poverty 1.6

8/6/21

 

I'm broken like an ancient bicycle along the street

and it feels wrong, but not something that anybody speaks about

or of it speech allowed, must be unseen by crowds

to be this obscure, to be this endured yet its the life I lead

 

sometimes I yearn for a bit of rice and beans like its salvation for humanity

but its just a tasteless and unsatisfactory emotion that passes by like vehicles that pass in rapid speeds

I'm just a captive of this fortress built around outlasted dreams

where compassion's absent, its just about how many bills are pocketed inside your jeans

 

and responses seem so few and far in between

that it feels like a scar when its my last thought before I'm off to sleep

like its a cost to dream, I'm running out of dollars it seems

your typical adulthood griefs, in this typical unreal distorted place of schemes

 

I've lost taste and plea, that it I desire no longer rather just urge to flee

after submerged in these, conditions the only thing in mind is: pack-up and leave

no laughs no tea, just a note farewell

and the cherished sensation of someone who cares about the tale it tells