When I needed your help you were never there for me
You were always in the pub that's where you always seem to be
You said money was short or that's what
Said
But you seem to have money for booze
But none for a loaf of bread
I never had a birthday party and presents
I never saw
Just the sight of both of you drinking in the pub once more
No blankets on my mattress that was on a
Wooden floor
Couldn't use the toilet at night because you
Locked my bedroom door
The beating I got used to because they happened everyday
I prayed for salvation and to be taken
Away
My praying was no good everything was in
Vain
Because I was born unwanted and unloved with a life full of pain.
But now I am older and I asked you about the things you did
Your reply was just as I expected you said
We were the adults and you were unwanted .
You’ll Pick out everybody’s problems but you wont help your self
You’d rather sit alone in pity then take care of your health
You act like it’s everybody’s fault you’ve got nothing to gain
using Magic capsules to escape your own brain
Can’t give yourself a break so you wanna do it over again
Someone help this monkey in a cage from going insane
Life Without You
Life without you
in cold desert sand,
I walk without shadow,
the sun too tired to care.
Alone in the place I used to know,
walls whisper your name in cracks and corners,
but you never answer.
Silence moved in where your voice used to be.
The rooms are getting smaller,
the windows won’t open,
time has folded in on itself
only the ache expands.
I no longer feel the seasons.
Spring forgot me.
Summer lost its colour.
And autumn,
autumn just watches me unravel.
Winter stays forever.
It crept into my chest and made a home,
built a bed beside my ribs,
and now it breathes with me
slow, cold, constant.
Even dreams have turned grey.
Even my tears freeze midfall.
I speak to the air
as if you might reply.
You don’t.
Because only on my mind you exist
He knows not what is good for him
You all know him, his name is Jim
Uses his class bench as his cot
What is good for him, he knows not
He likes to live in his own trench
As his cot, uses his class bench
I teach him in life how to thrive
In his own trench, he likes to live
He’s naughty, he oft breaks his limb
In life how to thrive, I teach him
Him I pity, he’s so snotty
He oft breaks his limb, he’s naughty
To me his talk seems so witty
He’s so snotty, him I pity
He makes buzzing sound like a bee
His talk seems so witty to me
4th Place
It's a pity ~ such a pity ~
That behind those eyes lies nothing but hazel pretty.
It's a shame ~ a great shame ~
There's zilch we share In common.
Remotely similar, or the same.
It's a heartache ~ a real pain ~
Each other's hearts, Both lives left stained.
Losing more than we thought Possible,
~and~
ever would've Gained.
.
The world got caught under her breath
They could never hear her precious mumbling, only realized when she left
One second she was there
One second she was floating in timeless air
In a wisp of whimsical space
She would show her elegant face
A polaroid of a perfect smile
Commanding regretful tears and remembrance of all the distant years
Her blood was on the hands of many,
No one predicted the coming tragedy
Her life not quite a blissful blur
But rather a silent stab of sadness
She left no note or collective clues
That might have calmed you
No lying lyrics that provoked pointless pity in
Some that might have said torturing her was comedy
She only left a small reminder to anyone who could find her
And that is this…
“Dying is easy my friend, living is harder.”
Beneath a callused skin of light
the hunched and mustered
clap a prayer between a leaking sight.
It is the earth that mourns itself,
whether baldly thrown or loamy laid
the silent soil repaints its sullied shrouds
far beyond any atoning sorrow,
or cooling heart.
It is none but a laboring pity
to lay down the past
as deep as a weeping sky allows
or raise a hand only to tamp down
a new-turned mound.
Restless are the skewing worms
ever churning a blood-born mud,
eyeless they cover the once begotten,
cloak a hard pressed present and loss.
as the missing
deafly retreat beyond our ken.
Hear now the trilling birds,
how they far-fling their buoyant hymns,
see how they hop between their own bones.
I’m lying here
In my broken bed
That’s caving in
Under my nothingness
Waiting (not patiently)
For my pregnant brain
To quiet down
Waiting for the
Swishing sound
Between my ears
To finally cease
Waiting for your light snoring
To begin, so that mine
Can take over
Waiting in my broken bed
That’s caving in
Under my nothingness
But I’m not alone
You are there
On your side
Of the caved in bed
A million miles away
With your head
Facing north
And mine
Facing south
Opposite of you
What dreams do you see
Are they of me
I envy your sleep
But also pity you
Because this nocturnal poem
Won’t write itself
And I realize something too
Run on sentences
Even at 2:09 a.m.
Still makes me furious
But I’m too lazy
To change it now
And there are those
Who wouldn’t notice anyway
Or even care
Welcome to my peach pity party
It’s my own fault it’s started
Without music I so lavender love
I find my pen more and piano not enough
I have ambitions and I notice now
That time is ticking winding down
I’m sure to die poor and unknown
I’m ok with that but dreams are blown
Dreams of leaving earth better than it was
Dreams of leaving inheritance and love
Dreams of not dying alone at home
Dreams of never being weak but strong
I don’t wear Cpap so I’m doomed
Lupus in remission but could anytime bloom
I have overcome some dilemmas thankfully
But God still put impossible dreams in me
Why so that I strive despite my hard head
Writing my dreams that I will never live
In a way I have because you read my lines
When a poetic thought starts in my mind
So pity party you are here with me
Embracing my poems and deferred dreams
I’m no longer a girl with the canvas sky
But a mature woman who uses ink to fly
He carries a wound that festers with smell,
He fears within it, bad germs might dwell.
Since losing his folks, he’s lost everything;
Each morning, he wonders what life will bring.
Each coin that he grasps, he holds with great care,
For hunger and pain both watch him in fear.
He eats little and soothes his pain with balm,
His survival depends on what's in his palm.
His parents are gone, yet grief roams each day;
He lives through the nights with no place to stay.
Yet kindness seems to have gone on a trip,
Leaving only alms within his firm grip.
Just twelve, yet his dreams have dissolved into dust,
His pockets stay bare, life’s balance unjust.
Despair fills his soul, ignoring his prayers,
Alms can't dry up all his endless tears.
How soon will death call to take him away?
Compassion stands cold, anguish paves his way.
He searches for help, but none can be found,
Somehow, death's fear races all around.
I pity the refugee’s road of flight,
the children of the shanty and the gun
who on all humanity are a blight -
who die or live unto be an orphan.
I pity the meagre, the forgotten
who a crisis of ravages endure,
whose fate is that of the misbegotten
and whose need is now, real, grave, just, and raw!
I pity the terrorised, the wartorn,
the sacked and conquered that bury their dead -
the child bride, the child slave still to be born
and alas the lost soul already bred.
I pity the brave girl I used to know
and wonder dreadfully where did she go?
Written: August 2006
*I wrote this many years ago about a little girl
in Sierra Leone named Marie (pictured above)
during the civil war who I used to sponsor.
She and her family had to flee their village
and I never heard from her again. That was in
1997. Seems the one constant in this world is
conflict. Dedicated to all the Maries out there.
I’m tired of people
slinging hash
and calling it Haute Cuisine
The Emperor naked
behind the mirror
where truth still reigns supreme
Waiting for accolades
pity more apt
so they again can void
Leaving their excrement
out on display
— only the rats to enjoy
(The New Room: March, 2024)
Do tell, when seen, the sight of answers
The ones that are sought deep within.
Away now, dig graves deeper
Unearth the bones, the memories of pain therein.
Make use of scraps and stains placed in heart
The ones they chose not to see.
The ones that were once torn pieces apart
The ones that were shunned e’er so lightly.
Then write of past, and of stories sore
Name not once—pain—but many more.
Bleed the pen the soul’s last delight
Weep the tears, the forlorn sight.
And when finished, let all be dyed serene
The memory graves returned, and the heart pristine.
Seven beams of unveiled light
Enters the breast caged by bone
The Spirit’s pity of might
Her seven fingers now known
Softens skin and hearts of stone
Rainbow of hope from heaven
Mani’s scriptures of seven
Hungry cricketers score more runs and take more wickets,
Hungry Doctors tend to make new medical breakthroughs'
Hungry children produce less waste,
Hungry people are more likely to come in out of the cold and join the fold,
Hungry worms make for better soil.
A hunger for friends as children mostly produces smart adults,
A hunger for bread forces more to bake,
A hunger for the truth produces more who are literate,
A hunger for perfection produces great tradespeople,
A hunger for success reduces the number on the benefit,
A hunger for acknowledgement gets more people out of the house,
A hunger for peace means less chance of war,
A hunger for good poems makes poetry soup taste better.
A thirst for knowledge is what sets Humans apart.
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