Is It Poetry
our round ball
Copies for the worker, always working.
Each round ball you never copy, comes around.
America which they can pull they push.
Africa the pharmaceutical the children's, candy ate.
China, and paid directly, organs playing monkeys make,
that nothing really is, entirely of.
Each damaged day unmade,
and wear the cloth and pray each night for day.
Is It Poetry's Other Poems
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (our round ball by Is It Poetry )
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
William Ernest Henley
- Prime Truth - 66, Pranab K. Chakraborty
- Request, Frieda Risvold
- Khwab martay nhi! ~(inspired) ~, Shahzia Batool
- Deep Sadness, RoseAnn V. Shawiak
- Will never ask for more than this..., Alok Singhal
- Circumventing Trails, RoseAnn V. Shawiak
- Morning, Ruma Chaudhuri
- The Sign, Rex mayor Ubini
- Open Letter to Lady Poetry, Sandra Feldman
- Mbase nuk e dinte…, skender iljaz braka