She was gunned  down
For standing in the way
Of their killing spree.
Marielle Franco
Was a rising Civil Rights Activist in Brazil
On the level of Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.
And Malcolm X.
The scale of Police Brutality in Brazil
Is worse than any country on Earth,
The United States
Comes close.
If you stand for the Poor and Oppressed.....
If you stand for Justice and Human Rights,
You must be prepared
To pay the ultimate price.
To pay the ultimate price.
Those of us here in the United States
Who love and appreciate
The beauty, profundity and expressiveness
Of the Culture and People of Brazil
Stand in Solidarity with you
And share your grief and anger.
PM 3d
Everything I feel proud of possessing :
my openness,
my honesty,
my discipline,
my kindness and
my skill with words - delving deep into them to find the solace I need - only seems to be improving with age.

The one thing that I deeply want and need, however, seems to be decreasing as each second ticks by - a little bit of courage.
Jenny 6d
Not perfect but authentic,
not expensive but expressive,
not in fame but I want to shout your name,
Not jealous of attention but innocent of pure admiration,
Not helpless but brave,
Not fearless but peerless,

Yet all you see that pass through your heart
is still
Not me but her at the end
Whatever try that you could do, if the person you thought was meant for you wasn't really the one you ought to have, you'll be left dumbfounded by feelings you could hardly resolve. Let's keep dwelling and grab the chances!
My nightmares,
Are you my shadows that glare,
In contempt at me,
Such that sleep has deserted me.
Are you there to persecute me,
In bed,I turn and toil,
In terror,like a foetus I coil,
For mercy ,to my Lord I shout,
Pray, what my nightmares are about?
Yet, you continue to gnaw,  
All the courage I strive to draw.
I swear, your attempt I shall foil,
Your plans I shall  spoil,
I shall seek to rise,
Every horror you cause I shall prise,
Bit by bit,a clean slate,
Possession of me you shall never satiate.
My nightmares were terrible.They came every night.I prayed hard, meditate and even took medical help.I promised myself to overcome them and I did.
DEW 6d
Her death was like quicksand
I tried to escape the grief
I tried to run, swim, crawl
but, like spectral arms,
I was dragged back beyond the precipice
down into the gravely depths
down to my despair.

I sought after her and found crumbs
but the trail of bread yielded only hunger,
hunger for perhaps her scent
perhaps echoes of her voice as she fades
into the distance
perhaps her reflection trapped in a mirror
any sign that she were still living
but the world had closed her chapter
and my hunger became a fasting...
I once hoped for love everlasting,
but my truth will never be love ever-after.

Just when I thought hope was forgotten,
I found an envelope with her name scrawled upon it.
Her crest engraved the wax of the seal.
The torment of her abandonment sunk into me once more,
and the quicksand trickled all around.
How dare I imagine her again?
How dare I open this audacious package.
I pry open the letter with haste,
mouth dry, tongue limp like dry wood,
eyes bulging,
my nourishment is within this envelope, of course!

within it, I find cobwebs and shame.
A picture of her I had never seen.
Her arm wrapped around the trusted embrace of a suitor
and I cannot penetrate this world she has found,
I do not belong.

I burn the picture...
With each spark of the fading image,
somehow I am freed
and the chains she bound to my soul are now vines
I reside in a fortress, barren, but safe.
"Darling?" I hear.
My wife peeks down from the stairs,
"Supper is ready..."
Of course.
Of course a mistress can never be real.
She will ever be a phantom.
And phantoms can never say farewell.
They were never there.
I'm thinking about this feeling of never being satisfied:
of having what one desires only to realize,
our desires are just dreams...
and dreams, when fulfilled, are not guaranteed to be truths.

Moreover, the feeling of having far too much,
more than we can consume,
more than we know what to do with, but we continue eating,
and realize a man can be bottomless,
despite always being filled.

Anyway, just musing.


Skia A Mar 11
Someone who carries darkness,
Yet, somehow is still a light.
To anyone who needs it,
A hug, because I mean it with all my heart.

From one surviving soul to another.
Skia A Mar 11
Poetry has always been the medicine for my tired, tormented head,
They tried to numb me away with many tiny pills, but "I'll be okay" I said.
With confusion, I knew none would understand,
What writing does for me, why typing or a pencil was more powerful than any drug induced trance.

When all has frightened me,
From voices, hallucinations, and death,
Writing is my heaven from the monsters who tell me:
"No one cares or loves you, just shut the hell up and go to bed."
My schizophrenia has been a horrible hell for me lately, and so has resurfacing trauma.
But needless, despite all my medications...
The power of writing anything has saved my life more than anything.
Alexa Rose Mar 10
Violence lingers in your eyes.
No wonder you can't sleep,
Soundly through the night.
Not will all the waste still floating in the sky.

A deadly chemical, when ignited.
A Super Nova on steroids.
Explosive and temperamental.
Don't get too excited,
Or you'll turn into a deadly weapon.
Still fixated on the darkest of nights.
Forgetting is easier said than done.

There's a flicker of light behind your eyes.
Let it burn bright.
Don't hold back,
The passion that thrives.
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