Carl PortenFrom

Poetry By Carl Porten


We arenít your trophies.
We arenít your clothes,
aní we arenít your medicine
to heal human colds.

We own the same lease,
tended by hearts,
aní itís only your greed now
that tears us apart.

Living your dreams,
at the cost of our screams,
with traps aní with bullets
you steal what you need.

Placing for pleasure,
for others to see,
behind bars of steal,
itís a human disease.

Profits from pictures
capturing time,
you take happy memories,
while we cry inside.

Inside rooms with no windows
our nightmares hide
as you prod aní you prick
to see what whatís inside.

Made to play games,
aní history will tell...
that we never signed up
to play games in your hell.

Frozen aní burnít.
attached to wires,
cut up aní scarred
aní electrified.

Thatís just mine,
theirs billions more minds,
in labs with humans
who get left behind.

Living room decor,
with mouth open wide.
Thereís death on your floor
that you stole from his pride.

Aní really dear humans,
you stole the tusks,
of matriarch majesty,
for cigarette buts.

Aní cut off a leg
so from nasty cloud breaks,
youíve a place for umbrellas,
that looks nice in your place.

We arenít your trophies
We arenít your clothes,
aní we arenít your medicine
to fix human colds.

Dear human your horrid,
you fell off the grid,
aní fucked up aní broke
everything that you did.

We used to be neighbours,
aní love not in fear,
Ďtill pride and your gluttony
brought death to our door...


Poetry © 2022 Carl Porten

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