Details |
Kyndra Artis Poem
I am the oldest daughter,
But that isn’t just privilege.
I am the oldest daughter,
And I have no more to salvage.
I am praised for my good behavior,
And it teaches me to be perfect.
Nothing less is acceptable,
No excuse can be my savior.
I make a single mistake,
And it’s the end of the world,
But really the bar is too high.
I’m sitting in the corner all curled.
Held in one spot,
But I’m told to get up and walk.
I am asked to speak,
But I open my mouth and am told not to talk.
I am the oldest daughter,
And I was born imperfect.
Why am I the oldest daughter,
When I can’t do what they expect?
I wasn’t made to be the best child,
I was made to bring out the best in others.
All that it seems to do,
Is bring more judgment from my mother.
I can choose to cry,
But they will only give me more reason to.
If I shouldn’t cry or hold it back,
What am I supposed to do?
After all,
I am the oldest daughter.
Copyright © Kyndra Artis | Year Posted 2025
|
Details |
Kyndra Artis Poem
What I don’t display,
Is good that you don’t see.
The music moves as you play,
Spirals and fades away from thee.
The weeping willow tree,
Smiling before me.
Que sera, sera.
You can only see my every flaw.
Like those from our previous lives,
We march unto an ungodly death.
Not knowing for what we thrive,
With our cold and shallow breath.
Up the snowy mountains depth,
Dusty grounds the wind hath swept.
To the nest, the mother bird returns,
Only to discover that her eggs were burned.
No tree remains,
Because she only wanted more.
Let us sing woe, not praise,
For this has happened before.
Is a swelling crescendo in the score,
Truly what we are searching for?
A piece of information,
Used to make a whole new creation?
These Sunlit Signs,
Are leading us to the right story.
Read between the lines,
The empty void of purgatory,
The telltales of your own glory.
Just stop and listen for me,
To understand the meaning of you and I.
There may be signs reading,”The end is nigh”.
Copyright © Kyndra Artis | Year Posted 2025
|
Details |
Kyndra Artis Poem
They say that money cannot buy
The soul’s delight or clear blue sky—
But here beneath the system’s grin,
It buys the right to even begin.
It oils the gates the poor can’t reach,
It buys the judges, bars free speech.
It hides behind a suited smile,
And buys you bail, or buys your trial.
It paves the road with golden light
For those who never had to fight.
A beggar bleeds for scraps of bread
While kings invest in arms instead.
Money is freedom—yes, it’s true—
But only for the chosen few.
The rest must sell their time and breath
To dodge a premature death.
A child is born without a voice,
Unless her parents paid the choice—
For schools, for clinics, cleaner air—
She learns that justice isn’t fair.
The homeless sleep in ATM glow,
Where banks protect what they don’t know.
While billionaires fly over seas
Built on the backs of shattered knees.
You want to speak? Then pay the fee.
To eat? To live? To simply be?
In this machine, the cruelest lie—
Is that you’re “free,” so long’s you buy.
So count your dollars, guard them tight.
In this dark world, they are your right.
Not to be holy, just to breathe—
To die in peace, to dare to leave.
And still we trade our worth for gold,
A freedom bought, then bought and sold.
But tell me—if you have to pay,
What kind of freedom is that, anyway?
They preach of “growth,” of “booming trade,”
While workers drown in debt they made.
Each minute owned, each hour sold—
Their futures mortgaged, dreams controlled.
The newsmen smile on every screen,
And sell you comfort, scrubbed and clean.
They teach you who to love, to hate—
While sponsors choose the nation’s fate.
A factory hums—a human cost,
For every product, someone’s lost.
The hands that stitch the brands you wear
Will never breathe your city’s air.
A preacher prays for souls to mend,
But prays for donors to attend.
The gospel sold in gilded pews—
Salvation’s now a pay-per-view.
The artist paints, the poet cries,
Their worth reduced to market ties.
They starve for truth, for something pure—
But even hope feels insecure.
And yet—we chase, we toil, we spin,
Still hoping someday we might win.
For money whispers, soft and sweet,
That heaven waits on easy street.
So build your cage, and call it fair,
Just don’t forget—you bought it there.
And in the end, when debts are due,
Your freedom dies—in spite of you.
Copyright © Kyndra Artis | Year Posted 2025
|