
I took my dreams,
And turned them to dust,
There were consequences,
I needed to survive first.
Needless to say,
It worked like a charm,
I bought an ox,
I bought a farm.
Day and night,
All I did was till,
It’s biting weight,
I feel it still;
When my parents sleep on the ground,
When my friends calls me fool,
When my children eat stitches,
When I take them to school.
How must I decide,
Which reason to give,
There are so many to blame,
And to listen, so few,
Could I even speak,
With my so broken voice,
Will it suffice to tell,
That I had no choice.
That I took my dreams,
And turned them to dust,
There were consequences,
But I needed to survive first.
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Author: TheHumanAnvil
I find poetry as a gentle reminder, a medium to relay and dwell upon all things considerate people find inconsiderate. Poetry as an art is akin to a lamp or a magnifying glass. It trails volumes of meaning behind obscure, vague words. I have been writing for a time now, and intend to do so for the time to come. And hopefully, hopefully, hope that one day, someday, a person stumbling across this veil of words, find it alluring enough to shift aside the curtain and peer, into the eyes of the naked truth which sways with the wind of reason. If you have any thoughts, it would be my pleasure to know them, if you don't then it would be a pleasure to not. Be my guest. This feast of words is for you.
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