with these craters,
pouring milk of pus
blended with a gloomy
blood; lord! what dirge
of heart, it sings unsweet
as beats of sadness.
of a helpless mother
is a dream crying in the sky
of legitimate children
with no wings to go pluck
their stars; survival is far;
lord! where is your answer?
a FORM of WORK where
a brilliant sun is a prisoner
in grey dust, grey thoughts
from a mean master as
merciless one thousand,
five hundred hell of
a 'heaven' job.
of an angry battered mum,
chained with heavy corruption
by bastards as a crushing head,
killing grimly, billions of a neck.
stressing and sweating,
suffering and cursing
under a FORM of WORK
whipping with cruel insult
of being lazy; just imagine!
suffering, cursing;
and billions grow fatter
with weeping muscles
and wailing waters;
grow bigger and richer
of laziness working hard
to find wings to the sky
and pluck their stars of dreams;
but to grow more wings
for over bloated heads
already twinkling their stars
and would rather the brilliant sun
stress and sweat
in grey dust, grey thoughts
of a hill on a hand
with craters pouring milk
of unhappy pus
and gloomy blood.
This is a beautiful poem, so much pain and suffering yet we tarry every day
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With little or nothing to show for it...we toil and toil for crumbs but we can't complain much because man must wack.
Thanks for dropping by boss.
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You got a 3.90% upvote from @upme thanks to @samirich! Send at least 3 SBD or 3 STEEM to get upvote for next round. Delegate STEEM POWER and start earning 100% daily payouts ( no commission ).
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