A crippling rage may endure
At the faintest hour still:
A cancer to ease the cure
May yield to a kinder kill

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 breasts 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.
Poetic T Jun 14
We are martyrs of deaths breath,  
       concussive retribution for living
in the light of decay.
Matter is a virus of consumption,
           exhausting the filaments
of extended fulfilment that will never
                                             be quenched.

But death is the saviour of existence,
      collecting on the overture of a
living rhythm, what sang to loudly
         now nullified beyond continuality.

The martyr did linger in disparity
       for life was a creation, but existence
is but greed. So let all ponder the
          expenditure of self and repercussions
of what existence brings to all.
             Death isn't an enemy,
its the saviour of existence.
Coalescing the need for continuity.
My concern to
The Central Bureau of Statistics (CBS)
Whenever it publishes
Updated data of
The Martyrs of love

What count it be?

The utmost concern is,
The sensitivity and specificity
If they will include,
Me and you, or not.

Last plea to CBS,
Let it reveal
The total counts of,
The serial killers of trust,
With classified gender

So that,
There will be less sufferers
Then after.
Genre: Love
Theme: Just a thought
ieyam Apr 27
It's not healthy anymore
I crave for you every single day
A minute without talking to you
Is like a year without rain

I really am miserable
But how would you know?
I'm here waiting on your hand and foot
While you're just enjoying the show
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