Short Bottom Of The Pile Poems

The taxpayer,
is at the bottom of the pile,
or so it seems,
by the upper class style.

What will happen,
when they smother us to death,
then who will they call on,
to cover their debt.

We are not strong enough,
to carry this load,
why shouldn't they carry their own weight,
for the lifestyle they chose....

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the rusty necklace
which was thrown into the sea
the wilted roses
that lose the petals each day
the torn bouquet wrapper
in the dustbin

a dusty photo
at the bottom of the pile
the foolish dreams 
that had broken
the song lyrics
which all sound the same

stuck in an hourglass
so far ahead
at the end, 
everything will be forgotten

it doesn't matter
you do you
grow up and start anew...

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Call my name from the fog
Look at my reflection
 Through the looking glass
And watch myself degrade.

Hit the lights
I can't bear to see
It burns my soul
for eternity

The pause button is frozen
Life is my sacrifice
The play button is broken
fast forward to my demise.

Catch a smile
savour it for a while
Melancholy is a life style
you're not worthwhile, bottom of the pile.

Dominate your stance
Steal a glance
out of your trance
Fragment this dance....

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The cellar is his bleak repose,
in concert with the cockroaches and flies,
it's here he wipes his runny nose,
toils the day long, sunshine tries,

insinuates through rough and crumbled boards.
The colour of his skin constricts,
the bottom of the pile, his heritage affords
no more, the atmosphere restricts

his breath. It leans against the wall,
his tarnished, dusty saxophone,
a measure of the time when he stood tall,
cadenzas, and his free and strident tone....

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