The few that are lucky see far beyond us,
Simply, we're stuck, to toil in the dust.
Horizons anew are renewed for the rich
But poor men are begging and search in the ditch
For a chance at a life. That's so far beyond here
But who, then, will give it? We're abandoned in fear.
Those born into power take what is owed
But never consider the weight and its toll
If you are born lucky then you are born rich!
Yet woe must betide the men who lie dead
The breathing begone. They are cast well aside
To make way for the carpet on which they roll die
To toy with your fates. It's such a cruel game!
Yet in the end, it's still just the same.
YOU ARE READING
sometimes
PoetryA collection of mentally ill poems about the world, written by a mentally ill person. Perfect if you're into abstract or freeform poetry. New updates come at random times, but expect slightly consistent updates at least once a week or so! Top 10 in...
