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Poems about Society
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Forbid the young to read no farther. / This is a tale of some ones father. / If the faint of heart should still be reading- / Please just l
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The girls with white washed faces / Stagger through the lamp lit street / Into the seediest embraces of / Someone they’ll never meet. / Th
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A poem about my father.
by gingerhall1976
287 words, 17 comments,
on Oct 12 8:12 PM 2008. In Life, Veterans, Personal, Sad, Society, Thoughts, Pain, Death, War. Reward
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There’s a little girl / With spiders in her hair, / With grimy, yellow teeth / And a sullen sorry stare. / / There’s a little girl / With
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/ The years no doubt, my friend, have changed me less / Than those moments with you which nurtured my mind; / And so right now I feel I must confess / To unformulated thoughts now refined, / Distinguished and concentrated on you. / / You f
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Forty years would pass before / I could say your name once every / second, one billion times round. / Someone’s spilled molasses down / our
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Sun split are the lips of this tired soul.
Too young yet too fly but too old to grow.
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I make my living from the market-place / Just as my fathers would; / I move between the avenues / Selling and
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going to competition next wednesday
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Autumn / / Apple city rising / to / usual stock market business / unseen winging silver birds / one from the north / its twin from the south / slammed / burst into fire / / Tens of thousands died / on the day of the
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There once was a boy born hollow and vacant, / With skin made of bark, but nothing within. / His folks named him Marcus, Marcus the Giant,
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Get close. / Now closer. / Into the mind of my lunacy, / and I'll tell you why we don't belong. / Because we are different. / and irrelevan
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Well, you see, she’s like a puppet; / Without someone sat beside her / Pulling her strings, she’s nothing / Much to say for herself. / /
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This is our grey and dismal land; / So full and yet so bland / Filled with naked trees, newly bare, / Lining dampened pavements. / And clammy roads bear / Dreary cars carrying commuters, / Hang-dogged in the glare / Of early morning streetla
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/ She stirred with some uncertainty as if she didn’t know / How she came to be there in the cold and sodden snow. / Trapped but without borders, she will never express / How much that she is missing in her confused distress. / / She shambles
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As I looked out across the morning rain / A veil drew over that pale sky, / And that refreshing deluge made its claim / To all that had so far been far too dry. / The intoxicating showers watered / Wherever nature was desiccated. / And as that
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You use that last bottle of wine to / Lubricate your social interactions: / Those long evenings of longer distractions / Spent in pubs wond
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You beat your brains on a Saturday night, / Pump it full of drugs and booze, / Do you do it to remember or just to fight? / Or do you do it
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A misty dew falls / Over the river at night / Until morning comes. / / They say the darkest hour is right before the dawn. / I see dayligh
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/ / He doesn’t drink, smoke, joke, / He takes the healthy path. / He doesn’t drink away the gloom; / In his body there’s no room / For junk, funk or any fun. / No brown sugar, no white / As he has his morning run / And has his healthy
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Your squalid options aren’t enough, / Your hood and knife call no one’s bluff / As no one’s here to set you straight / And no one’s here now to berate / You for the loses you have made / And no one stops you until you’ve paid / For every singl
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The seedy trappings of a greasy spoon / Lay claim to a host of sombre faces, / And the sweaty Formica table tops / Carry urban myths and so
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She stalks the playgrounds to gauge the mood, / Reading the graffiti tags; they’re the news today. / - The desperate irony of a lonely epitaph- / White Ace cans, broken glass and empty fag packets / Is the decorum she can expect. / / Witho
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“Oh, you should’ve seen me” / “What am I like?” “What are you like?” / Her they come, the usual suspects, / Crawling in on a Monday morning. / Bleary eyed- they didn’t want to sleep too much- / And hang-dog, blood vessels erupted from the sinkin
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Here we go again; will that last glass / Dull it, or will we be up again for hours? / Lying here listening to the night time sounds: / A far off ambulance screaming past, / The wind outside ushering in the rain / And the fighting and vomiting wh
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This is Leanne's little world, / Where the roses grow, / The sun always shines, / And up the thatched roof climbs, / Ivy and wysteria. / Bu
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Looking out of her window
seeing people pass,
she wishes she was young again
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