intolerance to sort through a community rift.
A stench that permeats 30 miles through hell,
another crime scene witnessed,
in which, no one tells.
Each corner hold’s a bordago’s agenda, to cheapen a binge,
while the stench of begging panhandlers’
is stuck in mid-air, passerbys laugh and cringe.
Hermit’s fear being victimized,
into a robber’s, waiting chance,
while poor donors, meet demise by black market’s funded, by Government hands.
The street of poverty, she greets you, to chew you up, swallowing your pride whole,
armed with a welcome mat and switchblade,
to proceed in cutting your throat.
Invested in every block’s rut,
as her appetite spits out the hollowed carcass,
once digesting all the guts.
Chopping away lives, into small defeated pieces,
while the matriarch of each family,
stays down, crying out to Jesus.
Finding unethical ways inside an infested ghetto, greasing up residents good, upon kicking them with stilettos.
As poverty comes mocking, tick tocking and teasing,
an open house meeting proceeds, in longtime family homes, lost in disbelief.
Wheezing in her polluted streets, reeking of crime and illegal dumps, as loved one’s search for missing members, finding them rolled inside a carpet’s lump.
Whether its 10 below outside or even 100 degree heat.
The weather never matters in poverty’s contract breech.
5-O slams a homeless hungry man face down, into her streets.
Stripping away his manhood to ridicule in front of other’s, a sorrowful lesson he’ll keep.
I’ve driven through there from work, locking my doors in haste.
Keeping a predominant speed,
as poverty never wastes opportunity, initiating lifestyles, in which she leads.
This song used too haunt me as a youth, it was so deep.❤
Poetry storied lessons
By Tamara Dorsey-Moore
Thinker on the loose
Copyright (c) 2017