Deprivation

Deprivation

Violence stricken,
trachea gurgles.
This horror story is real
yet runs in circles,

like a dog on a hog
chasing his own tail.
Like a debtor to the creditor,
the check is in the mail.

It’s like you’re choking
on bills and rent.
Borrow for food,
then borrow to pay back what was spent.

It’s like drowning in sludge,
you try to swim, you can’t budge;
tasting sweat across your lips,
like working-class smudge.

But you pay the debt
of another man’s treachery
while it sucks your soul
and makes you an accessory,

abetting this crime
of your own demise:
A disposable emblem
for another man’s rise.

You kill yourself
like you slit your own throat;
trying to choke down pride
but instead vomit your endnote.

Because this is how you die
when your story is told.
But it’s always untold
when you’re bought and sold.

Featured image: Flickr, Ashley Campbell. Some rights reserved.

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Nathan Bernardo

I've been writing poetry since I was a teenager, which was back in the early 1980s. I've studied poetry a bit, have learned form, meter, alliteration, things like that; but mostly I just let it flow. Though academics tend to think rhyme is contrived, and it often is, I still use it. I think poetry is rhythm and sound. If it sounds good when you read it out loud, then it's good poetry.

I think I admire E. E. Cummings the most out of the great poets; because of his totally unorthodox approach. For substance, I like Walt Whitman. For rhythm, I like Edgar Allan Poe. For the raw stuff, I like Ginsberg. I also like a little Dylan Thomas.

As for my own writing, I like to explore deeper feelings but feelings that have broad meaning too.

Hope to share some of that meaningful writing here.

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