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Mimic the voices of the dead
And watch me come alive
Every time

I am Devi’s version of Draupadi
I laugh in the face of oppression
First, I let them stab and crush me
With a calm face
I let them purge my blood out
Like rubber from trees
I let my bruised hands and legs
Shine like trophies
Then I mock
Mockery is a clever woman’s tradition
Passed down like a river
I mock
Them all
I laugh while my ******* dangle
Emptily
I let their ego burn down
Ferociously
And even when I’m buried
I will laugh my heart out from the grave
And my mockery will haunt humanity
For centuries
And my dried blood
On your skin
Will never fade
I am immortal
Even in the grave
I speak.
Malia 6d
Eleven-years-old should be bold and boyful
Joyful, jelly beans and snow on Christmas
Robert Frost’s birches, swinging on branches
Latching to hopes that have yet to become.

Seventeen should be dreaming, dress-up as grown-up
Growing and grinning and racing the time—
Sprint to the finish, and then look behind
Hours to minutes and seconds to breaths.

But his face had roundness that gave way to edges,
Glittering, forged from the weight of the press
How much can you take away from the boy?
You take and you take until there’s nothing left.

He howled at night, at the stars and the sky
He’d have pulled down the moon, if only he could
And he should, he ought to have clawed down the heavens
For the hole gaping wide, for a god who deserts.

And still, though he trembled, sweat slicking his skin
When he saw you watching, he gave you a grin.
It was tender, titanium, tenacious and thin
And tremulous, breaking apart in the wind.

His fingers pressed into the dirt and the dice
Then he gazed at you, O Fate, like a vise
His heart made of gold but his eyes made of ice
And he told you, O Fate:
“𝑵𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒂𝒈𝒂𝒊𝒏.”
Bekah Halle Jun 20
Sliding into the bath this morning,
Was more an act of defiance
Then a ritual act of cleaning,
And a pleasurable dalliance.

Yesterday —

My doctor said (strongly suggested)
That I shouldn't have baths, showers are safer,
If I ever, on the off chance, seizured, because I forgot to take my medication,
Or, as I am trying to do, stop taking them altogether,
Aren't the laws of nature good? Just? Complementary?!
If I have another, isn't that injustice?!
Isn't cleansing the body, an act of worship?!

Should I live my life by the law of ‘off chances”?
I think not!

Today —

This bath is my protest.
And I am sipping coffee and eating pastries in here, too!
My original ‘bath piem’ is here: https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5056024/bath/
Ayin Ghanz Jun 19
I said
I will not be afraid
I shall fight sharper than a blade

I said
I will not fail
I will not hide behind a veil

I said
I will fight until my last breath
If I earned it, I will welcome death

I said
I shall show no fear
and won't stop until I have traveled the sphere
I said it and I'll say it again.
Damocles Jun 5
I was once a victim,
Beaten until I was compliant,
Compliant enough to hurt another—
my mother.

I was once a victim,
My innocence used up,
My core torn from a father I could only adore.
What is hatred to a child, but fleeting tantrums?

I was once a victim,
Slipping in my drink,
Strobing long batted eye blinks,
Her heat driving down on my forbidden rod.
She told me if I didn’t, I wouldn’t make it home.

I was once a victim,
Two days before the altar,
My fiancé souring sheets with a friend who stole everything from me.
Everything bled into colorless ravines of distrust.

Victims are strong,
Not for what they have endured,
But for what they become,
Superseding the cyclic nature of dirtied deeds.
They find solace in cautious optimism, defining strength beyond measure and measuring only by their own successes.

There may be no angels soaring high or a guy in the sky,
No balrog of the deep depths or adversary king on hell’s high throne.

But demons are real,
Whispering echoes,
Phantasmagoric memories cast upon the mind by way of
scent, sound, or touch, until the rush comes to **** us up.

The truth is,
even a hermit like me is never alone.
We victims can form like Voltron,
Together joined to heal and change the story.

A wise woman on the tv once told me
“There is no fate but what we make”
Bad things happen, and you can choose to let it destroy your whole life or you can choose to let it motivate you to be better than them, to break the cycle and do great things despite that trauma. Just know ole Dom here has an open door policy if you ever need a voice to vent to.
Asher Graves May 22
To hell with normalcy.
I'd rather be someone revolting.

It hurts?
That’s a fallacy.
You're a coward —
and that’s fear prompting.

Indeed, there are hierarchies.
And rebelling is... concerning.
Misusing the power to control the industry —
Rebounding on the surface;
it's redundant. It's taunting.

Amuse me!
What — you think this is fancy?
What's wrong with wanting something?
Just because some are powerless... it's raunchy?
Distrust directs the regime —
look, the balance is burning.

Excited to show them dreams —
flaunty.

Look at that smile.
Look at the face.
Full of surprise,
sharp with the gaze.

Oh! You're blushing.
Excuse me — my breaching tendency.
You're beautiful.
And shy.
That's... compelling.

I wish you'd stay that way.
But —
the farther we go,
the greater the dismay.

Subdue this malice.
Subtly play.
If you want the prize...
you gotta pave the way.

I hate it when you're bamboozled,
procrastinating as you sway.
Can't you just stop being a wuss?
Even forecasters have their days.

But in this dance of defiance...
let courage lead the way.

Shatter the chains of conformity.
Let authenticity — stay.

For in each rebellious heartbeat,
a revolution brews with a glaze.

Even a meek-looking fuzz
can become
a blasting,
blazing
wave.
                                                             -Asher Graves
Was scrummaging through some old notes and found a poem I wrote two years ago. Thought I’d share it here—funny how words from the past can still echo in the present.
Ivan May 7
one fair Sunday, air will flow beneath me
I'll fly above palm trees and the blue sea
so when sunrise dethrones the fireflies
I'll be the eagle surfing sapphire skies

but send an angel to teach me blasphemy
as I'm mortal without the chemistry
to soar up and touch heaven’s canopy
God decrees 'humans aren't feathery'

so, rise defiant and grow my wings through
to glide as a jet, one man crew and say ‘I flew’
but when God gets a clue to what we do
he will fire you and strike me through

but not before that fair wind lifts my wings
to see beyond the things fit just for kings
Andy Mann Apr 4
The voices dwell deep in my mind
You are nobody
You are useless
You know nothing.
Beaten down,
Brought to my knees,
Gasping for air,
I cannot breathe.
I believe.
But this belief sows my destruction
I weep for the dead
Great but now fed
To the worms in the dust
The dust I will join
Sooner than I think.
What good am I among these?

I have wasted the reservoir of time
In sin, in doubt, in fear
Fear of what I left undone.
Where do I go from here?
The voices came calling again.

But I cannot continue like this.
I give up or shut up.
Shut up and act.
Act and believe.

Even if that belief is beyond reason
Beyond my mind to comprehend
The words of a lunatic.

I am greatness personified
if I believe
I am the master of my own universe
if I believe.

I am the king of dust, not its minion
And I will return to my kingdom
When I am done
But not today.
This poem was written during a moment of deep internal struggle. It’s about the voice in the mind that tells us we are nothing—and the quiet resistance that rises in spite of it.
It's inspired by Walt Whitman's “O Me! O Life!”.
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