He sits being torn through words of scorn
The realisation is starting to form

Through broken letters of hate and neglect
One finds his own inner respect

Now understands what they call "forgiveness"
Even though these lines are relentless

They're broken attempts to dismay his heart
These segregate demons apart

For he is now a growing system
Growing stronger in rhythm

Accepting light in new places
Welcoming new faces

All he desires is be the best he can be
That being said
"He" is me

-Joseph B Schneider

Looking at a very sweet couple
"I wish that is me"
Looking at a beautiful woman
"I wish I am as beautiful as her"
Looking at a happy family
"I wish that one is mine"

For every beautiful thing I see
My heart would feel touched and ached
Wanted those moments I saw to be mine

Looking at myself standing in the mirror
"I wish I can be less envy and just appreciate what I have now"

We are passing through a blue
period after
a grey period: 'Surely
a green age will follow.' You
stifle your remorse. We are on
our way to
yet
another chance
for tears
in our mother's eyes. Don't you agree? Mothers
enfolded
in the depths -the depths
of land dear
to our souls - where the gods
live
steeped in their
energy. That energy
is proof enough that never, not for
one single
moment, have their hearts
departed
from that magnetic place.
               Magnetic? Of course...
Alone in those lands,
they hang on to their sadness, their wisdom,
while their children
              reach out to catch
                         the golden ring of freedom,
and the risk:

the risk of wandering on an endless,
senseless pilgrimage. Flying
like model planes? Oh,
the thrill
until -
three thousand, twelve thousand
years - they're found, fossilised in sedimentary rocks,
mothers
separated from their children, layers
and layers apart, preserved,
with a bit of luck, in mint condition
(maybe) buried
with all the things that might
be needed in the afterlife...
A movement
from East to West, following
the progress
of the sun. What

was I saying? Oh yes, we are passing through
a blue period, after
a grey period...

Liviu Ioan Stoiciu, from Born in Romania, Contemporary Literature Press, Bucharest 2014

“May they be scalded at the post,
Drape from the limbs upon our pine,
Inscribe into their stripped bare skin
They are the weak, the faulty, of sin."

I could compose a ballad of time,
Profound, compelling reason and rhyme,
Impeccable stanzas,
Phrasing flowing as a river—

As could all of us,
But what impact would succeed?
To pirouette in the aching of others,
Leer in their ******, their night

I’m a dashing *******!
Bound from birth to do nothing but receive
While others around me
Shall pale, wither, die

Never for any other
Have I so much as cried...