In this world you come and go
Is all what folks can all say,
My days of hustle and grind all timing
Like it's a story of my life.
I feel like an outsider in this world,
As if I'm living in a place so cold
That my heart gets frozen
And my soul can't be trusted.
I put my pain in my written words
But they all come and go like a train,
Yet not understanding what I'm going through
And now I feel like same old rubbish.
Mr. Kravchenko, a Ukrainian—
he’s human too,
though he appears heartless, almost alien.
He just saw his daughter, a newborn,
then duty called him back to the army,
thinking, “Will my baby ever get the chance to hug me?”
John, a lawyer, carrying the ambitions of his folks.
Last week, he handled his first case.
Little did he know, when he walked out of the house,
that would be the last time
he’d see his mother’s smiling face
.
Then there’s Craig, the best hockey player.
Little did he know his friend was a true traitor—
a reincarnation of Judas.
He intentionally shattered his leg,
turning a life of buying
into a life of begging.
To every hustle, there’s a downside.
To every hustle, there’s an upside.
But hustle itself is an uncalculated risk
without God on your side.
Written for "Just Two In One Spree Poetry Contest" sponsored by Nette Onclaud on 28th September, 2025.
..........................................................
Hustle and bustle
city’s daily nightmare song—
days start early, end so late
Endless traffic jams—
an everyday reminder
that survival is a must
I’m out here where the shadows mix with street lights
grit thick in my veins, dreams burnin’ through the nights
Ain’t no silver spoons, just scars and some fights
built from the dirt up, took off on my own flights
They said, “Too loud, too wild,” but I’m just that storm
breakin’ through clouds, shatterin’ the norm
Every fall’s a lesson, not broken but down
wearin’ my scars like a queen owns her crown
This rebels got soul I ain’t here to chill
writing my story on my own damn will
8/10/25
Contest: 1403
Sponsor: Brian Strand
Every day you go to work
And hop into your vehicle
Not a thought or say a word
About if the job is meaningful
You sacrifice a lot of time
And try to be agreeable
Often sold on common goals
It all sounds so believable
Any goal that is your own
Should not include your brothers
Because his goals you may not know
And are hard to go discover
Upper hands are gained
Not by ones that tell the other
Because what is not explained
Sustains impressions that you're under
It took guts for him to choose it
The society made him pursue it
Under the high pressure of sunset
Without been assured that he would make it
He took the step to maintain his outfit
Obi will never remain a boy
Travelling down the road
He met her
He took her hands and paid the price
They came together and gave a rise
In the shade of his hustle, there she lies
Making meals with the things he earns
The boy is now a man
While the little called him "papa"
He worked extra to provide for two
The burden was much
But he never complained
He moves along with his dear beloveds
Just to push their fates to climb the hills
He motivates even when he is down
He provides even when it’s dawn
He deserves to wear the crown
The crown of a hero
#I_hustle_in_the_dark
I hustle in the dark, with a lead light in my hand, my focus on binoculars, traps and ambushes which I fear not, since I've died trust in the light, with individuals armed with smiles and time ticking bombs, in both their hearts and minds, for everything I lay my hand on or eye to
I'm tired from being fed with lab made laughter and smiles, tired from being sucked and drained, for the name of love and friendship, tired from observing segments of my happiness and possibilities, being cutted inch by inch by this light, tired from distortions and twisting of my sense and intentions
I rather die in this dark, with my prosper on the chase and focus on the run, 'rather trip and fall from what is not visible to my eyes, than to persue and matain a life of gazing constantly to my back and every step I make, right there in the light, that brings no positive effect to my being
#Poetic_Ink
In the city's limits at dark,
All the lights were in a glow
From corner to corner stood
The brightness shimmered its shows.
It is something to view at night,
If you haven't been to the city before
Put it on your bucket list,
And go on vacation in New York,
Oh, don't resist!
The hustle and bustle that goes on,
Those street players performing
Whatever their art, craft, or music
They'll be doing some ameliorating,
Be sure they'll do it!
You'll hear the saxophones,
And the brass horns to
Those series of strings bring them
Blues players up from Blackwood Gorge.
The Mardi Gra is the city that lives.
Oh, those blues are playing,
Its echoes are from corner to corner
Those brass cymbals are swaying
Like the slippery, shambling water
On a tin roof when it's raining.
“How are you doing?”… (sigh)… “Busy”… we hear and say it all the time
Wearing our busyness as a badge of honor while stuck in the grind
Why are we are always moving like we have somewhere else to be
Perpetually pushing forward as the world swirls under our feet
We constantly craft our calendars only to arrive at those moments
To realize our happiness is still lacking the necessary components
Constantly spinning our wheels without stopping to ask our destination
Maybe it is time to consider updating our mode of transportation
Swapping the future for the present to stop scheduling and lean into today
Savoring the slices of life that are on our plate right now that will soon go away
Realizing that joy already resides closer to home than we think
But make sure to catch it though since it will be gone in a blink
Author Dana Redricks
April 13, 2024
In the hustle and bustle of life's grand show, since my tiny feet found the floor below, at just five years old, Mama's wisdom in tow, she taught me survival, the way I must go.
With God-given talents, I learned to refine, to stand on my own, in life's grand design, to hustle and flow, through every decline, and do what I must, to let my light shine.
So I take each gift, each talent, each muse, and use them to triumph, never to lose, in the rhythm of life, where I must choose, to hustle and flow, and never refuse.
Tuesday lasses
we all have classes
get up and go
there’s no time to waste
join the flow
there’s no reason to wait
everyone’s hustling
coffee guzzling
bus shuttling
paper shuffling
syllabus assessing
apple-watch checking
there’s a fall-like feeling
making things more appealing
file off of the bus
and join the crush
trudging up science hill
thru the doors up the stairs
climbing in pairs,
in class, at last,
setup and relax.
I open my binder
and hand in the assignment
the guy beside me can’t find it.
and the TA moves on
the guy’s upset and I get it
he’s frantic and grim
I pretend I’m not watching him
as he ransacks his rucksack
too late, they’re taking roll
carelessness takes its toll
For persons leaving little to chance,
To others’ orders don’t wish to dance;
For weapons reserving user’s glance:
If they can’t find guns grip a close lance…
Resistance means that one has muscle:
A king who must not lose his castle,
The accustomed to life of hustle
And harsh towns of hustle and bustle…
For resistance, the reddest of eyes:
A time one freely Anarchy tries,
Wastes more than a soul and one’s tears dries:
Sometimes doing the thing with war cries…
All: on the Altar of self defense,
The blood one sheds not really offense…
Sooner achieved sooner respected,
Less badgering rightly expected;
No more the clumsily inspected:
Whoever tried this war prospected…
Every night I walk these streets
Where the neon lights shine so bright
People rushing all around me
Barely stopping to say goodnight
Homeless ones are lying on the street
Dreaming of a life that they may never meet
Fighting for a meal, day by day
Trying to keep the sorrows far away
The corners filled with heartless souls
Trying to make their living from their goals
The sound of gunfire in the distance
Evoking fear into a heart's resistance
Yet, there's a sense of community
In these streets where people roam
Where each other they know
And they make a place they can call home
This is the life that we've been given
And we all make the most of it
In these streets we call our own
That can give us joy as much as it can spit
So walk with me on these streets
And you will see life in a different light
It's not always pretty or glamorous
But the street life is worth the fight.
Working at late hours,
Seeing ugly owls,
Yet still the paid isn't ours
After all of the hustle
And so much bustle,
Our bowls are still empty
Even if there's a meal,
Hmm, it must be salty
All that we pray is to be heal
From the hash-ness of poverty
And to have our own property
The hash calling of our boss,
Is the same as an old bus
Even if he doesn't call U at all,
Just do something , after all
You'll still be call
Working at late hours,
Seeing ugly owls,
Yet still the paid isn't ours
After all of the hustle
And so much bustle,
Our bowls are still empty
Even if there's a meal,
Hmm, it must be salty
All that we pray is to be heal
From the hash-ness of poverty
And to have our own property
The hash calling of our boss,
Is the same as an old bus
Even if he doesn't call U at all,
Just do something , after all
You'll still be call
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