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I scream where no one ever stands,
With fractured voice and pleading hands.
I shout to skies, to winds, to dust
To bones like mine and hearts unjust.
No ear will bend, no soul draws near,
Yet still I scream through every year.

I am the grave, the end you flee,
The truth beneath your trembling knee.
You pass with flowers, soft and kind,
But none of you look deep to find
The words I hold beneath the clay,
Of life you waste, the price you pay.

I hold myself, I breathe in slow,
My scream turns quiet, soft and low.
Not anger now—just aching care,
A voice that only wants to spare
You from the race that kills your soul,
And leads you to this silent hole.

You fight for love, for dreams, for names,
You guard your world from loss and flames.
But when your breath begins to fall,
None of it will heed your call.
No gold, no touch, no lover's face
Will follow you to this still place.

I too had dreams, I too had pride,
I laughed, I bled, I broke inside.
I swore I'd never die alone
But here I lie, just dust and bone.
The ones I saved, the ones I knew,
Have long moved on, as you will too.

I tried to shout before the end,
I tried to tell you, tried to mend
The path you walk with blinded eyes,
But joy and fear both sell you lies.
You hear me not—you never do.
You think this end won't come for you.

I watch you cry, then chase the same,
You wipe your tears and play the game.
You mourn the dead, then forge ahead,
Ignoring all we ever said.
You want to live—but not to see
The weightless truth inside of me.

So I screamed again, until I cracked,
My voice like stone, my sorrow stacked.
I broke myself to make you hear
But silence grew with every year.
And then I knew—this world won't change.
To them, the grave is dark and strange.

I, too, once danced and looked away,
While older graves would plead and say:
“Don’t chase the wind, don’t chase the fire,
All ends in dust, your false desire”
But I just smiled, then turned aside
And laughed, and loved, and cursed, and died.

So now I rest. My screaming ends.
No more to beg. No more to bend.
Perhaps this world will only see
When all return to dust like me.
But should you stop, and hear one day
Know it was me… who tried to say.
My pen is mourning the agonies and the sufferings
Of my people, who are drowning in the sea of misery.
My keyboard' strokes are shadowing the slow rhythms
Of the wandering beggar, who's lost in the sanctuary.

My voice denounces the filthy cholera and the injustices,
Which are punishing the weakest souls of the valley.
A tiny oligarchy is meagerly being rewarded;
What a shame for a man-made world corrupted with vices!

My daring pen defaces the inequality and the imbalance,
Which fool the image of a so called free world.
My laser beams burn the iris of the blind peasants,
Who can now see clearly the mini-sketch of my people.

I am the brother-in law of the cowardly executed poet
And the great-grandson of the poorest assassinated emperor.
I abhor the vanity and the lowliness of mankind in horror,
Oh! Lord, I'm going to read aloud twelve psalms, from my seat.

My pen is mourning my beloved people,
Who are innocently digesting the giant toxic apple.
My voice is seduced by the wind of liberty,
Which echoes the piercing screams of the hungry babies of Haiti.

P.S. Translation of 'Ma Plume Pleure Du Sang' by Hebert Logerie.

Copyright© November 2010, Hebert Logerie, All Rights Reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of four books of poems:
Surfing mind's Sibylline midnight sea
in my pandemonial Promethean quay,
caught in a creamy host, this countenance floats
-off the teary coast of my briny thoughts.

Once she waded pale down a ghostly vale
    -kept a frozen stare from an elven tale.
Tossed to a tempest then this enchantress,
    -strewn to spray, sanity no fortress.

              "How she stalled the spumy steeds
                                  storming her cherub cheeks!"
              "How she fought kraken fears
                                  from the rifts to the peaks!"

Neptune nabbed in the nooks in nymphal eyes;
silent seagull-cries swim the rain-sodden skies.
A Bragolin gleam on a Mona Lisa meme;
hanging loose on the brim, succumbs to a stream.

Cast to the thalassic tides of this mystery,
        bobbing in memory's Venusian locks.
How this Seraphine gaze knocks in query-
        on the Lethean tyranny of clocks!

Locked in a bottle "in an Apollonian deluge,"
    truth on Pandoran shores shares no refuge.
Lost in a look "dabbed with a Babylonian gleam,"
    what she'd screamed to say, now nothing than a dream.

Tossed to a tempest in her Seraphine scream.
Home now Avalon, beyond the creamy rim.
Lost on a gaze in an Olympian gleam.
This silent scream in my Sirenic dream.

27/04/2025
Hirondelle
This is on a live, Bragolin version of Mona Lisa I saw and have ever been haunted with: a version with eyes pooling with anguish yet in a cryptic Seraphine chemistry. 'Bragolin eyes imbued with pain.' Yet, both serenity and desperate anguish which I have little idea as to why it was there pooling in the eyes had somehow managed to be in the same two pools altogether.

Ever since my curiosity had the better of me to steal a furtive glance at this person, who I knew wouldn't rather me to have seen them in the plight, I have been cast to a bitter mental tempest, rudderless, at the sporadic hauntings of the moment.

We were in a place with other people, and she was summoned to go out. When she came back, she went to her place as if wading in the blur of her eyes. Ignoring would have been unkind, yet seeing, not even watching, would have been heartbreaking. What would you have done? Walking out was not an option, either. You knew nothing -nothing more than you were the best person to help, but the last one to do so all the same.

My furtive millisecond glance was met with a steady poignant gaze, screaming volumes from across an unknown sea at me. It had been there for a time and I don't know how much it lingered afterwards. It was not meant to be seen but it was necessary all the same.

Not being able to help, my conscience has ever been in a bottle at a troubled sea with the deafening silence of the scream.

Human expressions are so subtle, or as far as we prefer to look at the world with blind imagination, they will always be poetic. The real question is about where we would rather live. Not in a rabbit’s hole, but not without emotions, either.

Some Cultural Notes about the Images I Used:
Giovanni Bragolin is the Italian painter famous for the haunting portraits of crying children he painted.
Venusian locks are inspired by Boticelli's iconic Greco-Roman painting of the Greek Aphrodite (the one born from sea foam) under a Roman name (Venus)
Apollo is referred to for his poetic prowess
Other mythological images include Sibylline for mystery, Promethean for the pain knowledge brings, Seraphine for angelic, Lethean for slipping into oblivion, Pandoran for chaos and destruction, Babylonian for forbidden nature of things, Olympian for divine qualities and Sirenic for troublesome nature of things.
A pattern emerges,
Beyond the seems.
It cries,
It screams.

Some are friends.
Some are foes.
Some revenges.
Some sew woes.

It screams to be recognized;
It screams to be.
It is the pattern,
On an apple tree.

Abyss as eyes,
Once it sees.
If one stares,
It will be.
Dom Mar 4
Answer your phone,
Oh I got a question for you
And I can’t wait to hear the echo
Of your answers ricochet through your lungs
I’m hoping you can play the game.

Am I outside your front window?
Or in the crawlspace in your parent’s attic?
Can you hear me in your television
Or does the tape tracking leave a static
Disconnect from your mesmeric dance
Please don’t leave me on read, pick up your phone
I need to know, I need to know.

Am I the cold of a closet void?
Do you see me staring at you with my mouth agape
I’m impatiently pacing the patience within me
Just to hear you answer and ask me please,
Agony in black cotton and latex,
And I guess I’m as aroused as you’d expect
Foreplay until the sharp licks the skin
And I’m bathing in your warm red ichor
Answer the phone Sid, I need to know, I need to know


What is your favorite scary movie?

Scream for me,
Scream,
Scream loud
Scream sayonara
Scream sweet Sidney, scream
For me.

What’s your favorite scary movie?
an ode or parody or both to the first Scream movie, one of my favorite "scary" movies, no pun intended.
Faith Cubitt Feb 8
I wanted to scream....
and
scream
and
scream....
I'm sorry! I'm sorry! god, I'm so sorry.
but I couldn't, I was choking, and crying.
silently dying.
every word I spoke killed, my touch shattering.
everything is my fault.
who is this person I have become?
I really am a horrible person, aren't I?
Antonia Feb 2
anxiety attack
sweat down my back

sleepless nights
and walking nightmares

I am being followed everywhere,
my own shadows are ahead of me

they lead the way,
and have me doubt
each step, each word, each thought
they crawl from underneath my skin
they mock, they push, they scream

“not good enough “
-again, they bluff
every time I am getting closer to being the person I wish to be, time and time again they reappear, and try to drag me back, into my endless self doubt pits.
celeste Dec 2024
everything feels so achingly far apart
my hands outstretched, grasping what once existed before me
time flies, they said—
but this much?
this fast?
so soon?

it was just yesterday,
or was it years and years ago?
when i was just a kid—
“when i was”—
where did that line come from?

it follows me,
creeping into my dreams,
where echoes lay
the cold sweat wakes me,
my words spilling
into the mouth of the toilet bowl

another day passes
where i try to do everything
but scream
Valentin Eni Nov 2024
These words
should scream out loud!
They should howl in pain
and weep with tears.

These words should run,
jump,
bend in half,
spit blood,
grind their teeth
and curse!

These words would kick,
grab throats,
bite,
scratch,
pull hair,
and gouge out eyes.

These words would want to curse
and hate.
These words could die
of venom,
only to rise again
and die once more.

These words would go mad...

...if only they could spring to life!
The poem explores words' raw, unbridled potential—what they could achieve if only they had life. It conveys the speaker's frustration and yearning, who sees words as vehicles of emotion and action bound by their inanimate nature.

The theme revolves around expression, emotional intensity, and limitation, portraying words as powerful and helpless.

Each stanza escalates the emotional weight, starting with screaming and weeping, progressing to physical violence, and culminating in madness and resurrection. This crescendo mirrors the speaker’s rising desperation and frustration.

The closing line, "...if only they could spring to life!" is both a ****** and a resolution. It starkly contrasts with the vivid, animated imagery preceding it, emphasizing the static nature of words. Highlights the ultimate limitation of language: no matter how powerful or evocative, it remains inert without human action.
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