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Anthony Nov 7
Behold,
the colors blue
which paint
this wandersome jew
These trees of green
they grew
from the apples
that they threw
upon the martyrs head
marching to his death
The beginning of the end
of a well meaning friend

so forgiving...
again and again and again and again
and again

He's sisyphus
He's used to this
Like lazarus
Back from the dead
again and again
if it never ends

Won't bother him.

what I wouldn't give
to set that cross aside
for just one night

His legs
the dogs
they chew
He drinks
a bitter
bitter brew
theres nothing here to lose
the spears just
run him through
but he knows

Love will see the void
Pain will turn to joy

just forgive them..
again and again and again and again
and again

He's sisyphus
He's used to this
Like lazarus
Back from the dead
again and again
if it never ends

Won't bother him.
won't bother him...

what I wouldn't give
to set this cross aside
for just one night...

clean heart...
clean mind...
Bring me a rocket
Ma,
I'll be an astronaut.

I'll visit Dad's star
And ask him
Why doesn't he ever return.

I'll visit Dad's star
And ask him
Why he never waves back.

I'll visit Dad's star
And ask him
Why they had wrapped him in a flag.
A sad lament of a child who misses her martyr father.
I am somebody’s son.
Isn’t that just
Unfortunate.
That I can bear the weight of,
The sins of,
The cries of,
A father,
A mother,
A sister,
A brother.
Someday, I’ll be something else.
Forgotten, perhaps.
Or remembered as a martyr.
How ironic;
Through my freedom,
My crisp clean kingdom,
I am trapped.
A crippling rage may endure
At the faintest hour still:
A cancer to ease the cure
May yield to a kinder ****

To yield to deception
Only forges a sword in water
And lies by exception
To all of the martyrs who faltered.
I may want to build on this later on, but please let me know your thoughts.
Nesma Aug 8
It is 1826, and last time I heard from him was 7 years ago.
“I will be back, mother” he promised in his military attire.
The worst part about a broken promise is voiding a word of its meaning.
The rifle that killed my son murdered the word ‘back’;
I do not trust the milkman when he says he will be back with my change.
I do not trust the government when it says it has a back-up plan.
I do not trust my husband when he says he has my back.
It is 1826, and last time I felt good looking in the mirror was 25 years ago.
“You look beautiful”, my husband said but he wasn’t looking at me.
I saw his eyes escaping mine and drifting to the unknown lands of easy days .
The beauty he saw was not in my berries colored cheeks or ******* that stand with pride.
The beauty he saw was in what they reflected in the mirror;
a walk back home with shoes that fit,
a dinner table with bread that isn’t stale,
a bed with soft sheepskin that doesn’t scratch the wounds opened from the death of a loved one.
Kleng Jul 26
A kind hearted soul
chained by love and selflessness
when will you be free?
Maria Andrea Jun 18
Loving you was a torture
A sweet kind of torture;
I know you love to see me breaking
Cause everything's bent
I am down on my knees, Ill at ease
But here
You are the disease—
I don't want to end
cause your love is the only thing
I have visualized;
fair ring.
Camille Jun 16
I remembered
all sorts of words he confided to me,
chanted paeans and rhapsodies lingered from reality.

I captured bits of tormented dreams,
as I felt his presence here with me.
His grin and glare were torture.
His words were knives thrusted too deep.
His sweet lullabies were bitter eulogies to mourn.

I remembered,
the way I casted a glimpse of him,
as he took steps away from me,
it was the end of apathy.


I glanced at how the years have been,
as I burried the odds and ends of him.
My tears were dry of despair.
My eyes were drowned in ecstasy,
My lips curved with glee.
At last, I am free.
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