My concern to
The Central Bureau of Statistics (CBS)
Whenever it publishes
Updated data of
The Martyrs of love

Imagine,
What count it be?

And,
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
Julian Delia Apr 12
THE DILEMMA OF A GENERATION

Mohamed Bouazizi
Represents not just the struggle in Tunisia
But of an entire generation –
His life was a consolidation
Of a series of injustices
Of economic apartheid.
After all, let us not hide
And call this tragedy what it really is.

Mohamed’s life and death
Was one of many terrible examples
Of the depth, the breadth
Of the gap between the rich and the poor.

If you think to yourself,
“I’ll never be that desperate,”
Think again;
You are fortunate
If you’ve never worked and worked until your fingers chafed raw
Yet it was not enough.
You are sheltered
If you’ve never experienced
The yoke of the owners of the world.
You are blind
If you do not see that we have ‘freedom’
That is built on top of mass graveyards.

This yoke
Has served to choke
Not just Tunisians,
But everyone who was not born with wealth
Or the opportunity to make it;
The millennial’s dilemma
Is common across the globe –
Do I lose hope?
Do I succumb
To a life of fast money and being numb?
Do I stop caring, focus instead on the life I can enjoy?
Do I ignore the stolen livelihoods, hushed, covered up and coy
Do I fail to think about the exploited labour
Of suffering human beings,
Of the murder of my country’s neighbour?

Do I simply sidestep my knowledge of all of this?
Complacent, lacking the will
Unaware, perhaps lacking development of the skill
To realise that our world is dying
Not a slow natural demise
But of humanity-induced suicide.

Or do I, instead,
Pull up my sleeves, avenge the dead?
Do I sacrifice my well-being,
My opportunity to reach that thin demographic of the population
That fragment of the nation
Which lives a life of luxury,
In order to change the world around me?
Do I go against the swirling, swishing current of life
Give up all opportunity for power, leave this society that is rife
With abuse?
For if I don’t,
The sick world we were born in
Will perpetuate its unholy cycle of sin
I will be an instrument of that process,
Whether through complacency or an excess
Of loyalty towards the state.

If I don’t fight back,
If we don’t fight back,
Who will?
Our stillborn children?
The posterity that will be born
To a world that has no clean air,
A world that is built to be unfair
A world that separates people like an algorithm
Those above a certain monetary threshold
And those below it?

No.
It must be the millennial who fights for rights,
Before they are sold off completely and stocks run out,
Before men and women in power with infallible clout
Turn us all against each other
And make us destroy ourselves.
The final part of a poem I wrote to commemorate the life and death of Mohamed Bouazizi.
The guards cane echoes on the Limestone slab
10 inch wall between ‘em like the white in the flag
Or the grey in a face watching its last chance
Click its heels and take leave of the present tense
Taking the GPO’ll make you no friends
In a long queue of mothers with letters for France
Their boys fight for them but they’ll die for the tans
And homogeneous headstones will be their thanks
As the echo stalks the hall, he hauls a heavy pen
Along his last love letter to ms houlihan
Remember the fallen but beware the risen men
Those who would take what you would not lend

The guards keep the misery one step ahead
Of the slums where they’d rather be flogged and fed
Than to rot in the sheets of a free mans bed
Where the weak of spirit would rob the bridle
Off a G-mans horse for a night inside-I’ll
Wager his wellingtons filled with piss
At the post on the bugle and the cannon’s hiss
But he stood for us and Wolfe tone would attest
It’s not what was won but how it’s spun to the kids
And so the man forges a legacy from lead
As redemptive light pats him on the head
“Now fold that letter and spruce those threads
There’ll be time for heroes once the heroes are dead”
So he made his peace, whispered under his breath
“For each man dropped, there’ll be 10 in their stead
Our suffering is but the unleavened bread”
And took one in the back for each turned head

The firing squad said he barely bled

He lived for The Passion and he died for the plot
For the political prisoners in the dock,
For the rogues in vagabondage on his block
And the scapulars hidden in their socks
For those who threw fruit at the butcher’s block
And the native tongue their young forgot
His beloved martyrs who died by the drop
And the shovelled-up actors that followed him off
Fallenmaiden Mar 16
It's
not a
one sided
love.


It's
just that,
You love me less
and
I love you more
Isolated Philosophy
Here, state nails them
  
Declare, Martyr.
Theme: Then, nothing matters.
It’s never been my thought
That you’ll deceive me like this
After I told you to leave me naught
After I told you, you bring me bliss.
But still, being the masochist that I am
I follow you like a lost lamb
Even if there’s no hope at all
Even if I feel foolish, stupid talking to a wall
Who won’t even break,
My heart’s at stake.
It’s yours to break anyway,
You’ve owned it from the very first day.
Florivee Jan 26
I want to feel how people who know how to love feel. I want their hearts, the fulfillment when they waited so long for someone who never showed but they just cry. Their hearts always hurt but they don't have the heart to hurt others. They know that everything hurts more at night but they stay up late, anyway. They're in the middle of a war but they don't fight. It's torture, that the hands they hold on to are the hands that waved sideways, fading into untouchable air, telling them goodbye. It's hard, that they think every goodbye deserves another hello.
I don't understand. So i just look up to the sky, wishing, that in my next life, i get to be the one who loves-- the one who doesn't live waiting for someone to love her back.
Sean Murray Jan 8
This is why they fight,
With blinders on their eyes,
Into the flames, unconscious
Self-flogging, righteous.

The rebel however, does not balk
Does not seek out the cautious stalk
For some useless, selfish self it hates
To be wrong is to control your fate

Living fiction, wishing for hoards of prey
Marching their imagination stray
Tell me more about how you obey!
With all the breath you have

And yes, time is taking all it can,
But won't flinch the day it does you in,

In the soil, with your enemies
You'll be critical for eternity
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