L M Biese Jan 3

Why is it that people commit suicide?
Is it because they can't see all the good around them?
Or because they can't see the good in themselves?

There are nights
when we can't see
any reason to keep
waking up
to this hell
to this pain
to this hurt
to this nightmare
to this lie
to this life

because the more you sleep
the more you dream
and dreams are a fragile shelter
but it's the only one we have

Joshua Brown Dec 2017

Will I ever find home?
I seek the shelter of not just a house
but a sense of place
where I can find a purpose

Will I ever find home?
I thought I did once
but it was only an empty room
filled with cheap thrills and long nights at bars

Will I ever find home?

Chris Neilson Dec 2017

Alone not lonely works well for many
your own company a comforting companion
in depth discussion with an inner voice
free from the frenzy of digital distraction

A lifestyle choice for the lucky ones
who've been there and done that
in and out of failed love and marriage
time to settle down with a purring cat

Surrounded by many but lonely still
feeling no empathy in human form
alienation from reticent passers by
cold and wet the daily norm

With a by product of sex and drugs
Sleeping rough is the new rock n roll
a guiding star to a soup kitchen
lonely this Christmas in a hole

My aim here is to highlight the paradox between those who choose happily to live alone and those who are
existentially lonely
mjad Nov 2017

everything moves too fast
the shelter of this bubble
is not slow enough
needles poking and prodding
it's about to pop

Salmabanu Hatim Nov 2017

I was drunk,
Lying on the Delhi Street,conked,
I was thrown out of a bar nearby,
I can't remember why?
I woke with a start,
I found myself in a cart,
Pulled by a shabbily dressed man
With a tattered turban,
And a ragged loin cloth round his waist.
Was he here to collect waste?
Not to ask I thought best.
I threatened him to stop,
Or I would call the cop.
Immediately he put the cart down,
He thought I was gone!
We had a long talk,
His sorry tale made me baulk,
Made me sober.
He was a corpse collector,
With a six year old daughter.
For a few miserly rupees,
He collected corpses,
From the alleys and streets,
And performed their last rites.
The corpses were mostly of those who died of cold,
Their stories untold.
The man had no home,
Come rain,cold or storm,
They lived under an old building's  dome.
The little girl with him tagged along,
Looked at life as a song,
Never a complaint,
The little grubby saint.
On cold frosty days,
To stay warm,the only way,
The corpses became the child's blanket,
She cuddled amongst them as if in a basket.
Tears welled up in my eyes,
This was reality, not lies,
The strings of my heart broke,
From a lifetime of dreams I woke,
I have to turn the hands of the clock,
The Almighty had cleared my vision,
I was sent here for a reason.
I made up my mind,
Gambling and drinking I left behind.
I adopted the pair,
On the same street,I opened a Shelter,
For the needy and underprevileged,
And a Home for the aged.
In life I found my mettle
With wife and children I am settled.
I also work with other NGO's
For the betterment of people's lives.

When we lead a cosy luxurious life we are unaware about the tragedies that befall others until we come across a situation.
Vulpes Nov 2017

Within a forest of gray leaves
Like little flames devoid of heat
Missing their color like a ghost
Just shadows of what once had grown.

Enclosed by trunks and trees so lost,
Covered in twigs and withered moss,
Never been loved, never been found,
Just lonely bones above the ground.

Dead petals dance with ghostly plants
To frozen wind and silent chants,
A requiem of crumbling skulls,
A hymn for all their decayed hulls.

Silvery mists of countless lies,
Swallows all of the forest's cries,
Fog masks the guilt of countless sin
That brush and grass carry within.

Amidst all of this hopeless mold,
A shed stands strong against the cold,
A house so lonely yet so warm,
Held in the forest's dying arm.

The place where I once hid myself,
'tween bloody books in rotten shelves,
The place where I live on my own,
Made of my flesh and crimson bone.

As the drizzle begins
The butterfly hides
Because paper
Cannot glide
When wet

When the clouds roll storms come
We put pain aside
Cold makes us numb
And pain dies

Paper hearts will dry
Lighter hearts will fly
Dori Oct 2017

We make sense only after the sun has died and the moon begins to breathe and we’ve sought shelter underneath our blankets.

I’ve never been good at pretty metaphors or painting dreams onto pieces of paper but if I told you I wanted to write about it, you’d be the first to proof read the catastrophe.

I’ve bared witness to our secrets becoming our strengths and I’ve felt our tears become the ocean.

There are dead roses planted at the bottom of my rib cage and you...slow time down long enough for me to believe that I have it.

I promise I never meant to make a home out of your heart but somewhere along the way, I stopped fighting wars and started sinking cities.

G Rog Rogers Oct 2017

I'm winging it on a rainbow
Surely I will find
That place where
the rainbow touches earth
with golden mist Devine

Within the hills
beside the wind-swept
crystal seas divide
I will await you there

Knowing there to find
the missing moments
Once now but not
forever lost in time

Sheltered there from storm
Awakened there from sleep
The part and participle
of a life forever stoic
beyond the oppressive tide.

Wing it on a rainbow
Touch it and you will shine

As the rainbow touches earth
with the golden mist
of the Devine.

I will await you there.



Celeste Briefs Sep 2017

I have no words
in my mouth to say
they take shelter
within my heart,
hiding in the darkest place

I have no voice
to call your name
this burning noise
chased it away,
cannot put out the flame

my lips are dry
my bones are thin
tears blind my eyes,
cut into my skin

my core has closed
starved of your soul,
my words have died
my voice is cold
your name
sleeps in stone

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