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Les portes des églises et celles des écoles sont fermées.
Aucune personne décente n'est en effet dans les rues,
Où l'on voit que des crimes abjects et des horribles abus.
Plusieurs pare-brises sont brisés par des pierres mal lancées.
La violence pleut dans les rues et dans les corridors;
On ne voit ni les chiens, ni les chats en dehors.
Des maigres oiseaux, sur les branches, avec dédain et stupeur,
Regardent plusieurs voyous et charlatans au visage masqué.
C'est triste de constater ces crimes odieux. Quelle horreur!
Il y a une guerre hostile? On se demande quel parti va gagner?
On peut entendre la voix venue d'un vieillard de quelques parts
Qui crie faiblement: « Nous sommes tous des pauvres victimes,
Des clochards, qui se suicident pour des politiciens, pour des avares. »
Pas trop ****, on peut voir une femme folle avec un ami intime,
Tous deux en haillons. C'est une image de cauchemar qui prouve
Que le pays est devenu un enfer sur la terre. A la radio, on dit
Que quelques bateaux de la Marine Américaine se trouvent
Dans la rade. Qu'est qu'ils font sur notre territoire? On fuit
Ou on ne fuit pas? On n'en peut pas. Tout le monde est en prison.
La violence neige de sang dans les rues d'un pays tropical, où la peur
Règne. Les enfants n'osent pas aller jouer dans les rues, où la terreur
Siffle comme des serpents, comme les mitraillettes des démons.
Aucune guerre n'est civile et celle d'un même peuple est aussi violente
Et diabolique. Mon Dieu, les choses vont très mal dans les rues avoisinantes.
La violence pleut et tout le monde pleure. Les sinistrés sont partout aux abois.
On attend l'arrivée des bons anges qui viendront peut-être dans quelques mois.

Copyright © Juin 2019, Hébert Logerie, Tous droits réservés.
Hébert Logerie est l'auteur de plusieurs recueils de poésie.
Tuesday, June 18, 2019
Nebylla Aug 17
The shackle removed from my wrist
Leaves it inornate;
Leaves me to wonder its fate
A bracelet or just a bigger brace.
After leaving a hotel and having my wristband cut off , I had a weird train-of-thoughts which inspired me to quickly write this
Mimic the voices of the dead
And watch me come alive
Every time

I am Devi’s version of Draupadi
I laugh in the face of oppression
First, I let them stab and crush me
With a calm face
I let them purge my blood out
Like rubber from trees
I let my bruised hands and legs
Shine like trophies
Then I mock
Mockery is a clever woman’s tradition
Passed down like a river
I mock
Them all
I laugh while my ******* dangle
Emptily
I let their ego burn down
Ferociously
And even when I’m buried
I will laugh my heart out from the grave
And my mockery will haunt humanity
For centuries
And my dried blood
On your skin
Will never fade
I am immortal
Even in the grave
I speak.
Spicy Digits Jun 10
Behold!
Here is the white chair
Here is the speech
Here is my *******
Rotating as you preach

Forsake my vested energy
Take your begotten gift
Brace yourself, insert it rectally,
And doth my a** do kiss.
Nyxa Thorne May 14
In ages past, we lived in dark,
awaiting light to split the night,
for wisdom’s voice to pierce the gloom
and birth a world anew.

But these days may be the darkest yet,
as crowds embrace old fear and hate,
reviving chains long thought undone—
the past returned in present fate.

In days of old, the brave took arms
against a tyrant’s deadly charms,
who hunted those beyond his creed—
and now his age returns with speed.

Now comes a time of poisoned speech,
as lords above the poor still preach,
driving all to ruin and wrack
from castles drifting high and black.

Where are the heroes to lead us back—
to days when wisdom lit the track,
where all walked safely, hand in hand,
in freedom’s light across the land?

Where is the safety?
The freedom of the land?
Lynn May 2
How am I?
How am I?
I am oppressed.
Here, I am not free
Or heard
Or respected.
Here, I am told what to do with my own body.

And I can’t help but wonder—
How dare they?
How dare they force me into a piece of cloth,
One they know I will disregard?
How dare they back me into a corner
And wrap me in a headscarf?
How dare they oppress me for my freedom
And cover me as if that's the answer?

Why punish the victim,
When that won’t stop the victor?
Why shun the abused
While glorifying the abuser?

How dare they expect me to listen—
How dare they,
When I have a fire that can’t be put out
Not even by my blood and tears.
Wrote this while fuming over what an uncle told me + something my parents said earlier lol
The moon, in its monolith state,
watching the earth as it torments itself alive.
The flames, sprinting house to house,
building to building-
cleaning the flesh and bones of the fleeing,
while it feasts on their names.
"Father! Father! Why are they doing this to us?!"
"Son...because we... are aliens..."
"Father?..."
...
...
...
Chains are put on,
running through generation to generation,
feeding on revenge, rage, and trauma-
down to the ancestral, cultural r’üts of the race.
Until then, the oppressed stares into their ancient scars.
Only seeing their own hands
dripping with fresh bludhymn
for the actions that are not
yet-
committed.

Clouds pass overhead.
Time grows ancient.
"Is it because we are devils?"
-centuries of clouds pass-
"... because we are robots."
-centuries of clouds pass-
"They imprisoned - the humans."
-centuries of clouds pass-
"Why am I born as an angel?"
-centuries of clouds pass-
"Why am I... different?"

These voices echo throughout the sky-
into roots that remember
every life they've ever swallowed,
into blood that refuses
to forget a single drop,
into threads that
can never unravel,
into...
upon...
its own...
endternal...
reflection.

Thus, built upon oppression,
                                        after oppression–
                             after oppression–
                    after oppression–
          after oppression–
after…
r’üts: Another word for ‘roots’ but added with a sense of depth and complexity, symbolizing the enduring connection to one’s heritage or lineage through trauma or societal forces.

bludhymn: A word that combines “blood” and “hymn,” representing the collective suffering and identity tied to personal bloodlines as passed down through generations as curse.

endternal: Something that feels endless, but at the same time is unclear or unresolved.
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