Cow dung
She hung
Between her legs

Dry leaves
She'd weave
Into disposable wear

Even second hand sanitization
Was considered better condition
So she ducked into the safety of unknown risks

Absorb, if it could
Wear it she would
No space for concerns, no choice

On one hand they say
Empowered today, we women, stay
On the other, stands she, in rural patches of ignorance

It's sad to know that even today, as what not happens in the name of "feminism", there are still women in my country who cannot even afford sanitary napkins, let alone clothes. As a result, many rural women use substitutes, but it's heartbreaking to see the extent they would bend to, only because they cannot afford anything more.

Yet, I feel just as proud as I am angered by the story of such people (vs the wasteful lives of the 'haves'...a gap that huge is unfair!) -
proud because of people like Anshu Gupta (founder of Goonj, a not-for-profit organisation), who, along with his team is working towards changing this scenario with the distribution of biodegradable and affordable sanitary napkins, amongst other commendable initiatives.

This is not a collaboration or anything of that sort, neither am I associated with them in any way (other than supporting their causes), I am genuinely touched by their efforts and naturally, feel like spreading the word about their work. It would be great if you too could have a look at their website (goonj.org), and if you're convinced, monetarily or non-monetarily, support their cause?

Johnny’s at his trailer home
Mixing up medicines
Trying to get through his life
Studying on the pavement
Saving enough just to get through high school then again

Look what you did
Kid you jumped into someone’s bed
Had a babe
But couldn’t get ahead
Follow your leaders
Get off the eternal parking meter

Get wet get set
Johnny come let’s bet
Watch the shuffle
He’s using a cold deck
They’ve kept you in check
You’re obviously still not gonna lose the bet

Look at what you’ve done away with kid
You’ve run away with a 100 bid
Shocked looks on their faces
Finally gaining some confidence in yourself
You use that confidence
And build up
To do away with the hard labor
Of giving free cocaine on the subway stations

50%, 60%, 70%
You’re fucking sleazy
Go ahead
Get dressed
Today you’re gonna go to bed
With your wife and your kid

Look ahead kid
The world’s at your feet
You study so there’s nothing you can’t eat
But only thing that’s missing
In your lonely life
Is an intent to give you a blessing and no retreat

Look out kid
See what you did
On your life you’ve had to keep a lid
Taking concern from God and government
And scumbags and still avoiding property dealers

The story of an ordinary guy who tries to make it life through the right, which doesn't pay, and wrong and vacuous. But money isn't everything because sometimes the bail is set too high.

We sit on a rock,
overlooking someone's fields
and pretend we are somewhere far
not just a few blocks away from home
It's Cinderella-like the way it happens.
The lush reeds turn to palm trees
fertile farmlands into sandy beaches
A sad attempt to accomodate our imagination.

I know we have always been too big for this country,
but right now it reeks of desperation.

So we look to the skies for validation
but in the dam we find motivation
from the water that flows without a destination.

"Does it hope to become  river?", we wonder.
If it hopes to grow from it's  current state.
Like a butterfly from a catterpillar.
Is it's movement a show of faith?
That the reeds and plants will open
and clear a path  for it's murky waters.
This is why the dam feels like home:

Though we can't see our reflections,
the dam is able to reflect our ambition
to succeed regardless of our location.

Everyday struggles of being an ambitious young person in Zimbabwe. A little rough around the edges but it comes from a deep amd raw place in my soul.

"Are you are reptile,
or a mammal?"


<licks lips and rubs chin>

"Cold-blooded,
warm-hearted?"


<grips knee with left hand>

"When smelling a blooded roast beef...
...do you get hungry and share?"


"Or do you eat the guests first?"

<holding long-blade carving knife>

"You see, I like to think that you're both bugs, that you bug me and neither of you have any power what with my holding this weapon?"

<waves knife around erratically>

"Also, I don't like sharing..."

Eiliv Advena Sep 10

Help me, please!
Become a patron
Or I will most likely
never see the dawn

https://www.patreon.com/EilivAdvena

Pio Jasso Sep 7

Like Sunday hands
the trees, bend and offer

their bruised
charity of collected waters.

Now, dressed
in rain and want, he walked.

His cap, his coat
his pants and sock and shoes,

all tasted
the warm fetor that wraps in

the toothless, wet gums
of a leprous kiss. They are, as a ship

wrecked crew, now
drowned and huddled in a fetal

embrace, buried
in a blue death. The grey stained,

misty-shaped clouds,
held down by the weight of rain, filled

the wire-cart and
poured through the holes, as he pushed

along the curved
tree line, at the edge of the park. And,

aware that water
can’t drown the man, at the bottom of the sea

he walked.

serioushane Sep 4

Used to lie to friends,
Say I was millionaire,
That I was daddy’s trust fund baby,
Living without a care

But the truth was just too hard to bear,
I just wanted up and outta there,
Always living on the brink,
Always a scared, scarred broken link.

My mind a dark lair of horrid wares.
Trust when I say:
I was as disfigured inside as out,
Words caught, stuck in my mouth,
I came off as a stammering lout,
White trash, hateful gaze fixed in a pout,
Eating as if I wished death by gout.
Wondering why I should stand straight and stout,
When I could, instead, bend my snout,
Down thereabouts, and cast my cards with doubt?

spokensurrealism.com
Lucy Wooding Sep 1

Heartless are the ones in a position of power
Pumping money into unholy wars of bloodshed.

Wicked are those orchestrating inhuman acts of violence and cruelty,
All in the name of God.

Heart wrenching it is, knowing as we reside in our secure abodes,
Shielded from harm,
Trembling human beings are at the mercy of detrimental bombs and evil weapons!

Terror floods their complexion,
Destroying any luminosity,
Replacing their skin with a sallow, sunken image of dehumanization.

A child's bedtime lullaby is a cacophony of headache inducing shrieks from ammunitions,
and howls from thunderous explosives.

Vacant eyes have witnessed nightmarish scenes of bloodied bodies,
Mutilated like abattoir sheep.

An overwhelming stench of burning flesh congests the senses.

Swollen feet trek through alien territory,
Desperately seeking refuge.

Oh how we overlook the joys in life,
Such as the gentle cooing from a new born baby,
The invigorating smell of balmy spring air, free from toxins that sting the lungs,
And our freedom to laugh and dance with no prohibitions.

We take for granted our shelter and our jobs,
The fact we live in a safe haven compared to the horrific conditions many poor souls face worldwide.

How can we be so ungrateful and irrational, when our worries and troubles
Will NEVER mirror the disastrous situations many individuals will have to face with no choice?

We all stand together, united
We all stand together, empowered
We all stand together, ambitious

We all stand together, divided
We all stand together, separated
We all stand together, insensitive

We all stand together in the same world that contains excessive wealth and neverending poverty.

Where is the balance?

Bibek Aug 29

A comfortable bed, with the fine touch of feathers,

The warmth of heaven, where my body would meander,

I could dream of anything, anything at all
Of beauty, of lust, of bliss, of all
Of happiness I have always wanted to clasp
But with these worn-out hands, povery is all I can grasp

I can dream of nature, that is wishing to pass through me
Of the tying clouds, with each turn turning gloomy

My hands can wrap over all of the flowers
Each of their petal, with my touch in delight
But with my shattered eyes, all I can give them is fright

Only in my sleep, I become a dreamer
While I am awake, I feel worse than the reaper

My scent disgusts even the winds
That break upon me
Like my shattered dreams

And though my dreams and my comforts are all in a nap
The stale street and its cold is all I can have

A poem on poverty and a person's resentment over his conditions
What the society thinks of him and what he thinks of himself
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