Its hard to be here, zip-zip and out

The street is us

I didn't choose to write
Writing chose me because I am someone real
As is necessary
Some write because they have talent, I write because I have a mission

I am the spokesperson for those who have never been heard
The forgotten remember me because I remember the forgotten
As a street ambassador
Just seeing the sparkle in my eyes the false ones move away

Several screaming wolfskin lambs that are ready
Yes, I saw
On the idea of ​​taking the money like the bitch does
On here
What is my own confrontation
Give me a discount
Hey
I walk ever on the sidewalks and I never saw you

While fools meet, values ​​are lost
And it’s the fault of those who have less, if it’s for me, it’s no use

Ignoring the laws, one thing I know
Since the king will not become humble, I will make the humble become king
Understand me now
This ceremony marks the beginning of the return of the "Street" empire

Garbage cans will look like war drums
My army marching through the sand streets
Taking the medals of those without good auras
A triumph for us is the lady's smile

Do we want women? Yes! We also want money too
And see all the kids there, living well
But for me the fight goes beyond
Those who have small thoughts will die without

I don't do more than anyone, I just get out of the mud
Who fell was because it confused respect and fame
In my head there are no innocent mistakes
The game is dirty, whoever makes less mistakes will win more

I made my own way and my way made me
It's not any money that will take away my lucidity
That I carry in my mind
The second chance is just in the game, so it’s good to stay tuned.
 

-IgnorePlease-

This is a fantastic poem, from an Irish poet, who released it very recently.  

Remorse for Intemperate Speech, by William Butler Yeats

"I ranted to the knave and fool,
But outgrew that school,
Would transform the part,
Fit audience found, but cannot rule
My fanatic heart.

I sought my betters:  though in each
Fine manners, liberal speech,
Turn hatred into sport,
Nothing said or done can reach
My fanatic heart.

Out of Ireland have we come.
Great hatred, little room,
Maimed us at the start.
I carry from my mother's womb
A fanatic heart."

 

💔

Tryin' to stay quiet 'cause I'm angry

I'm outside, HT
Heart torn, babygirl, you know me (yeah)
Still need your love or I'll suicide
I've been feeling drowsy, trying to cry
But I can't no more so I write about dying 
I'm tryin to stay quiet 'cause I'm angry,
I'm outside, HT
Heart torn, babygirl, you know me
Who am I? 
I've been feeling drowsy, trying to cry
But I can't no more and I think I won't survive
Heart torn, babygirl, you know me...

...

I'm going to leave this open until Monday, 20:00.

Judgements and prizes will be handed out then.

Friendship Denied

 

If you call this friendship, I don't need it

Some things stay the same but I forget it

Just know if you ever let me down I'll be leaving

Just know if you ever let me down, you'll know the reason

...

And your feelings

Is it real or is it fake? can't tell the difference

I was fearing your betrayal from the beginning, it's ridiculous

Plus I was already hurt when you did this

And my wife-to-be was mourning, on some Congreve ish

Man, they're really faking love, I just don't get it

Yeah, they always say they care but they don't really

These are thoughts I wouldn't share but they must listen

This shot could land anywhere, it makes no difference

Yeah, it makes no difference...

...

And I just think it's funny how it goes

How I'm just really out here on my own

And I ain't trying no different approach

What I said has been said, it's set in stone

yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah

...

"I submit a song I made up whire drinking heaviry rast week. Arthough it is a song, the words are so beautifur that it deserves recognition as pure poetry. Behord, beautful sausage poem!"

"Oh sausages are rovery, I eat them arr day rong,

They make me so damn happy, that now I sing this song,

Oh rittre meatry marveL, so round and smarr and sweet, 

You dance across my tastebuds and give me happy feet,

 

Oh happy rittre sausage, I rove you more and more,

One day I eat so many, I end up on the froor,

For breakfast runch and dinner, I eat them arr for me,

Just ignore the chest pain, and crogging arteries, Oi!"

I had heard about a poetry contest and it immediately caught my ear. I've always had a soft spot for poetry, admiring the soft violence felt in the words of many poets.

<font color="#BBBBBB">Nothing quite caught my attention like the classic poets, though, splitting their tales in order to fit them into strict, self-imposed rules. If anything, it resembled this life of ours.</font>

Shuffling around the papers in my brief case, my hands produced a scrap of paper with a few inky fingerprints and a partial brown circle. The sheet, clearly kissed by countless coffee mugs and cradled in more diners than most Americans would visit in their lifetimes, proudly displayed a shaky handwriting whose secrets revealed:

Now sadly can’t I yet write iambs’ flatly
I can wish you turn pleased dearly by this
Am I unable to write poetry?
Like Shakespeare, light crafts of beauty, fleur d'lis.

For I solely attempt my devotion
Scribbling fondly, trusting you will yet feel
Alike. Dear love, such mill of emotion
For I would be delighted indeed to reel

You in, my love. But my words aren't enough
How could you love me now, it feels bizarre
Lyricism is far pointless yet wholly
But your affection leaves a painful scar

Could you at last give me your love forever
Or will this heart be yours so long whenever

 

As eyes dwell shut, my lingering rest arrives rushed 
Sole desire of mine to roam, lost endlessly in darkness
Yet obligations are appointed, I must not give in pushed 
by vile and lethargic pine for sleep deprivation, my harness 

Smudged numbers populate the borders, hinting at the poem's lack of perfection. I gave it a quiet nod, deeming it good enough, and presented it for approval.

Latom had never been one with words. Things always seem to get out of hand or get interpret in the wrong way. But still she couldn't help but stay out of a chance to earn some money. Clearing her voice she started.

There once was a man named Mike

A man that no one could like

He had a wife and two kids

They as well were true pigs

He even had a loser job

The kind that would make everyone sob

One day he decided enough is enough

He had to do something rough

Killing his wife was apparently the thing to do

Something grim had to ensue

Killing her quietly in her sleep

But even this was an ask too steep

Shooting himself and the dog instead

Now he's spending his days sharing a bunk bed

Latom quickly scribbles down the poem on a piece of napkin, licks on the backside and tries to get it stuck to the lamppost. Feeling quite pleased with herself she went on with her day.

Perhaps you meant 36 or 48 hour extension Kirsty? We are all waiting with baited breath to discover the identity of the Mafia's worst poet!