Thomas Davis

A Short Collection Of Poems.

Political in nature.

 

 

Thomas Davis is an up and coming poet from Devon, England. Finding himself constantly angered by politics, Thomas never has difficulty with finding new content for his poetry.

 

Thomas Davis.

Twitter: @PoetTomDavis

Instagram: @poettomdavis

 

 

Contents.

Page 1 – The refugee Camp.

Page 2 – Black lives Matter.

Page 3 – The white Helmets.

Page 4 – Capitalism.

Page 5 – Wasteful.

Page 6 – Where is the difference?

Page 7 – Homelessness.

Page 8 – Victory.

 

 

© Thomas Davis 2016

 

 

The Refugee Camp.

 

 

Dreary faced, with smiles gone;

A painful non-existence.

Silent tears hit the sodden ground

Of the town within a city.

Canvas failing under weather

With sewers fit to burst.

Disease at work, hugging all,

Whilst food has taken off.

A camp in phrase but meaning, no.

The damp and needless prison.

 

Black Lives Matter.

 

Stop,

My hands are reaching for the stars,

Please don’t shoot!

I’ll do what you order of me.

Yes, I’ll come quietly.

Thank you for holstering your gun.

 

Only,

You killed my friend last week

He had his hands up too.

He kissed the ground like you asked,

He did exactly the same as me

And yet you shot him from afar.

 

Wait,

Why did you do that,

How did he deserve it more than me?

He was black and I am white,

Is that a reason to use force?

 

Fuck,

I listened to the papers.

When they said that it was unfortunate,

That he hadn’t followed orders.

But he did exactly the same as me.

The truth is, that you murdered him.

The White Helmets.

 

 

Brave and selfless souls do wear

The famous hats of white.

Defying fear, as bombs do fall

Ignoring thoughts of flight.

As buildings fall into the ground,

Kids do watch in fear.

The cost of indiscriminate war

Is very, very dear.

The ones in helmets, everyday,

Saving people under fire.

If only we did show more love,

The helmets could retire.

 

Capitalism.

 

 

Sit down, relax, and please don’t worry.

So bloody what if you have no money!

Riches are the things that cannot be bought,

Like kindness of the soul, you ignorant sort!

Slaving away for higher monetary gain,

Whilst ignoring the people who suffer in pain.

This life is not one that I would choose to live,

Unless forced by expectations that others give.

Capitalist greed, the root of all bad.

Living for money is really quite sad.

Lets just pretend that these are just poetic tales

And buy more useless stuff from the January sales.

 

Wasteful.

 

Is it brave to keep living

The same wasteful lives,

Are we wasting our brave

Waste filled earth.

Waste sorting sites

For the food that we waste

Whilst waists are increasing in girth.

Is it brave to keep living

The same wasteful lives?

Are we wasting our brave

Waste filled earth?

 

Homelessness.

 

 

The Cold, I don’t miss,

Neither the fear.

The looks of disgust,

I don’t miss either.

The kind souls though,

Those who helped,

I miss.

 

Where is the difference?

 

 

The ant;

Scurrying with haste

Both too and thro

With burden heavy shoulders

Forever on show.

 

The Human;

Scurrying with haste

Both too and thro

With burden heavy shoulders

Forever on show.

 

 

Victory?

 

The water doth gently fall

Onto blood soaked hands,

A historic post war ritual

Of the heavyhearted man.

The cold breath doth linger

Upon the damp cruel night air,

Still beads of sweat do form

On weary war stained hair.

From yonder, a trumpet sounds

An eerie signal of death,

A sad song of victory

For those that be left.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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