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This poem is dedicated to all poets in HP of whom I am a happy participant--a very new one--like someone just entering a kindergarten

We don't carry swords
we don't fight in battle-fields
we don't seek power or fame
we are just poets--word-warriors
who put the sword to sleep
to spread that which is noble and worthy
we see the worm festering and eating
into the heart of civilisation
and shall not turn a blind eye
we will keep vigil
as silent sentinels
never mind if we are set aside
by assailants whether open or covert
we know
the world is weeping
and in the abysm of darkness
there is not a single spark of light
quo vadis  **** sapiens?
who or what will give hope
in the face of despair and disillusionment ?
because the world is weeping
we also share its tears
because hearts are broken
part of us dies
because there is loneliness and desolation
we become part of that loss and ruin
because there is poverty and deprivation
we loathe all that wealth and opulence
that seek but their own gratification
but is man born for sorrow and defeat?
where should we turn next?
is salvation and redemption in sight?

Though we are only vox clamantis in deserto
we will despair not
nor should we walk away in cowardice
we must have faith
patience
endurance
words are our bullets
compassion is our shield
will is our fortress
it might take a millenium
to bring about a brave new world
but we are the word-bearers and word-warriors
until the invisible battle is fought
and won
we will never yield
nil
She had learned to spread her wings all by herself.
She was born from the ashes of her broken soul.
She was all alone, left out to fend off on her own.
But she survived, because the fire inside, burned brighter than the fire outside.
The rising phoenix
She was aesthetic... not because of the way she laughed or the way her eyes sparkled whenever she talked about something she loved and not because of the way she used to bite her lower lip whenever she was lost deep in her thoughts.
But, simply because of the way she perceived the world. She was full of positivity and her aura spoke volumes about all the captivating mysteries that made her who she was.
This is a disease.
People say it isn't deadly.

But
It is.

It grips hold of its host.
Making them feel miserable.

It rips open the old wounds;
buried deep inside;
to bleed and soak through the fabric of time
to stain the newly washed cloth
I just washed of all its dirt
Once Again.

It beat down the wall
That I put up
To keep it out.

For Good.

It clawed and growled and howled.
At the glowing moonlight of what was my
New Self.
Begging to have a slice of that new pie.

It got what it wanted.

It took hold of me;
Again.
It made me bleed;
Again.
It made the seas of mid-night aches
and
mid-day death wishes arise
Again.

When Will it Go Away.
i'd rather be the
SOIL
that helps others
GROW
than a

ROSE WITHOUT FRAGRANCE**


soulsurvivor
(C) 8/31/2015
May I always remember
that I am only

CLAY

---
 Aug 2015 MsAmendable
MrJaM
the first demon
man has ever seen
is the shadow of his own
on the night without the moon

greater than his soul
conquering his mind
aided by a weapon -
*fear of his own
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