The Death Parade
I’ve got one green piece of paper bile,
You’ve got a million times the vile.
Sitting in my unstructured sky,
Just to receive your corporate high.
Drowning in imaginary numbers.
Of all the hues of greens, we’re umbers.
You hold your golden crown and beg,
We lie on concrete beds you made.
We can’t afford to break a leg,
But you still hold the death parade.
What’s wrong with this camera’s lens?
They hang the truth and change the pens.
Twist my mouth into entitlement.
Wonder why we’re rife with resent.
Owe me a hundred and gift ten,
I know change is near, but I ask when?
YOU ARE READING
Shattered Amour Propre
PoetryThis is a collection of some of the poems from my book, Shattered Amour Propre. There are a variety of formats made out of raw emotion. Come get stabbed in the heart, collect pollen from the flowers for a smile, and cry about the tragedies that have...
