Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Yuki Sep 24
When someone asks :" hey !, How is it kicking ?"
I say back : Kicking hard yo
So hard that the same energy comes back
to the leg only to kick again
and the never ending cycle begins
No refrain
- oooh my, where have you been my friends?
all these days of suffering that came again
what to do with this life that doesn't want to get a good end
I tried
I swear I did
But I'm tired and I still bend
whenever I see a small child with a big smile
saying : Hi , can I be your friend
I cry
thinking god , what happened to me
all these years with days and weeks that I've spent with no thought of my amends
kept doing wrong thinking it was right
had no face to hold up to that kids height
at that moment I realized
a minute can be nothing in front of the rash mind
it can mean 0 possibility of hope and delight
it might have been a second of a fight and a cry
in a warzone with decisions in mind
have to be made with no fault so that
when you look around , you see yourself winning this battle on the ground
don't even look up
the sky is so brown
going dark from the shade of the heart
no heart can bear to live in this fear
so keep on signing and don't break the hymn
or it will leave you alone
in the warzone
Aawatef Sep 12
A boho hemmed into a perfect circle
Misunderstood and invisible
Where everyone goes right, he prefers left
The is told he is bereft

They force him to fit in
But how can he?
He is like oil in water, a hippie in suit quarters
His free spirit just won's blend in

They hammered and bent him to belong
But turns out he has been a misfit all along
For his spirit demands to be vivid and vibrant
In a rather monochrome circle, it is a tyrant

His heavy heart needs to let it all out
His thoughts, his dreams and all his doubts
His is a white noise, he seems very far out
Everyone is deaf to this boho's screams and shouts
We are all different pieces. Forcing that piece to fit somewhere it doesn't just won't work. Be yourself
Creator Sun Sep 5
Sounds of thunder and war,
A chant for freedom or gore,
The chance for a revolution,
A time for retribution.

But when the smoke clears,
And trust me it will,
The chance to breathe will be stilled.
For who are we fighting, but those before us?

Ones that protected us,
Ones that restricted us,
Ones that love us yet never seemed to let go of us.

Ones that we call our family.
Our countrymen.
Our people.
Yet still, we rebel.

Against our teachers.
Against the higher ups.
Against the system.

For freedom. For justice.
For the right to make a choice.
For democracy. For our lives.
For a social renaissance.

With our friends. With their help.
With the ones who feel oppressed.
With foreign aid, with combined power.

We overthrow the government.
The head of family.
The bosses, CEOs and stakeholders.
Waving flags that carry our hope.

And when dawn rises upon this darken wasteland,
We shall begin to realise
That the next generation
Will follow in our footsteps.

So be the flag that rises,
It'd be the flag that falls.
For what comes up must always come down.
And rebellions rises and falls.
This was prompted by a suggestion of one of my good friend and classmate in RGS. She gave me the word 'rebellion' when I had asked her for other words. Please do comment a word so that I'll be able to continue writing such poems every other day. :) Also, if you haven't noticed, I have no distinct poetic style, so I must wonder which poem do you all prefer?
Most often, I wake up at odd hours,
To meditate and harness my powers.
To my doom, the universe upload
To my notebook pro, I download.

I write often from inspiration
and I owe nobody an explanation.
So I write what I really feel like,
I write for yellow, gold, Black and white.

I'm a rebel poet, I follow no rules,
I write for all the rough dudes,
And I write for all the cute chicks
with skinny jeans and rogue lipsticks.

Sometimes my poems will rhyme
At times they come out as a hymn.
Sometimes you see the iambic meter,
and you wonder if I am a poet or writer.

I'm a rebel poet, I write what comes to mind.
My works appeal to the ******* and blind.
It also inspires the good, bad, young and old.
If you tell my story, make sure the truth is told.

Nothing to say but thanks to poetry for accepting my right and wrong.
Neha Sharma Jul 14
Love turned into Hate.
And Trust into Fear.
Friendship turned into Rebel.
And Smiles into Tear.
When you hate someone whom you loved the most. Everything changed. Only pains left.
Isaac Jul 9
What if we were called to bliss?
And didn't have to strain?
What if we were born for rest?
And through that is true gain?
What if this Earth holds a secret
Only found by those who rebel?
Breaking out of limitation,
Now free from the prison cell.
Written 10 July 2019
Growing up in a culture where
you are not supposed to exist,
you become accustomed to the generosity
of people trying
to fix you, to
force you into a shape
they can understand.

I did not know how exhausting it was,
trying to remain elastic
in a world that demands us to be static,
trapping us in binary boxes where
we wilt in our confinement but,
against societal expectations,
we refuse to suffocate ourselves
for your comfort.

Together, we will stand in the light,
heads held high with unmatched pride
for we have fought too long and
too hard for our right
to be here
to live silently with
our heads bowed low
any longer.
My contribution to celebrate pride month this year.
emilie Jun 5
oh, you can't tell me no.
young, old, rain or snow.
I don't care what you say.
you can't tell me no.

I spent nights crying to sleep.
you said that thing about me.
yes, I'm skinny and I know I'm annoying.
You told I should eat more,
talk less.
I'd be fat and you'd say eat less.

you say I'm too young,
too dumb.
well, that's a little too far.
when I get old,
you'll think I'm too slow.
neha yamba May 24
when the world was cruel
and you impair

you were alone
and had no give back

when you were bulldozed
for aims you never had

your personality was rescind
and disguised to regular

when you had no choice to
leave and move ahead
you bore the odium of nugatory pack

when you were so good
and gave all your best

you were loathed
and clepe as bad

times when heartbroken you cried to sleep
your head under pillow
words unavowed bide

You turned cold with FIRE inside
it would have been better
Next page