Pg poems

  They drive in chariots trimmed in gold, Polished wheels on sacred roads, The engines purring 'holy tunes', While prayers rise under broken moons. "Give!" they cry, with hands outstretched, "Plant a good seed and you'll be blessed!" Look! The faithful kneel on battered floors, While they ascend and taxi through the clouds. The big cars they ride, a gospel ride, Fueled by tithes from the countryside. Look! With every sermon, and every shout, A widow’s coin is counted out. Their robes are always white, and their words rehearsed, But truth, within, is slyly cursed. They preach of wealth and Heaven's gates, Yet guard their own with armored plates. They fly on wings of stolen prayers, While saints below breathe dusty airs. Their jets proclaim, “The Lord provides!” But never for the ones who cry. The church, a showroom now for grace, Where poor men kneel, but lose the race. They buy the cars that prophets praise, While barefoot souls just hope and pray. A...

  I was a bin once - humble, holding, here. The world poured itself into me. Apple cores, paper dreams, love notes torn in haste. Secrets sealed in wrappers. The laughter of children crumbed and tossed. I took it all - without question, without pride, without shame. I was the end of many beginnings. Some saw me and turned away - wrinkled noses, quickened steps. But a few placed things gently, as if I mattered. As if the act of discarding could be kind. Then came the day they said I was full. Too stained. Too old. Too used. They replaced me with something shinier, sleeker, silent. I sat in the back alley, forgotten. Rain softened my rust, and still, I waited. Not for trash - but for purpose. For someone to see the worth in what once held the weight of the world. I was once a bin. And I still ache to be useful again.

When I was a boy,  I used to wonder why my father came home late some nights , He was very quiet, very heavy, sometimes in spirits, distant. No smile. No stories. Just silence…  And the sound of weary footsteps faded down the hallway, to bed. I could hear some whispers of hope from mommy saying, " All shall be well my son, go for it" Something needed to be done,  Whether immediately, or progressively, Diplomacy just failed, there was a reality that couldn't be solved by diplomats, Hard work was mandatory... Back then, I thought he was just tired, That he prioritized sleep rather than meals, But now I know better -  He was fighting battles too heavy to name. He was broke… but couldn’t cry. He was sick… but couldn’t stop. He was overwhelmed… but couldn’t show it. Because men - fathers - don’t get the luxury of falling apart. The world is brutal to men. You either produce or perish. No break. No mercy. No soft landing - just relentless expectations: Provide. Protect. Le...