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Autumn Sep 2017
They run.
They scream.
They beg for help.
Their homes are burned.
The women are *****.
The children are tortured.
Everyone is killed.
A savior amidst the government and yet her lips sit on top of each other, only opening to condemn the persecuted Rohingya...
A Nobel Peace Prize winner revealing herself as an assailant of ethics.
The Rohingya.
The humans denied aid by almost every brother and sister,
THOUSANDS of men, women, children,
are drowning, burning, pleaing for mercy,
as you sit in your comfy chair and read this poem,
as i sit in this bed writing this poem.
The Rohingya are looking into the eyes of a Buddhist state;
looking down the barrel of a gun pointed at them from infancy.
An entire culture dedicated to dehumanizing humans...
An entire coalition of states conforming to locking the Rohingya out...
A state committing textbook genocide.
A world subduing to textbook ignorance.
And the Rohingya fighting for the right to live
For the right to be
Human
The Rohingya must not flee, nor fear persecution, for We shall stand by the Rohingya!
i never write about anything other then feelings basically so i know this is rough but its important
Daniel Tucker Jun 2017
Poetic minds are islands often found
In common reaches of the status quo
And in remote and deeper waters
Of vox humana in muted undertow.
©2017 Daniel I. Tucker

PLEASE REFER TO NOTES:

Vox Humana is a stop system on a
pipe ***** which produces a sound akin to the human voice.
But the meaning of this poem regards
specifically to
the latin word for vox:
vocals, voice, expression.
Humana derives from human and kindness--linked to the concept of humanity and compassion.
This poem speaks of the suppression of our collective voice by censorship and persecution.
Joshua Dedricks Jun 2017
Wound I
against the forces of nature
this tap
through which a steam
of nature's brewed drink,
measured hot as I desired.
It loved my skin,
steaming upwards,
its ambiental tentacles
towards my chin.

The devil besought my thoughts
to torment.
The sounds of men calling my name,
lynching my conscience undeservedly;
the scapegoat of the moment.
These gates were open;
the devil smeared in
through the tap,
flowing through brews.

I wound fast
against those that call.
Thence did they stop:
the lynching, the calling,
beseeching, praying my falling.
I fled my bathtub,
escaping the mob,
escaping the devil
in my bathtub.
G Valentine Mar 2017
I want to cut my hair.
Chop it all off and make it into something beautiful.
I need to cut my hair.  They say things like
"Wear your hair down more." "You'd be so pretty if you let your long hair down."
I DO NOT LIKE LONG HAIR.
I have never liked long hair.
I seek liberation, from this metaphorical suffocation.

Please, just let me cut my hair.

I want to be the cool girl, who gets all the other girls. The skinny one. The pretty one. The handsome one. The stylish one. The gay one. The tattooed one. The one with short hair.

I want to have short hair.
My mother has never let me cut my hair since i was a child. One day i can. One day i will.
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