Money Writing Poems | Examples
These Money Writing poems are examples of Writing poems about Money. These are the best examples of Writing Money poems written by international poets.
Money the most wanted
Money on my mind
All the time
Steadily thinking
How to make more money
Because if you don't have it
You can't live fine.
Money a necessity
Because money answers all things
I know it can't buy a life
But can give one a life
Which is good living
You can't do well
Without it while living.
Money the reason for all acts
Either good or bad
To be happy
You need money
The bills make you ill
Steadily thinking about your lacks.
Wealth can be wonderful and a curse, it can make you do stuff that is not nice.
It can control your every move, making you into a slave for use.
Wealth needs attention and needs more, more money to grow and control all of the earth.
Wealth is a manmade substance it controls the flow of stuff that use to be free.
Like the apples that grow all over the earth, the corn, the food, now all have a cost, making us work just to survive.
We use to roam the earth and love and play just like the animals, we ate when hungry, kissed and hugged as needed to feel alive.
Now we must work and pay and pay, just to have the stuff that was free.
Wealth is status that we all want, this way we can have all our time to relax.
Wealth reminds me of the offer the opposer gave to Jesus, saying bow for me and all the earth will be yours.
Wealth is like power and can make us become a person we do not recognize.
Lifting prayers to God, today and always.
Apples the fruit of life, use to grow all over the earth.
Now they have been killed and replaced to make the earth a place of cement.
The juicy and lovely apple, was free to eat for those that choose it as a treat.
Maybe they killed so many apple trees, to make us pay for them.
The animals and people now have to go without the apples for we cannot see them grow freely.
Making us all very hangry.
The world as we know it continues to change, and suits the rich and the ones with fame.
The food was free and use to grow for animals and people, now we must work and pay for things that were free, like the apples and many other kinds of food that use to be free.
Between the time card and the grave,
We trade our days for dollars spent.
Each sunrise mortgaged, sunset saved,
For what we call accomplishment.
The hamster wheel spins endlessly,
As we chase what we're told to need.
Survival isn't thriving, see—
Just breathing while our spirits bleed.
To make a living isn't life,
Just passage through familiar halls.
The true wealth lies beyond the strife
Where joy, not obligation, calls.????????????????
In the glow of dreams where starlight drips,
I watch my daddy, with swagger and flips,
A legend he walks, in a world so wide,
With money in hand and a spirit of pride.
I wish I could stunt like my daddy does,
Dance through the chaos, the laughter, the buzz,
With every bold move, he lights up the night,
A beacon of strength in the shimmering light.
His shine shows bright, like the sun on the rise,
A heart full of courage, ambition in his eyes,
Through hustle and struggle, he charts his own way,
In the game of life, he’s here to stay.
With every success, he lifts me up high,
Teaching me dreams don’t fade, they just fly,
So I chase my own stardust, with hopes like a kite,
Wishing one day, I’ll share in that light.
For now, I admire, through shadows I creep,
Learning the lessons my father will keep,
In the rhythm of life, I find my own beat,
With each tiny step, I’m feeling complete.
I wish I could stunt like my daddy his so bold,
In a world full of stories, waiting to be told,
But one day, I promise, you’ll see me take flight,
With the spark that he gave me, I’ll shine just as bright.
2009
They called me a coward, said my words would hide,
Too scared to face the storm, I’d run and confide.
My thoughts were shadows, secrets locked tight,
In silence, I fought my own ing fight.
They wanted thunder, loud as hell,
To shout like lightning, break the spell.
But my voice shook, a flickering flame,
Afraid the truth would tarnish my name.
They spread their bull, twisted my life,
Throwing stones, cutting like a knife.
I carried my truths in whispers, not screams,
Afraid to face the pain, caught in my dreams.
So call me dramatic, call me what you will,
These scars are mine, but I’m standing still.
I’ll find my voice when the time’s right,
And when I speak, I’ll be ready for the fight.
When I cry
Once upon a time I was very upset why?
I was updating my change of challenges to my unit of family. But I was very upset?
I am so kind that you know but you are the king of this planet who doesn't share the help
But I was so upset?
You have been having many pages of notes
To prove that lords & goddess exist but A smile like A crow you don't know how to welcome them but I am upset?
You are just cheating in humanity that this is ,Kalyug, A smile tomorrow nerve comes
But I am very upset?
One day I was sitting in a rain of my tears you All making laugh on me because clouds was only dark you All are dry of clothes your skin is not wet by the rain.only thunders of laughter and laughter My tears My blood my family your throwing words for shame you made me to called me money of monkey death is here
Rude I am update your time.but I am upset?
Because I am alone sometimes and remember my didi (akka)she holds the umbrella when I cry....?
With love all
OM Jagdish
hollow the words seem when said to a wall,
bounce back with fear and anger to keep,
papal silence for the thrall to burrow asleep,
worms of thoughts weep by sunrise to fall.
skills of a magistrate in proper order would bow,
kings would castrate themselves to drink milk,
cows jump moons for the money pig on top,
steak and bacon sizzle on the solar flare.
where are we in all this, wondrous saloon?
cowgirls and cowboys, or more like cowards?
the paddle doors swinging and the guns draw,
would you shoot or hesitate, ten steps is all you take?
turn and boom it all flutters down in spades,
joining in this house of cards in the breeze.
A witty saying proves nothing,
Especially in a generation that
Doesn’t tend to be so loving
To one another because of the
Love of money.
So much pushing and shoving.
Illusion is the first of all pleasures.
We constantly dream of personal
Satisfaction, especially when we don’t
Have ourselves together.
A selfish mind has sex with
A woman, then wakes up the next
Morning just to realize that it never
Met her.
I just want to see the day where
I can hold my head up high and
Keep my life together.
My life is a struggle.
I find myself having to juggle
With emotions that are so confused
That they want to snuggle.
The ear is the avenue
To the heart
And the power of the words
Can tame it or tear it apart.
It’s not enough to conquer,
One must learn to seduce.
Seduction is a sexual tactic
Used to daze and confuse.
The masters of it simply
Recycle the same words
To reduce and reuse a-
Forget it.
"Where does the money come from,
Tell me, what is this gift for?
Father dies in the field,
That's when home blooms...?
Nothing comes up again today,
I can't hear the tired father's story again.
Tell me, who made this relation?
Some use people, some think they are fake..?
Divya Karanje
?? "Where does the money come from,
Tell me, what is this gift for?
Father dies in the field,
That's when home blooms...?
Nothing comes up again today,
I can't hear the tired father's story again.
Tell me, who made this relation?
Some use people, some think they are fake..?
??Divya Karanje
I start drawing a swirl.
Than a scribble.
I can’t really control my poetry.
The way I can’t control how many people throw coins into a fountain.
Or what their wishes are…
But bodies of water always seem to have money of an unknown amount.
Poetry can be like that.
I will be done writing soon, I know that.
So I keep writing.
Until words slowly become swirls and scribbles again.
Until the page ends.
And another one doesn’t begin.
As one gets older
One often looks back
At all the things you did
In your life.
The good, the bad, and the ugly
And we all have those moments
Because we are human.
And some things you desired
But never pursued.
For me, it was a dream
Of becoming a famous writer
While I can write poems
And short stories,
My greatest desire
Was to write
The Great American Novel.
And sadly it will remain
An unfulfilled desire
As I don’t have the patience or energy .
To edit my six rough draft novels
Turning them into something publishable
And they may die when I die.
And I am in good company.
The rule of ten rule applies
Of one hundred people
Who want to write a novel
Less than ten percent finish it
Of those less than ten percent publish it
Of those less than ten percent make any money
Of those less than ten percent make a living
At writing their novels.
I consider myself a technologically savvy old geezer. With a simple utterance of “Hey Google, show me cute puppy videos” my world is filled with hours of mindless entertainment. I can do Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and Linked-In about as well as any old-fashioned Neanderthal. With all this modern-day technology at my fingertips you’d think my need for paper and pen would be overcome. Not true. All this technology represents the one thing that destroys my creativity. ‘DISTRACTIONS’. Maybe it’s the fact that a pen or a pencil can only do one thing. Transfer my thoughts to paper. No puppies sliding down a snow-covered hill, what’s the weather in Outer Mongolia, or share this photo and God will send you money. There is just me, a pencil and a clean sheet of paper. Nothing creates inspiration more than a sharp Ticonderoga #2 pencil or a fine point red stick pen. Or maybe it’s just that my addled old brain gets so easily sidetracked by shiny baubles.
We shall overcome
unless we’re distracted first—
Oooh cute baby goats
The colour has no caste no religion
Just fetterless as a crowned pigeon,
The sun never marks any division
What's red, green, black or saffron.
All the colour is a single entity,
Like the author's artistic creativity;
And upon the asleep city
The moon mirrors itself - the beauty.
The colour is a life of how to live-
Taking a role of a new leaf,
It is a sugarcoated rose you sip
How orphean! Do believe.
Money is not a verb to the colour
That a poet knows very well:
A girl of not going to parlour
She is pretty still, at cottage dwell.