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Natalia Lopez Jan 2019
How can I speak my mind when I cant even talk.
How will I be able to show you the world if I cant even move.
It ***** away all sensations and gives me pain.
I did not ask for it, but I was always told to be grateful.
It was like being stabbed a million times and not being able to call for help.
You made me feel as if I had given you hell when all I ever did was show you Love.
My fingers went numb, My lips turned purple.
I was slowly dying in front of your eyes and you just sat there and watched in excitement.
With my last breath I looked up at you smiled and said my goodbye.
Never will I ever be touched by your hideous soul.
I was free.
Do this
Do that
Never for me
Always for you
Always putting me down
You too dark
Too fat
Too short
This that
Words often said
That’s all I get
But today I rise
Never again
I promise myself
Never again
I have become more
Each day I become
Never again
I’m in control of my happiness
Never again will I give up that power.
L Dec 2018
A friend,
                                        a night.

Some food,
                                        a smoke.

Invitation --
                                        a couple drinks.

A couple more,
                                       making friends.

Pass the phone
                                       a couple times.

One mistake
                                       a promise & a crash.
The night it all went to ****.
let them be heard from beyond the grave,
let them tell the stories of everyone
ravished and burned
buried alongside the evils the ignorant and privileged
threw six feet below this blood-soiled land
while the fool who granted himself
the glory, the honor, the memory that will never be rightfully his,
lies peacefully in a sacred place

do not silence them if they shake the streets with rage
do not shame them if they burn the metro with blinding fury
this is the least we can do, we cannot simply contain the memory
of every homes extinguished into grey smoke,
of every dungeons that turned into homes,
of every child that only had hunger and violence
for teachers rather than their parents,
of every girl that was marked against her will,
of every iron fist that instilled fear,
of every every bullet fired onwards from that day
of the humanity that ceased to be

let the people fight for the yesteryears,
let it be known that the deeds of the devil will never be forgotten
let it be heard that for as long as we draw breath,
he will be condemned back to hell,he will pay for his crimes
and along with him are those that do not speak their minds,
that choose to remain foolishly blind,
that do not sympathise,
let them all be reminded:
history cannot be changed, only remembered
and if bound to be repeated, will be fought like hell because the Filipino may fall but never bend, may falter but never break, may stand in front of the edge, but with crimson-soaked cheeks and wounded fists,
we will take with us to the death, our oath: never forget. --W
today marks the day that a dictator led our country to hell and we will not remain silenced for he deserves topay for his crimes along with everyone who thinks otherwide
Cloud Aug 2018
The final sound of the door being locked from outside.
Mothers crying for children. Children crying for Mothers.
Hundreds of people shoving you into corners trying to reach loved ones.
A young boy falls to the floor, the mother watches him being trampled, unable to move, unable to breathe.
My lungs are screaming for air.
Where? Why?

Stumbling into an unknown darkness.
The fear of falling asleep and never waking up.
Contemplating whether death is better than this.
The terrifying crack of a shotgun.
A silence howling with anxiety.
The beating of the engine counting down minutes perfectly synchronised with my heart.
The lady next to me has her eyes closed, I shake her, silently praying for her to be asleep, she doesn’t stir.

I’ve lost track of time, two days, three days, a never ending eternity?
Death surrounds me, trying to pull me in to envelop me, it’s so hard to fight, so easy to welcome.
I am surrounded by people, but have never felt so alone.
We are running on animal instincts, whatever food we have we don’t share.
On this train, good morals ****.

The heat, the stifling heat. It is dizzying, nauseating.
The air is too thick to breathe, to live.
There is an overpowering stench, caused by the heat, the absence of a toilet and death.
There is not much space, but what space there is, is filled by a suffocating heat, a choking smell and burning grief.
Pain is soaring through my veins, a toxic predator pouncing on every fibre of hope in my exhausted body.

They have reduced us to animals.
I am embarrassed, embarrassed of my hygiene, embarrassed of my inability to do anything, embarrassed of my selfishness.
Embarrassment is no worse than ******, as when a person is embarrassed they wish to be dead.
It is emotional homicide.

I am so tired.
My body is crumpled, being held up by others, some dead, some wishing to be dead.
At first I was focused on surviving, my body was fighting, but now I’m too tired to fight.
My hunger is now just a numb aching, but my thirst seems to be pounding every cell in my body, a constant beating.
I am tired of crying, tired of praying, tired of hearing other people’s cries, tired of hearing other people’s prayers.

I hear a voice, singing.
A mother to her child.
The sweet sound of her voice seems to dissolve the clouds of pain and misery hanging over us.
Another voice joins in, a man’s voice.
Two more people join in; gradually the whole carriage starts to sing, united.
I join in grasping for the shreds of energy I didn’t think I had.
We sing louder and louder, our voices drown out the protesting orders to stop.
The train slows to a stop, and the doors slide open.
I breathe, and for the first time in too long, my lungs are satisfied with the oxygen that reaches them.
As our bodies rush out of the carriage, still singing, I am filled with a new sense of hope that whatever is coming next couldn’t possibly be worse than what I’d just been through.
Could it?
During the Holocaust cattle trains were used for mass deportation of Jews and other victims of the Holocaust to concentration camps. Men, women and children were stuffed into these carriages with no food, water or toilet and just a small barred window. The journeys took days, sometimes weeks and a large number of people didn't survive the journey. Having survived the journey the victims would then either be immediately taken to a gas chamber and brutally murdered or forced to work under the harshest conditions imaginable where they were unlikely to survive. Having visited a number of the concentration camps in Poland and heard accounts of survivors, I wanted to try and capture a fraction of the pain those people endured in that journey full of doubts and questions.
andromeda green May 2018
Santa Fe, Texas
May 18, 2018

welcome to America.
where there had been 11 school shootings before
the end of january of 2018.
welcome to America
where the mentality of the attacker
is the problem,
and not the system.
welcome to America
where a 17 year old Pakistani girl was killed in her school
among 9 other beautiful souls.
welcome to America, Sabika
which was greeted to you nearly six months ago
where you arrived in the "land of hopes and dreams"
to learn and grow and achieve.
welcome to America
the country that showed promise from the looming Taliban threats in Karachi, your hometown.
welcome to America
the country that you were going to help save Pakistan
by building stronger US - Pakistan relationships
and showing women empowerment by being
(possibly) the second female prime minister of Pakistan.
never again would you watch fireworks explode in the sky on August 14
never again would you count up your money on Eid
never again would you eat your mom's biryani on a hot summer day.
welcome to America, Sabika Sheikh
your hopes and dreams were alive and floating
in the land you gave your heart to
and the land that would take it away.

- a.g.
on May 18, 2018, 10 people were killed in the school shooting in Santa Fe High School. among them was Pakistani exchange student Sabika Sheikh, who was to return to Pakistan in 3 weeks. she was 17 years old. please comment your thoughts and feel free to write your own poem about one of the hundreds who have been killed in school shootings across the US.
Alaina Moore May 2018
You do not
****** me,
high as hell,
give me a bunk apology,
and six months later
turn around and change the facts.
Cause they're ******* facts!
I was there,
with your unwelcomed touch.
He walked in to my rescue,
while you dry ******
on my couch. (burn it)


For the record, I don't own that couch anymore.

Scarlet McCall Mar 2018
Be a lesbian!
Shave your head!
Be a radical--
(better rad than dead!)

The “Skinheads” were Nazis;
they didn’t like Punks.
Politician is confused,
speaking mixed-up junk!

Shave your head,
or wear your hair long—
You could be trying to say something,
or nothing at all.

Be a “*****”, be a “***.”
If it strikes your fancy,
dress up in drag.
Be a hag, be a crone.
Let your gray hair shine.
Be partnered or alone.
Be a ****, be a ****.
You are a Who,
not a Which or a What.
Hag/Crone here. I was amused by the politician, whose name I've forgotten, who called Gonzalez a "skinhead." Apparently he doesn't even know what this term refers to.
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