In this hick state of Texas. My chest binder must be put up due to high summer tempatures, it's too hot to have on so I can't feel at home in my own body. I hate my feminine face, and my father uses double standard, making me shave, making me feel naked and incorrect. I feel incomplete, like I haven't had my right growth spirt, my right puberty. "Oh yeah, she-" makes me want to put a bullet in my head, but it I pulled the trigger I know my family wouldn't understand why. "Hey girl!" don't look, don't turn, they aren't talking about you. But, once I'm an adult with a steady income, I hope to become the person I wish to be.
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 11:35 PM UTC
There inside the chamber sits,
Awaiting patiently;
Gathering discourse and their wits,
To match with Chimpanzee.
Primate statues loom the loft,
‘Mongst whitening Baboons;
Fidget in their seats too soft,
Indifferent of this room.
For ghosts of former nobles peek,
In shame, as they observe;
The power of the abject weak,
Enable them to serve.
Parrots cackling ‘mongst themselves,
As peacocks flaunt their fan;
Gorilla preens, while tries to quell,
With gavel in his hand.
Chimp arises, intently poised,
To embellish his appointment;
Words rehearsed to fill the void,
Deliberate and pointed.
For he, and only he, shall reign,
While rendering his will
Upon the reaches, lakes and plains;
‘Pon feather, fur and gill.
Yet irony betrays this horde,
Of chosen beasts that thrive,
Who seek to witness own accord,
On who should live or die.
Baboons and the Chimpanzee,
May climb to endless heights,
Gather fruit from tops of trees,
And relish in their might;
But those who scrounge upon the ground,
Or forage in the sea,
Cannot relate to this debate,
Nor self-idolatry.
So this becomes an exercise,
In futile words exchanged;
In bartering the truth for lies,
Leaves jungle quite estranged.
Such is then, the sacrifice,
That satisfies this troop:
Lions shall compete with mice,
For homeland and for food.
This seems just, this seems right,
So pleased to then arrive,
To alter former terms of plight,
Ensure the like survive.
Commune must have order,
Compliance is then deemed;
Life must have its borders,
Confining self-esteem.
Parrots flee to bring the news,
Of brighter days ahead;
While creatures of the air and blue,
Fear the distance spread.
Content to reconvene again,
As this is their employ;
Govern those outside the pen,
Such honor they enjoy.
Nov 14, 2010
Nov 14, 2010 at 6:08 AM UTC
There's a Sofa in my kitchen
and a Bread-bin in the lounge-
the missus won't stop *******
and the kids are on the scrounge.
the atmosphere is thick with queer
Simon Cowells on the telly,
Tom Jones's bones are
th' microphones n
his bowels are
Ooozzing smelly.
through atrophied
arseholes who choose
between iconicity
n the domesticity blues.
There's a Sofa in my kitchen
and a Bread-bin in the lounge
the missus won't stop *******
and the kids - are on the scrounge.
May 7, 2012
May 7, 2012 at 2:41 AM UTC
General.
Sir.
That is how you will identify me,
Hoorah?
I tell you what.
I am a soldier
But you?
You gotta earn your rights
To be privileged with such a title.
You get me maggot?
Fall in line, keep your lips locked.
Look me in the eye.
See any fear?
You shouldn’t, unless
It’s in your reflection.
You scrounge for this courage,
These cajones, that passion to surmount.
To get here, where I stand…
Here…
Can any of you maggots tell me
Where here is?
Anybody?
Are you even listening to me?
Where the hell are you going?
I never said at ease!
Sigh
I was an elite,
A soldier,
A leader.
Where here was the frontline.
The trenches, the beach head,
Africa, Stalingrad, O’ahu.
Now, here
Is found forgotten,
Lost in tragedy,
A false spectacle of hope,
Leaves me lost in this wicked dimension.
Clinches my soul.
Bang! Dust cover, flash
Dust cover, flash
Flash…
My senses.
Fading.
Into this abyss.
Leaving me here.
A ghost.
A spirit.
Please…
Bury me a soldier
Nov 20, 2011
Nov 20, 2011 at 12:54 PM UTC
What to do when you’ve got the blues
Was it me or is it you
My plans are simple
To love life and be loved too
Their must be some kinds of deception
For you must love life and need one too
Or be one of
Billions of bricks in a grand pyramid scheme
But where in the mirror thee one on top
Is the one of thee ruse
Whom is under all
And who saves all fooled
Is there one among you who is more
Or less than precious you
Come on you’all
What would you be kidding me for
Like my lies to and about you
Like I could live without you
And rather forget or shout rat at ya
Have you scrounge through ******* that ye’
may you eat
or wire tie tire scraps to the souls of your feet
For we’ve come such a long way
To be here today
While it’s not been to long
Or far to go with squabble, plunder, resource **** and plow it under
That climates are for shifting
Seasons without reasons
Masses are off for the drifting
Our earth without our gratitude we sure aren’t 'a pleasin’
Thee oceanic cradle of conception 'tis sewer now
Like could I be without thee sky above me
Would thee auto or truck eat the one last bean
And every brick without a home
Not a hunting ground
Some tillable earth or seed to sow
Toxic fish in the untamable sea
And She will do as she wants
She will do as she needs
She’ll easily come and suddenly recede
Upon her eggshell basin we drill siphon pump poison and bleed
We blow holes in the ionosphere
Magnetic shifts and solar flairs
Does our wild kingdom wish us well
Or rather see us off into exile from our hells
Of dust bowls and Goodyear treads to save our souls
Journey on wayward ones
Is not a thing sacred not a one
Holy liars say anti-christ better hurry fast
So saviors come to condemn our past
And free us from, to us what’s been done
Seven say there is the Savior
And six are sick evil ones
And we can not agree of the one
Seven times to the nth degree is what we will need
Till our actions are thee savings grace
As Great Exemplars have professed
Each of us must overcome
And Holy Creature become
In the stregnth of forgiveness
We undo to thee and us done
We are the ones to feel to see
That Love is the fire
Which is pure bravery
You forge in the now
Without the forgetting
Tomorrows you desire
Where love will rise
And set as thee One in all
Jun 10, 2012
Jun 10, 2012 at 9:23 PM UTC
I have been unmade and made anew
bolts loose, screws askew
metal stitches holding jagged words abrew
Light a match, no make it two
don't smile at me
I know its true
don't construe my issue
with you
respects not owed and its not due
don't feed me lies
my trust you blew
spooned shards of glass
masked subterfuge.
Don't cast me out
don't look away
I'm a stowaway
renegade
castaway
what makes you think I will obey?
I know the face that I portray
like I'm asking to be betrayed
but cut some slack, bits of leeway
I'll scrounge for scraps
don't make me pay
you cut my tongue, I won't soothsay
the odds for me will soon outweigh
just watch I'll drop this masquerade
and I'll cutaway
to counterweigh
this disarray
replay
this wordplay
display of
swordplay
'cause I'm a stowaway
renegade
castaway
-Esther L. Krenzin-
-Roguesong-
Apr 1, 2019
Apr 1, 2019 at 11:57 AM UTC
You step outside of the moment like a misty window bystander with your hood up and your hand warmers that you’ll put in your scrapbook so as to bless and keep this memory all your days.
Sift out the sound waves as you watch the dancing silhouettes of the good old days
Bringing tears to your eyes as you remember that someday this’ll be in a box wrapped and taped scotch-like for you to look at and think how lucky we were.
But right now you’re pulling all your best strings to carve out scrawled negatives on the glass before the condensation of your breath fades fades away.
Oh doesn’t it remind you, dear,
That we live in the awareness of fleeting moments rather than the moments themselves?
That we only put the remaining numbers of seconds on our dance cards and not let our time with fullness instead take our hands and waists?
That we scrounge for the film that we can Mary Poppins jump into on the other end of a short while instead of running the risk of forgetting by ripping open the gift of the instant we have been personally given by God?
Don’t let it pass you by because
Even though it’s only out the train window if you
Let it permeate your heart forever that’s the
Only way you can keep it in your pocket during your walk towards eternity.
Dec 11, 2021
Dec 11, 2021 at 6:07 PM UTC
Tears rush down my cheeks
My nose runs
I desperately scrounge for Kleenex
You stand and stare awkwardly
Unapologetic for your cruelty
You're safe for now; I'm still crying
But once this flood stops
And I figure out exactly how much is your fault
You'll die
I still have ten seconds of bawling
You have ten seconds to run
Run to Ecuador and become a drug dealer
**** off the Yakuza in Kyoto
Double cross a gang of Trinidadians
Become an alcoholic gold miner
All of these are less consequential than what I plan to do.
Any place is safer than in front of me, so you'd best be fleeing.
Ten seconds ************
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 8:44 PM UTC
Why in the big government today,
are there so many politics,
and not enough policy.
Why are we like the mice to their cat,
as we run and scrounge,
and they grow fat.
Why do we sit and let them decide,
when incompetency and latency,
strip us of our pride.
As we sit and choose who is best,
we forget that these men must pass a test,
it is not about who has better hair,
or whether they say their daily prayer.
The test should be one of valor and bravery,
someone who can fight for our safety,
one who is even-keel and not unsavory,
and most importantly
someone who saves us from slavery.
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 10:35 AM UTC
Head pain and ugly,
World movement too,
The insatiable slug thee,
Manifests between two.
Lounge lay and eat,
The extent of the life,
Scrounge play and bleat,
You're not the only one,
So revel in this life,
A resplendent underclass,
Make bankers and beauracrats,
Pay it through the
Glass ?
Is one proud of this half life one lives ?
Radiation dwindling in 30 to 10,
To be in rain with freedom to squat,
Looking in strangers for compassion,
When all you deserve,
Is a sound good lashing.
Hide away from your responsibility,
No entry on response,
Forgotten all ability,
Ability all lost,
Based on acidity.
Face all edited,
The preservation of youth did not preserve your face,
The resignation of you,
Did not delay fate
Aug 21, 2012
Aug 21, 2012 at 11:16 AM UTC
The birds in the backyard often look there for food
and it seems they're doing so lately in a happier mood;
it was just the other day when I mowed the grass
so now they can move easily over it again and pass.
Their activity is done habitually each and every day
and watching them closely seems as if they're at play.
They scrounge on the soil with their beaks and feet
competing at times for some bite and morsel to eat.
When disturbed by a sound they fly up into any tree
away from the threat of danger they scamper and flee.
A human presence would be enough to get them going
particularly when heading in their direction knowing.
It's a bit of a delight to see them at play in their quest
doing what they all have to do to survive hunger's test.
I used to feed them some crumbs on a regular basis
which became a habit for me to them as in an oasis.
Together with water left in a plastic bowl for a drink
they'd a few things going for them one would think.
It was only after the local cats caught onto the idea
with their basic instinct, that food or game, was near.
One of them would come around and hide in the grass
crouching there patiently for the right moment to pass;
if the birds were unaware they would fly down to eat
of the crumbs left for them so their hunger could beat.
The cat seizing on the opportunity then would by surprise
spring up and race after them as food or game in its eyes.
There would be a mad scramble and loud flutter of wings
as the birds, escaping from that danger a predator brings,
would scatter and fly away as fast as they could to where
they'd be relatively safe from the clutches of death there.
Sometimes when looking out the back window I'd see
a cat roaming in the backyard in the shadows of a tree;
this would be enough warning for me to raise the alarm
and get out to try and keep those local birds from harm.
I would do this by chasing the cat away over the fence
so the area would be clear again for the birds I'd sense.
_________________
Jan 31, 2022
Jan 31, 2022 at 5:02 AM UTC
Every village, town and city of mass proportion is bound to have some
The ‘didn’t make the grade at school’ so who else will now take them
The parents repugnant, ****** and living off the dole
Breed with each other to produce their spawn, the taxpayer taking this toll
Infesting our lives with their spit and their spat, just turn on Jeremy Kyle
You’ll see what I mean, like a bad daydream, their being is utmost vile
Its entertainment to some who revere in this mess, only glad that its not them
Sulking the streets and just on the scrounge and oh look, their face on the News at Ten
****** is harsh as it’s not what I mean, but it fits the slot so well
So why are they here and what is their use, doesn’t the devil need a hand in hell?
But they exist, and you see them every day, hanging on the corner of the street
Even the village idiot had his job, backwards in kind but still rather sweet
So what do we do in trying to combat this evolution, going backwards in the blink of an eye
Education is wasted and the armed forces is a no, it almost makes me want to stop and cry
So this is the way that the human may go, just look back at the millennia’s past
The dinosaurs failed and the mammoth is gone, just how long are we going to last?
The Retards
JJB
Feb 16, 2018
Feb 16, 2018 at 8:00 AM UTC
Transferred attention some where else
Then lost my train of thought,
Added an item to my list
Of stuff I should have bought.
Forgot to say those silly things
That make it all worth while,
And found myself in jockey shorts
With a lost and vacant smile.
Left the toothbrush in the toilet
And the razor in the lounge,
Fed the dog the ****** cat food
And the goldfish had to scrounge.
Woke up early on the weekend
And slept in late for work,
Is it really any wonder
That my wife has gone beserk ?
Distracted moments come and go
As life progresses on,
But in these periods of bewilderment
Have I come or have I gone ?
The confusion is annoying
It's like emerging from the mist
And embarrassed explanations
Leave my kid's expression ******
Conversations breeze along
I'm having trouble with the terms
The children utter gibberish
Which I've no desire to learn.
My old friends speak in whispers
Quite impossible to hear
And the clink of moving cutlery
Keeps dinner parties from my ear.
I guess a change is needed
Maybe, a less demanding day,
Where physicality is really secondary
Where exhaustion doesn't play.
Where the bodies limitations
Are tempered to the task
And a moderated output
Is, perhaps, the best that you can ask.
I've lost my sense of humour
The world is racing by too fast,
This mobile phone's a nightmare
And ****** TV remotes I'm past.
And whatever happened to coffee
At my favourite Bridge cafe ?
Now the order is for decaff,
No cream, half strength, moccha frappe !!
Age is such a ******
It's asset is it's stealth,
One moment you're a titan
The next you've lost your health.
One moment you've got flowing locks
The next you're bald and grim,
Is it any ****** wonder
That growing old is such a sin.
Marshalg
Grumping@theBach
Mangere Bridge
10 August 2009
Feb 1, 2010
Feb 1, 2010 at 5:56 PM UTC
He beams as he enters my bedroom
Holding a glass bottle
Bout a liter with a light label
Ether? (i was already down a hot dessert road with a pint of it in the back on the way to Las Vegas in a red sportscar)
No my son
Embalming fluid
Quickly we scrounge for money
And with almost zero effort
We had an eighth of some funk
We feel rich as we walk
And the rain falls
A good omen
As we smoke a cigarette near the retention pond
A falcon picked up a black snake and carried it over the trees
Marijuana soaked in embalming fluid
The bodies are emptied and filled to help slow down decomposition
He reads from Encyclopedia Britannica about embalming
I imagine ancient humans sitting around a fire in the center of the dessert
They are throwing massive amounts of marijuana on the fire
Inventing gods and dancing
They were each dipped and allowed to fully dry
We talk about all the **** our egos have snagged lately
As he packs
The hit
Like plastic to the tongue
My lungs become black in an instant
Filled with an acrid white smoke
Exhale the soul
**** that was fast*
Stillness in everything
The building vibration at the base of my skull
Reverberating through me
each word
Spirals off into thousands
Of volumes of information
The processing power
Of the machine
Capable of this existence
the psychotic episode of existence
It tries to talk
Surely it thinks it is something
How fine it is to know that it will all one day end
In an instant neither dark nor light I will die
And I have no fear of this
An instant of life
Boiling over to its brim in thoughts
To feel one moment of true ignorant blissful love of another soul
Love just another reaction to instinct
That we love to label with
Big long pages of words
And inventions to make
Them faster until everyone knows what life should be like
Jan 31, 2013
Jan 31, 2013 at 1:07 AM UTC
Here's something you don't see everyday. Although I've seen it a few times before on my street... A homeless man pulling a bicycle which is attached to the most astounding construct! Made of bicycle wheels and plastic webbing, chicken wire and aluminum piping, this huge mobile container for tin cans, and whatever this homeless individual can scrounge to resell, is almost the size of a garbage truck! And carries probably hundreds of pounds of aluminum cans.
In constant danger from cars and trucks, this is an outstanding testament to human ingenuity and dogged determination. The man marches on, stopping occasionally to take a container to dumpsters looking for cans. Whatever he can find.
I asked him if he needed something to eat or drink. He just smiled and shook his head. "I need to move on." And I realized he probably takes advantage of the nighttime to do his searching, as it is too hot during the day to do so. I smile and wave and wish him blessings.
If I ever feel like I am put upon in this life, I should feel ashamed. This man has shamed me utterly. I've invited him up to my porch in the past. Giving him food and drink. He is a believer. And I've never met a more cheerful brother in the Lord Jesus Christ! But he doesn't take any credit for his outstanding ingenuity and Drive. He gives the glory to God. I have tears in my eyes as I write this. He was also an addict and finds it very difficult to find a place to live due to his past. So he sleeps on the streets and does what he needs to do to survive. And survive he does!
I say a prayer for this stalwart. His name is Ben. Will you join me in my prayers (good thoughts)? I think he deserves them, don't you?
♡ Catherine
Jul 19, 2017
Jul 19, 2017 at 12:07 AM UTC
Oh, How exquisite it was.
The scent and sight of freshly spilled blood.
The intricate texture of the ruby rain,
Spilling a and snaking down my skin.
Like precious liquid gems.
Oh, how glorious slaughter is.
How full of life it left me.
Cloaked in Death,
With the throbs of my heart,
Far lively compared to that of the corpse.
Oh how my laughs punctuated the air.
How I rebelled in the glory of my deed.
I was made in the image of god,
And now I understood the power of death.
This is not insanity, it is purer than that.
It is not rage, it is wilder than that.
It was never about avarice or fear as well.
It was feral blood lust, the legacy of my ancestors.
As I prey on my second victim, she raises the cross.
Sigh, I wonder, as I watch her wilt away.
Why does man consider all that is above it out of God's grace?
In the field of life, one's angel is the other's devil.
And so it has been unleashed.
Upon the earth, the scrounge of heaven and hell.
Man unrestrained and warped into its vile self.
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 3:32 AM UTC
There is something that I can not see
Why the UNITED STATES has broken
So many AMERICAN INDIAN treaties?
We should put our heads down in shame
For the AMERICAN INDIANS are
Not the ones to blame.
They have been fighting so long for their rights
And have made the ultimate sacrifice.
They have given their lives for this nation
And still do not see their salvation.
All other ethnic groups have
become free from oppression
And their Indian rights have been
left to the u.s. discretion.
Why are they still classified as wards
Of the government, and their lives
Are still below the poverty line?
Isn’t this the biggest sign !
That they are still discriminated against.
They live in one room houses and shacks
And the government has turned their backs.
No running water and no electricity.
Is this the way it’s got to be?
A family of four or more
Sleeping on a ***** floor.
They were once known as the Indian nations
Now it’s total devastation.
People all over the world have heard
How the west was won
That it was with the almighty gun.
They just hear the one sided story
Of how Custer rode to glory.
But not the sufferings that they
Put the Indians through
And all they had to endure.
And suffer the humiliation of defeat
And drop down and scrounge for meat.
Oct 9, 2012
Oct 9, 2012 at 12:01 PM UTC
I long
like
something plush weeping
into a pillowed hug
of empty oxygen
though I try the Brave Game,
(and usually win)
flakes of me run
off my arms and face
and scrounge around the corners of the room
looking for your mellow sting.
supposedly,
“heartache”
is figurative.
But I definitely feel
a s t r e t c h i n g
mush
right where
the Doctors say my heart
should probably be
a slight tremor
( echoes )
through every joint
of my toy frame,
like a thousand elfin voices talking
about your favorite foods,
and the color of your hugs.
the tightening
muscles of my throat
send their regards to your
amicable eyes
2.5 is a smallish bird
when one observes
the blue expanse of my ocean life
but it pecks my most tender tissues
when I sit [flat] inside Today.
I miss
like
someone resized my skin
incompetently.
though I am grateful
for your delicate absence
(the elusive Good deserves you most)
I feel as if
the petty bird’s wing tensions
won’t be satisfied
with the look of my dappled shoulders
till you stroke them densely
with your matter-of-fact fingers.
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 6:19 PM UTC
There's a part of me that thinks I'm a princess-
theres another part of me that thinks im a despicable vermin.
I'm a royal who lives in a gated castle-
or im a slave who roams the empty streets.
I eat from grand tables with only the finest of people-
or i scrounge for scraps in the trash of the elite.
I look at the poor and pity them-
or i look at the rich and feel envy.
I wear silk and fine linens-
or i wear nothing at all.
I love myself-
or i hate every fiber of my being.
I deserve a prince from a foreign country-
or i deserve the dirt beneath my feet.
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 1:33 PM UTC
I write for the average person
I write for the people who I connect with
I write for the lost souls of every day life
I write for the people who have nothing to show for their age
Except for scars
Broken hearts and gray hairs
The people that have worked hard for every paycheck in their entire lives
Who scrounge up change from under the driver side seat of their car just to buy a pack of cigarettes
The people who only go out on Saturday night because Friday was payday and that's all they can afford
I write this because right now I don't have enough money to keep smoking like I want to
To start driving the car that I want to
To pay back all the money that I owe
Or to really do anything outside of sitting and being stuck in my own head
And I know a lot of you are like me
Too much thinking can be a very bad thing
I'm not saying it leads to bad thoughts
Like suicide or robbing a bank or stealing a car or anything like that
It's bad because if people like me starting thinking too much we can never stop
And if we never stop thinking we can never sleep
If we never sleep then we never stop this ongoing snowball effect that we call our thoughts
But eventually we sleep
And when the sun raises in the morning all we want to do is cover our face with the blanket
And go back to playing poker on the moon with all of our hero's
But instead of this dream we have to wake up
nine to five
nine to five
Every day for five days a week
Fifty two weeks a year
For at least sixty-five years out of our lives
Back to the grind
I write this
For the hopeless romantics
For the young generations that can barely understand my words
I write this
Sitting alone in my bedroom waiting for the day my voice is heard
I write this
And ill keep on writing til my hands decide they don't wanna hold a pen anymore
Nov 28, 2010
Nov 28, 2010 at 6:42 PM UTC