When a life ends:
The poor roll around in their graves.
Their time was stolen from them.
They worked themselves to the bone
as if indentured serfs to the merchants
to provide what little they could
to society and their families.
But it was never enough.
They made something real
and accomplished so much,
yet no one knows their names.
And no one ever will.
The system kept taking and taking
and now they are gone.
The wish on their last breath
to just be thankful for what they had
and hope their kin live a better life
than theirs.
The rich roll around in their grave.
Laughing.
YOU ARE READING
Ghostwriter
PoetryLiving with mental illness can oftentimes trap one within the inner maze of their mind. In that place, dreams, fears, wishes, and regrets all compile together to create a new world far from the one we physically exist in. At times, it becomes easy t...
