Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
When I see the Haitian flag, tears rush into my eyes.
When I see the Haitian flag, my Haitian heart cries.
Our people have been ridiculed, yet our flag continues
To flow unimpeded. We will never die on our knees.
If we must die, we will die standing like brave soldiers.
We will not bow our head. We will stare at the racist liars,
Because our Heroes died for our freedom, honor and dignity.
Haiti is the most exploited country in the world. Haiti, Haiti
Will survive, and all the perpetrators will rot one day in Hell.
Haiti is the most betrayed country in the world. Haiti, Haiti
Is a beautiful country, in spite of the centuries of disrespect
Of over-exploiting, looting, stealing, and obvious neglect.
Haiti is patient. One day, all the fake and snake goons will rot in Hell.
When I see the images of Haiti, I shake and shake my head and I pray.
When I see the forced smiles of Haiti; speechless, I don't know what to say.
I become sad, angry and numb, because many of us LOVE Haiti,
Our Homeland, which Haiti has been governed by a lot of haters,
By a clan of shrewd kleptomaniacs, who know how to fool the voters,
Which are naïve, uninformed and illiterate. Haiti will survive their hypocrisy,
At the end of the day. When I see the bicolor, tears come to my eyes,
'Cause we have suffered enough and too much. Yes, my brave heart cries.

P.S. May 18 is Haitian Flag's Day (May 18,1803 - May 18,2018) . Happy Haitian Flag's Day!

Copyright © May 18,2018, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several books of poetry.
Asuka May 16
I hear them—
the sheep in their scripted refrain:
"Lower your gaze. Stay in your lane.
Blend with the flock, bury your flame—
No need for thunder. No need for name."

But I remember the ones who walked unbowed,
Eyes like storms,
souls too loud.
They taught me not to kneel, but rise,
To tear the silence,
to scorch the skies.

Don’t flow like water through cracks they choose,
A shape that fits
is a self you lose.
Be wind—ravenous, rough, untamed,
A force with no leash,
no master,
no name.

If they seal you in a space too tight,
Too small for soul,
too dim for light—
Split it open. Let rage ignite.
Turn your whisper into a war-cry flight.

This is your voice:
not meek, not borrowed.
A sun that sears
through every sorrow.
If breath still burns within your chest,
Roar, rebel—
be nothing less.

Carve your path through dusk and scar.
You are the blaze.
You are the star.
CallMeVenus May 13
Once upon a time, there were five children who weren’t really children.
They were neglected feelings wearing borrowed skin and convictions of no needs.

The first was a boy who felt nothing at all.
He walked through life like a ghost no one remembered dying.
They called him cold, but he was just tired
Of dripping in places no one would whipe.
Inside, he wanted someone to knock on the door he bolted shut.
But no one ever stayed long enough to try.


The second was a dog who was always smiling.
People passed by and said, “What a happy little thing.”
But they put a leash around its neck and called it loyalty.
It wagged its tail even when it hurt,
because someone once told it love is earned through obedience.
So he waited.
And waited.
And waited.
No one returns.


The third was a boy who swallowed his nightmares.
He thought if he ate them all,
they’d go away.
But they grew inside him like weeds—
and some nights, he screamed in his sleep,
his belly full of bells no one could hear.

The fourth was a hand—
just a hand.
It wanted everything.
It grabbed and gripped and begged to be filled.
But everything it touched turned into something else:
a kiss became a bruise,
a hug became a choke.
The hand never asked, only took.
And still, it was always hungry.


The fifth wore a mask.
A lovely one.
Shiny eyes, soft lips, laughter stitched just right.
She wore it so long,
she forgot who lived underneath.
When people loved her,
she wondered who they were loving.
So she smiled harder.
And disappeared a little more each day.

One by one,
they wandered into the Forest of Almost.

They didn’t mean to meet each other.
They were just looking for silence
that didn’t hurt.

They didn’t speak at first.
They only sat—close, but not touching.
Each one pretending not to notice
how the others looked like pieces of them.

The boy who felt nothing
was the only one who saw the dog’s leash.
The girl with the mask
was the only one who saw the nightmares blooming under the boy’s skin.
The greedy hand trembled when the smiling dog licked it gently,
as if even hunger deserved kindness.

And slowly,
they did what no one else had done for them:

They stayed.

Not to fix.
Not to save.
Just to be.

And maybe that was the magic.
Because in the Forest of Almost,
they didn’t become whole—
but they did become real.

And sometimes,
real is the bravest thing you can be.
AllyRose May 3
It feels so sad to say out loud
That the good old days
Didn’t last that long

But I know that Human beings make mistakes
That’s how we grow to remain steadfast and strong

In the early morning hours I sound the alarm
And it’s extremely alarming
Cause It feels like nobody cares

All I feel is empitness
Cause now there’s nobody there….
to shelter me through the storm…

It feels like an eternity
Since I felt happiness
I thought our love was strong
But I was wrong…

How come back when I was young
You taught me right from wrong
And told me “Actions speak volumes over words” but now your contradicting your own words

We spent half a life together but
Being with you turned into a living nightmare

We live
We learn
We crash
We burn
Sometimes there’s no shelter to shelter you through all the raging storms…

Words of wisdom
Are coming from the voices in my mind
Telling me to give life another chance.
Cause you’ll never know if you never give it a try…

Remember that nothing lasts forever.
Not even wars or stressful times.
So this raging storm CANT and WILL NOT Last forever.

And it may not even last that long…
#trauma #pain #abuse #story #truestory #courage #bravery #strength
Joss Lennox May 1
When the ravens came, they stole--
Took everything,
Cast it far away,  
Hid it beneath the grays.
Carelessly taunting,
While haunting their prey,
Alone in their bug infested,
Thrown together nests,
One learns to fend for themselves.
The days,
Relentless,
Faded into terror filled nights.
Standing on a dangling twig,
Risking one last breath,
Forever asking, "what's next?"
Then, He reached out His helpful hand,
With an unshakeable voice,
& sounding stance
Advising to,
Walk beyond their words,
Which fall like stones,
Into rivers you've passed,
Onto new rivers unknown.
a journey through trauma, survival and the courage to move forward through spiritual understanding and enlightenment.
Kellonor Mar 13
Reaching the end is no simple thing,
you need strength of body and a soul ready to give it all.
It’s not about dark feelings of the mind,
nor the friendly souls supporting you or not.
It falls on you to be prepared for everything.

It doesn’t have to be a lonesome road, though.
You find all kinds of people in your life
just follow the hum, the silent thread that connects
this world with the realm of bravery and grit,
and embrace the melody of reconciliation.

I’ve fought those shadows long enough.
It’s time to poise myself and fight back.
Be it the dark sickness or an ailment of the mind,
I will triumph over this and renew my world
for my soul is tempered, my body unshaken.

I rise anew, my world reborn.
Written as my metamorphosis nears completion
Gideon Mar 8
Brave Hero,
You wish to save the world?
With your aspirations, you can run for miles
With your dreams, you can burn through metal.
With your hopes, you can destroy even mountains.

But, Brave Hero!
You must learn your lesson!
Running is only avoidance.
Burning is only rage.
Destroying is only vengeance

Oh, Brave Hero!
You must know these three truths!
Know them in your body.
Know them in your mind.
Know them even in your soul.

Brave Hero,
It's okay if you only save one person.
It’s okay if that person is you.
It’s okay.
Saman Badam Feb 26
The slash of ashen rain and snap of rime
That bite through rind to grind the brittle bones.
The rising glare of sun, like chorus hymn,
That bakes the bones like smelting sands to stones.
 
The shifting sand of dunes, in haze of heat,
Like knotting mighty serpents into weave.
The blinding fog of night that stumps the feet,
Like patient hunter-wolves that just won't leave.
 
A drop of water’s worth beyond all wealth—
For what is coin to do when death does come?
The blowing wind that scours the flesh in health
And bones in death, in eerie tunes ahum.
 
Here stands a mighty fort, a smothered husk,
On edge of water hole, with no relief,
Where dwell the monks with stitched eyes by dusk,
The punished souls, as haughty moonlight thief.
 
Within water once stood a forest great,
For water mirrored not desert but woods—
The Twilight Woods of sage and sights await,
A tug to moonlight threads on branching shoots
 
As heavens glow like amethyst alight,
And roses meld in lilies, hyacinth.
Amid the sparking, throbbing stars aflight
While ether hums a music praising Cynth.
 
No serpent slither, beasts to walk the ground,
No owls, or sparrows wild on wind and sky,
No chirping grasshoppers, to buzz around,
For only thrum of fate, a dance to fly.
 
To show the path where all the future lain—
A pebble’s cascade into landslide vast,
A poisoned ear that greatest king hath slain,
No cornered rats to not be bitten fast.
 
And showed the visions, great and small, on leaves,
As moonlight tangled into web from top
To roots and flowers, made as dazzling eaves—
A land of ever-twilight, dawn-lit stop.
 
The monks were tasked to care for forest all,
And walk the sacred paths of knowledge long
To stand at guard at desert fortress wall,
Unmask the seekers seeking sacred song.
 
A foundling monk, the order embraced came,
A seed of greed in heart his buried deep,
For decades, greed a secret kinship claim,
Until the abbot punished them a sweep.
 
The blacken kin in greed, a six and one,
And each a horse, a hubris ridden soul,
To cull the pride, the fare received by none;
And cook the meals for order sennight whole.
 
Yet yearning deep to partake woods, beseech,
The seven monks agreed to loathsome act,
In evening meals, a belladonna each,
And weeping, killed their brothers all by pact.
 
And burned their brothers all at pyre en masse,
From ash and salt, they wrought a box to steal,
A piece of moonlight lit from forest grass,
To partake forest's bounty, brought to heel.
 
From grass to moss, from fern to shrub so slight,
The silver threads unwound in glutton sweep.
The casket, carved of ash and salt so tight,
To cage the forest’s breath in grasping keep
 
But greed—O greed! —that clawed away at heart,
To hollow inside out and fill in dark.
For power strong and deep, but forest’s part
And drunk too deep from sealed in box of brack.
 
To take the heart to mute the sharpened mien;
The forest paths, a writhing labyrinth,
Like autumn wrath, the branches shorn of green,
And warping roots to undulating plinth.
 
The seething dusk, by night, had punished monks—
The future sight they lost much quicker still,
While mundane sight they lost in broken chunks,
As thousand paths of future broke their will.
 
Their each attempt became a thread on eyes.
They knelt at water hole and mercy plead,
Despair at silent water led to lies.
They wept and begged, howling rage, and bled.
 
Their bodies slowly broke with passing years,
And monks, for far too long, a death they yearned.
But death did seek them not, for grove had veered—
Their path of souls was stitched shut, they learned.
 
In horror saw their bodies slowly break,
Till only wights, their bound to chunks of bones
Remained. At last, the pond then stirred awake
And lapped away the wights as forest stones.
 
For many years, the forest broken stayed,
Became a death and dreadful trap for sane,
Recalled in all the lands as glade of frayed,
And known for blinded monks, their folly vain.
 
A pilgrim wandered seven seas and winds,
To seek a tiny spot of idyll piece,
He wore a robe, a dusty grey and pinned,
With sterner hide and kindly face so creased.
 
The pilgrim, far from shattered fortress, came
To seek and walk his future path ahead.
While searching Twilight Woods of renowned fame,
He found the way to fortress lost instead.
 
And found regret of monks before their end,
Who penned of truth, conceit, and folly vast.
The pilgrim found his path, as way his bend,
To right the wrong of past—a task so vast.
 
At night, in sleep he felt the forest weep,
And saw the nightmare, fury writ in sight,
The stench of rotting greed in stones so deep,
A promised idyll glade, a pact in night.
 
"But," argued he, " should not be task of mine,
My soul's fatigued, and all the marrow's drained,"
The forest plead, "Who, if not hands of thine?"
In soothing whispers, grave debate so waned 
 
In sort of wakeful dream, bemused he lay,
And popped his back to echo lingered pain,
Until poppied warmth of rest took away,
His nightmares each, a doubt and worry slain.
 
Compelled by duty, driven towards act,
A tepid doubt but, “If not me, then who?”
Thus, born in courage, set fulfilling pact—
He went away to fate and future woo.
 
With heart in mouth, he kept the moonlight safe
And limped to water hole at fortress edge.
To mend the wounds of centuries-full strife,
He dived in magic pond to shape a wedge.
 
To Bleak Weald, Dusk-Woods, Grove of Screeching Wights—
A land of many names and many routes.
While veiled in gloom and dusk, with looming heights,
It ****** at ashen tears through creeping roots.
 
The grasping claws of forests, seeking moon,
Would turn around at slightest sound to pierce
The hearts. For those who dare disturb are hewn
And strewn apart, to augur insights fierce.
 
A thousand cuts, a thousand deaths a breath—
The screeching wights, a chilling wreath in debt.
The pilgrim wove a tale immense in breadth,
For every year, a drop was bled to whet.
 
The pilgrim hastened into heart of woods
And stumbled fast through death, awaiting prey.
From satchel worn, returned the stolen goods
To woods betrayed—the moonlight, craved and prayed.
 
The claws that rose to heavens shivered once,
Then turned, unfurled, to twist and groan aloud.
The roots, then soaking moonlight inside since,
And vernal leaves regrew to eyes unshroud.
 
The blind and screeching wights were released free.
The pilgrim, honored yew-wrought walking staff.
The moonlight woven into web in glee,
And changes more to set his heart alaugh.
 
The pilgrim wandered out from sacred pond
And saw the fortress rise in glory full.
A year and one he spent to chisel song—
Of Twilight Woods, a warning meant to mull.
 
The jocund forest kept their faithful vow,
An orchard, berries, wooden-cottage small,
A gift of seven-furlong land to sow,
In heart of twilight—safe from rain and squall.
 
Thus, Bleak Weald, Dusk-Woods, Grove of Screeching Wights
Became the Twilight Woods of sage and sights.
Saman Badam Feb 16
The brave and cowards fit in selfsame grave,
But not the songs, for deeds yet shape their fame.
With rasping throat and grating tongue, we rave
Of songs that vary, walking paths not same.

They crooned and groaned their will on world again,
To teach us not to scorn the fear we feel:
That fear is mankind’s eldest friend ere pain,
For pain’s behind the err, before the heal.

So, hold your fear in heart and seek advice,
As brave have countless times before they soar.
But let it rule you not, nor heed this vice,
For fear has stayed the hand of pain before.

The brave do make their fear a fervent shield,
While cowards yield, for death and pain to meld.
Vianne Lior Feb 14
Stone lion mourns deep,
etched in grief, yet standing proud,
bravery carved wide.
A lion falls, yet duty stays,
Carved in stone, his honor sways.
For king and cause, they stood, they died,
Their silent valor, petrified.
The Lion of Lucerne stands as a testament to the bravery of the Swiss Guards who gave their lives in 1792, embodying the timeless bond between duty and sacrifice. Its mournful yet proud figure immortalizes their heroism, carved in stone for generations to remember.
Next page