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qeren 6d
for a mother has lost her child

for a sister has lost her brother

for a friend who has lost his grandfather

for our azure has cried for us

for the soil is losing its place for us

for that's the only thing that we can do now
it is the thing we've been doing now.
Bowedbranches Jul 12
Haven't set up an alter
In I dont' how many moons
The few times I tried
I truly knew the futility of it
And understood
That security, for me, is fleeting

Just another thing
That seems so easy for the others
Oh no dont applaud
My  baby brain  for its
Whining,ll just make it worse
So the other day after
I snatched the sage you left
For me outside your window sill
(Thank you btw)

I instinctively started
Then broke down for the 5th time that day
"How could someone like you ever deserve a home"
Then I had remembered  
That Im not allowed to
Have a safe space

I'm a drifter
Pushing the limits
My health is at risk
Every minute
No one to care
Whether I die or live  

Sitting on my hands
In a thicket
Praying wishing waiting thanking
God that I woke still broken
Throwing up stuff
Everytime I tried to move

Stay low
on your toes
Please No
Please make it stop
Oh god here it comes again
My Sweat drips endlessly
Chiggers bit my skin
So it wont quit itchin'

Bites that bother until next week
All I want is a place to hang my hat
Or hopefully lay my head without trip wires surrounding
All I want is to oggle my alter and call on my angels and my God
Without being on constant alert
Watching my own six

Bc your own brother will turn on you
Don't get comfortable
Dont relax
Dont unpack
Dont believe
A ******* thing they tell you
Prove me wrong then

Haven't had a mfr not turn
Haven't seen anyone actually keep their word

And why cant i set up an alter without it being destroyed?
My week has been hectic sporadic challenging. This poem was written in bits throughout the course of this week i realize im all over the place and my head space is caving in
Maria Mitea May 18
the onion in  father's hands had no time to cry,
he punched it with his fist on the corner of a table,
then ate it with salt and sheep's cheese,
(like pyramid builders my father was paid in onions)

the onion in mother's hands was sweet,
called brotherly onion, and made many leaves,
spring after spring
it was multiplied throughout the village
people kept wondering
how the onion in mother's hand
doesn”t bring tears,

- the onion in my hands is waiting

to clean it with my hands,
to cut it with a knife,
to punch it with a fist,

I think,
whenever I have an onion in my hands
I think,

the onion is waiting,

the onion in my hands

is waiting

to cry
Onion - the symbol of eternal life
These hands art weary from
Juggling heavy tribulations
Thrown towards Me at supersonic
By life and humanity, working
In harmony, snatching away
Whatsoever joy comes my way
At any given moment
Of course.

Today is but a twin of yesterday,
Bearing the same cruel whip
My back has tasted far too
Many times.

Each chapter thus far, chronicling
My accounts I narrowly endure is
Penned by Yahweh,
The author behind my hardships.

Whilst optimism screams Into
My stubborn ears, logic persuades
Me my final chapter will be much
The same.
So Let me burn my partial
Story, Prematurely.
Sanjali Apr 6
Yet again
The storm has subsided
And I am left
On my knees
Safrina Kabir Mar 29
I was dead inside
For so long
A piece of coal
Deep deep down

Now you watch me
Sparkling bright
Glittering fair
You cannot break me
Sorrow and hardship can make you stronger. Like coal is transformed into diamond. Nothing and nobody can break then.
M E Ronan Mar 21
One insane, and two to be
I love you on this road
And the one next to me

Hand in hand, reaching out
Just a gentle touch, two tips to brush,
Will we ever meet, I wonder

Wearer with no questions to ask,
Three spins, yours, mine, and once a thought
Surely this is more than that

All textures are laid out of me
Cold veil of shame and a fear of losing you
For once to make a decisive look

Receiving and ending, you, a ghostly you
Vacillating soul of no ponder
Leaves a floating trail and others to wonder.
its boughs, so large and heavy
but its leaves lean to the wind
just as sadness marches steady,
to the beat one’s starts to sing

winds that cause the willow branch to groan,
pluck like harp strings, dry and rustling leaves
who speak of rope- over them thrown
when a weight should come to pull them,
it is not exactly known

life starts with hope,
and from there, the path is forked

life either dies with the sunset,
or sees the moon in panicked fraught

trees end in branches,
and on those branches tied-
are braids that end in knots

such as the willow, knows in its heart
those who come and see, afar
hides the body hanging from it
with its leaves and broken heart
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