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Lewis Irwin May 2018
He closed his eyes on his weekly stroll,
And pondered on what it would be; if he'd known,
That it'd be a golden paved death - he'd lay with his dole.
Would all the trench boys still ****** to dug out holes?

Many bitter nights with malice to his brain,
Thought lasting the hardship would be the 'all okay'.
The flag would save him; The flag would eradicate the pain,
But the flag hollowed him out and the trench boys all the same.

What must we do in such a caviler present age?
Sign petitions in false hope of changing the unchanged?
The ol' trench boys still rot in sheltered accommodation.
Gave their live; their youth; their back and front tooth,
For their isolated treasured nation.
Sydney Feb 2017
There's something about an empty tube carriage
Not even so late at night
That makes me think of stars
And lovers
And mostly loneliness
And the endless possibilities of humanity
It quietly fills as you sit and write this
And life continues;
The city breathes again
And so you just smile
Because you tasted a little of the infinite.
if you find yourself in the loving presence of someone who writes;
turn the other way.
it may seem romantic at first
when she describes the curve of your pouted lips
or the way
her eyes
become clouded
when trying to overcome writer's block
you may find it cute
when you see yourself in bits of her work
knowing that your conversations will stick in her brain
as she tries to sleep,
but when that turns to tossing and turning at 12:07 A.M.
she will flip open the leather bound notebook
and begin to write about what you said to her
or what you're doing wrong
or maybe you'll see another man in her work
these questions will leave you empty, not knowing what is about you
and what isn't.
after the honeymoon phase ends (three months time),
and you are forced to look at her for all that she is
and when you find that it isn't enough
she will write about you then
but this time it will not be in the compassionate way she once did
it won't lack passion
but it will be in a different way
she will write about how you hurt her
how she can't find the right words to say about it
but when you look at her work, she hits every sentence
perfectly executed
and those words
will haunt you
for the rest of your sleepless nights
Pres George Bush Junior
Or tyrant King George II?
What's the difference?
Asma Shatwan Dec 2015
I speak in two tongues and they both hiss at each other like snakes.
Tripping over my own words as my mouth becomes a battle ground.
I stand on the side-lines looking in. Waiting for the opportunity to announce my presence.
A foreigner in my motherland and a foreigner in a sea of white faces,
And I do not fit the colour scheme.

I’m a stranger, an alien, something to be prodded and poked at and made to squirm.
A minority not to be distinguished from a sea of cloth draped women.
An epitome of the strange lands of deserts and spice.
And hung above my head is a dark cloud of stereotypes and misconceptions.

The Western woman wants to fight for the freedom of the daughters of Eve,
Not understanding that her view of liberation tastes different on my tongue.
So I’m left helpless to the hot iron lens of the media, examining me like a specimen on a petri dish.

My identity, a crumbling church still worthy of all the worship.
I memorized my history books then forgot all the verses.
I grew up haunted by my ancestor’s curses.
I’ve shed so many layers of my skin attempting to fit in, now I no longer recognize myself.
I gaze into the mirror and my reflection looks away, too afraid to make eye contact with a stranger.

I am a human split in two by borders that require passports and stamps of approval.
One half of my bleeds in red, white and blue, and the other the ashes of a burning nation.
I soak up every atom in my body with a culture that isn’t mine,
And speak words that feel heavy on my mother’s broken tongue.

Embedded in the arms of parents who are too afraid to let me go, because the world is cruel to women who don’t belong.
I am like glass that has been shattered into a million pieces, and then painstakingly put back together again.
Delicate to the touch, quivering beneath broken knuckles and clenched fists.

In the back of my mind lie vague recollections of the hot marble floors of a childhood home,
Of crevices etched into unfamiliar smiling faces,
And a country which my roots have been uplifted from.

I am a kaleidoscope. A kaleidoscope of clashing colours but you, you only view me in black and shades of grey.
I question how to belong without jumping into a skin suit that’s too baggy at the sleeves, because one size does not fit all.
I don’t want to lose my morals, values and system of beliefs.
A whirlwind of obstacles surrounding me, closing in on all sides…it’s hard to breathe.

But even after multiple blows I’m still holding onto this thread of hope…and pulling.
Unravelling what’s beneath.
And when I raise my firm hands to the sky I pray,
That my wandering soul finds a place to call home one day.

— The End —