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There will always be a moment in life in which we need to make some choices and understand on which side to stand. To bury your head in the sand means you are killing your own essence. To make a choice means giving some time to your soul to build a shell of dignity.
- Manuela Camporaso
Pax Mar 2017
Where does hierarchy begin?
    Is it where the strong is on top,
and the weak step upon?

Where does your dignity be placed?
   Is it where your always be the winner,
no matter what, even it has bitter taste.

Is SURVIVAL really that cruel?
That some of us are just a tool,
a fool for the strong to be cool.

No, it can't be that bad
yet reality is quite sad.

Despite our hard beginnings
Life still is beautiful
that losing isn't everything.

Dignity is placed -
where you respect yourself the most
and Hierarchy isn't important
to where your love is...


© Pax
yeH! a new poem, a longer one and it's been long i haven't rhyme like this. a bit hard when you have limited vocab, my apologies for its simplicity and many thanks for reading.
J Valle Mar 2017
So here I am, once again
Lacking all self esteem,
And dignity and pride,
But above all things,
Lacking him.

If I don't run in his direction,
If I don't hug him when he is near,
Is because all my loving,
I keep it caged,
Suffering,
Starving,
Begging for some love,
A kiss, a smile, a look,
Anything from him.

But I keep it caged,
For its own protection,
I'll let it die,
Rot and decompose,
A dying love is easier to take,
Than his indifference.
Viseract Feb 2017
One thing I know is that we're captured in the frames
Of dead and dying pictures when suppression was a name
Ever since that day, nothings' been the same
When our dead and dying frames were laid to rest in graves

The company we kept,
Aware of beast that slept
The loyalty we paid to earn
Via trust, it was a test

Concepts of romance
Led us an exhausting dance
With lust untamed, demons unnamed
With each rattling breath we exhaled
And the graves still look the same

Here lies dignity,
My memories, my sanity
Self-esteem and vanity
Ripped apart antiquity
And after all this, finally
Accepted into society!
used and abused, are those without power
True courage
Is not the winning of wars,
But rather the dignity
Of a graceful defeat
From which one moves on
Swiftly, like the last of the morning stars
Bleeding from the sky.
You can find more of my poetry at caitlincacciatore.wordpress.com
Damian Murphy Nov 2016
What I admire most of all
Is the leaf that is last to fall;
That so resolutely lives on
When many thought it would be gone.

A symbol of strength and courage
As life enters its final stage,
Facing a foretold destiny
With so much grace and dignity.

Each day struggling to survive
Against all odds, to stay alive.
Somehow finding the will to fight,
To remain proud despite her plight.

There is no doubt the day will come
When finally she will succumb,
Though I shall always love, admire
Her will to live, her sheer desire....

For all in life she gave to me
I shall cherish her memory,
Though her love of life I believe
Is the true legacy she leaves.
August meaning "inspiring reverance or admiration" or "of supreme dignity or grandeur" and "grand or noble" For my mum who, throughout her battle inspires us all with her strength
Maggie Emmett Nov 2016
I, too, sing America.

I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.

Tomorrow,
I’ll be at the table
When company comes.
Nobody’ll dare
Say to me,
“Eat in the kitchen,"
Then.

Besides,
They’ll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed—

I, too, am America.
For all Americans to consider today!
From The Collected Poems of Langston Hughes, published by Knopf and Vintage Books. Copyright © 1994 by the Estate of Langston Hughes.
Irate Watcher Nov 2016
Live IN it:

The breeze brushing soft skin,
glowing in cavernous autumn.

Me solo:

astounded by the world.
astounded by my own hands.
standing on my own feet.
lead by the volition of discovery.
filling empty space
with MY understanding.

What is mine:

Calling dibs on myself.
Thinking about pleasing someone else
and being fraught with anxiety.
Continuously forgetting
things emerge slowly until:
EXCITEMENT of being at the end of things,
hold on tight.

Peeling from my chest:

DIGNITY reminds me
to be uncomfortable
with familiarity.
Beauty is knowing
I'll just miss out on singularity.

So I just LET go:

blow cross shallow water,
bask in uncertainty, and
startle people with my pace.
Alan S Bailey Oct 2016
Vivid are all of my dreams,
Yes it's a place I go I believe,
I see visions, talk with spirits, feel,
When I am completely at rest.
Here, I am at a state where I am
Most alive when I am closer
To possible death, This warmth,
It fills me with a sense of truth,
The essence of my past, my youth.

I could have had riches and wealth,
I could have had everything, been a star,
I could have been a great musician,
I could have been famous, popular, gone "far."

But I would have given in to the age old
Way of the person who lacks confidence,
They need to be in the spotlight,
Hear the clapping near and far,
They need to over sacrifice,
They need to give up all their worth,
Sell out, become weaker, forget
Who they are.
*...and I am so much more than that.
Maggie Emmett Sep 2016
He perches in the slime, inert,
Bedaubed with iridescent dirt.
The oil upon the puddles dries
To colours like a peacock’s eyes,
And half-submerged tomato-cans
Shine scaly, as leviathans
Oozily crawling through the mud.
The ground is here and there bestud
With lumps of only part-burned coal.
His duty is to glean the whole,
To pick them from the filth, each one,
To hoard them for the hidden sun
Which glows within each fiery core
And waits to be made free once more.
Their sharp and glistening edges cut
His stiffened fingers. Through the ****
Gleam red the wounds which will not shut.
Wet through and shivering he kneels
And digs the slippery coals; like eels
They slide about. His force all spent,
He counts his small accomplishment.
A half-a-dozen clinker-coals
Which still have fire in their souls.
Fire! And in his thought there burns
The topaz fire of votive urns.
He sees it fling from hill to hill,
And still consumed, is burning still.
Higher and higher leaps the flame,
The smoke an ever-shifting frame.
He sees a Spanish Castle old,
With silver steps and paths of gold.
From myrtle bowers comes the plash
Of fountains, and the emerald flash
Of parrots in the orange trees,
Whose blossoms pasture humming bees.
He knows he feeds the urns whose smoke
Bears visions, that his master-stroke
Is out of dirt and misery
To light the fire of poesy.
He sees the glory, yet he knows
That others cannot see his shows.
To them his smoke is sightless, black,
His votive vessels but a pack
Of old discarded shards, his fire
A peddler’s; still to him the pyre
Is incensed, an enduring goal!
He sighs and grubs another coal.
“The Coal Picker” was published in Sword Blades and Poppy Seed (Houghton Mifflin Company, 1914).
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