Poetry

Acerbic reflections on past hurts

Raised in destitution,
Desolate dark resolutions,
High enough to bend the air,
Break away, rip and tear.
 
For me it always seeks forever,
Circumventing moments,
Cutting like the cold,
Can feel myself get old.
 
And what is life?
It cuts like a knife. 
Want to make the world a wife.
Want to be free again.
 
When speak you my name,
You spoke it soft and said it quiet,
Like you wanted to be kind,
The tongue caressed the mind.
 
My soul is beaten down,
It’s bruised and it is worth so little,
We fight but its alright,
Make it through another night.
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Poetry

Morning-time Motorised Ritual Becomes Venue for Criticism

Slithering sycophants,
Cradled by the bosom of benevolent business,
Intelligence never equaling greed.
Toss them pigs some more feed.
Empty days,
Empty years at sea, floating in obscurity.
I thought I would be famous, I was wrong.
Everything I want is gone.

Grey and dismal in spring and in summer,
Graceful and hopeful yeah she was a stunner.
What the hell is joy anyway?
Gone for eternity, here for a day.
Where the hell is your pride anyway?
No self respect without drama and sex,
Fit so fake with your protein shake.
Pout shut out, your open mouth,
Never produced anything of value;

Picture perfect what a bitch you became,
Flicker frenzy I remember your name.
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