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I have spoken with young men,
who were forced to up and run.
Seen the wounds they carry,
from the barrel of someones gun.

I have Spoken with women,
women with tears in eyes that burn.
As they relate what was done,
because they wanted just to learn.

Ive seen teenage girls running,
in fear for their own lives.
Because someone has told them,
they must become someones wives.

I sat with the old men,
whose spirit would not yield.
And heard how rains of bombs,
were dropped upon their field.

I have heard the many stories,
of families torn apart.
Heard of those still missing,
and the pain in a loved ones heart.

I've heard of persecutions,
because of the differing of views.
The scores of people disappeared,
without even making evening news.

I met with many others,
and watched and heard them pray.
Running in fear because for them,
it means death to live your life as ***.

I have talked with the children,
all facing life alone.
Parents not seen,
since the houses all got blown.

These most horrible of all things,
most of you will never see.
But someone needs to tell you
these are the lives lived for many a refugee.
So many stories.... be thankful of where you are born or live... I am.
This poem could have gone for pages more. I spoke with hundreds of asylum seekers over 13 years. edited 17th March 2019
Maaz Dec 2018
Stand on graves and cast out the helpless.
They arrive in waves to the illusion of hope.
A 'caravan' of people,
All begging for freedom,
But fear not,
They shall be murdered
for they are evil.

How can they expect asylum, safety & security,
from a land built on death?
Where those in power face no scrutiny.
Where an orange haired buffoon can thrive & prosper,
But mothers & fathers cannot afford a doctor.

Yet still these people come here seeking a better life and
how dare they do?
With hands calloused from hard work,
hearts filled with grief,
spirits filled with belief;
Don’t they know?

This is a land built out of the flesh of martyrs,
On a charter that helps oppress its own population,
A country that thrives off devastation.
A sociopathic society
I cough
And feel the sickness
And wonder
How many babies
From the same
But are not
Because of their
Or place
Of origin
aziza Dec 2018
are like some people,
they are victimized to death
within one's palm
they're taken down and thrown

they had power
but no more
human eyes show pity
for picking them,
but not humanity

pressed flowers are they
who sleep under the tents,
walking for decades,
searching for new hope
cause it's crumbled back home.
Lucianna Nov 2018
Gunshots boom in my ears
Cannons, my life anthem
Smoke and fog are part of the sky now
But in my home I shall stay.

I still remember oh-so-long ago
Colors bursted all around
No gunshots, no cannons
Sweet music playing outside.

A gunshot rings, a cry of pain
Blood is spilled before me
My mother lay there, cold and still
My eyes don’t want to believe.

People tell me to leave
To board their boat
Why should I? Who are you!
Mother, what shall I do?

You expect me to sail away with you?
No more sweet music, no more cooked rice?
Months and months in the big, cold sea?
Why should I?

They say look out for number one
But if survival is all that matters, what is the point of life?
I somehow manage to board your boat
I wish my mind worked as fast as my body.

Bodies clumped together
Little food I nibble on
My sibling squeezes my hand
Swish swish, the waves mock me.

I hug my knees as darkness surrounds me
Mother, please come back
Swish swish, swish swish
Quiet, waves, I need not to be mocked.

The captain calls
The boat comes to a stop at a bay
Apples and Oranges and Rice and Water, sweet sweet Water
The waves no longer mock me.

Mother, I made it!
I survived!
Aren’t you proud of me?
Should you be?

Watching people blow out their brains?
Was that a prize I wished to claim?
Was it worth it in the end?
If I saved my own life along the way?

People say it’s salvation
Is it really, though?
Having a language shoved down my throat?
Strangers spitting at me on the streets?

My mother’s blood still lingers on my hands
No matter how many times I wash it
Guilt swallows me up like a tidal wave
Could I have saved her?

So many lives I’ve loved and lost
Haunting memories still the front cover
of my terrorized mind
I will never be the same.
This poem is based on Refugee Resettlement and may not be 100% accurate.
Sabika H Oct 2018
My blood tells me a different story to my soul.
My passport has a stamp I cannot recognize,
An accent invades my tongue that I cannot pinpoint-
I am from many worlds
And I sing the songs of many souls.

My scattered roots find a way to your lonely tree,
And in my own confusion
I become the master of empathy.
You're so called 'difficult' name rolls off my tongue
And I'll have you convinced that we are kin.
Your language
Your skin
Your culture
Is no barrier on the grounds
of those who know no bounds
To existence.
Sara Kellie Sep 2018
I've repainted the wall
and dusted the shelf
as very soon I will become

I've given back the cow
and I've returned the lamb
in preparation for becoming
who I am.

I've made an alliance with
the fleeing refugee
hoping I find peace as I
turn into me.

So im putting many ghosts to bed
before leaving this body,
escaping this head.

Ignorance is ******, meat is ******,
this ******* life is ******.
Pauper of Prose Jul 2018
If I’ve ever known truth it just chaffed at the neck
I’ve been suffering all the symptoms of a lack of respect
So I must reflect then deflect all the gloomy flecks I see
Then reflect again on the lifestyle,
Of the wild life inside the childish side of me
All in effort to be free
Not free falling
Not roaming from a new ideal, to new ideal like a new calling
I 'd rather have a grand New Deal like Mr. Roosevelt's
And swim easily in this sea of changes like Michael Phelps
Another straggler striding through society's slopes, in search of serenity
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