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Babaji you are great
You meditate
I meditate
My mind
Still agitates
Life is an art of living
You're on high pedestal of wisdom
Peerless is your stardom
Online lessons and videos
Life transformation of humans
Everyone should spend five days of their life
Before they die
One day in jail
One day in school
One day with farmer
One day in hospital
One day in mental hospital
Wonderful way to transform their life
Compassion and compassion
No more prejudice
No more tendency of condemnation
I take you very seriously
I want to transform my life
To begin with
A day in jail
Talk to criminals
Transformation to avail
Who would allow me entry
I would be stopped by the sentry
Illegal and underhand methods
I refrain
I believe in right to equality
Everyone should get equal opportunity
Government should make
a policy decision
Transformation is in the interest of the nation
A day in jail be made compulsory
For making some suggestions
I reviewed the current statistics
There are 1350 jails in my country
With a capacity for 405000 inmates
Average capacity 300 inmates
Population is 1350 millions
Per jail transformation candidates one million
It's a gigantic task
My breath in isn't out
Pranayama save my life
In all probability
Government won't make such a decision
Babaji start some agitation
Staunch follower I am
Transformation is birth right of everyone!
Inspired by a video of a holy master. Best transformation would come spending one day in jail with innocent criminal like Mukhtar Ansari and talking to him! Equally good would be spend a day with rapists and talk to them. You would develop compassion to know how no woman offered voluntarily to satisfy their lust and they had to commit it of necessity! Even meeting those who took lives of their daughters and sons for honour wouldn't be bad! You would be amazingly transformed by listening to these poor criminals! Compassion and compassion! No more prejudice! No more tendency to condemn!
C Biluk Feb 16
She, was an invaluable treasure in my heart
I, was a calculated risk she would not take
Appended streams exhume the dreams that surface in conscious guide,
As photon beams augment the seams transmitters must abide.
The quantum strings of knotted ties,
Entangling's of worlds collide,
A vortex of spiraled rings,
In scattered sets convergent glide,
The convex spacial vacuuming's, synaptic points electrified,
A hex, insatiable, stochastically adjoins frequencies over-amplified, as complex oracle valuations weight choices to decide.
Mystic Ink Plus May 2018
My concern to
The Central Bureau of Statistics (CBS)
Whenever it publishes
Updated data of
The Martyrs of love

What count it be?

The utmost concern is,
The sensitivity and specificity
If they will include,
Me and you, or not.

Last plea to CBS,
Let it reveal
The total counts of,
The serial killers of trust,
With classified gender

So that,
There will be less sufferers
Then after.
Genre: Love
Theme: Just a thought
The I'm sorry
The it's ok
The silent battle
A dummy
For anyone
Just humans made to experiment
To cut, chop, and burn
We live just to die
Of a battle that is silent
To become a statistics
The silent battle that kills
Yet few people know
I'm already dead
Janna Smith Feb 2018
A week ago, you became part of the statistics called "The number of suicides of children and young adults in Slovakia". Girls aged between 0-19 years have always been the smallest part since 2011, and it happened anyway. And now I am reading your most favorite author and I can’t understand anything. You and those poems. And you aren't here in order to explain it to me, so I'm just reading and losing myself in a text that I still have maybe a chance to understand, unlike you.

I miss you, sweet dreams.
If you are interested how it looks in my mother language:

Už je to chvíľa čo si sa stala súčasťou štatistiky s názvom “Počet samovrážd detí a mladých na Slovensku”. Dievčatá ktorých vek bol medzi 0-19 rokov mali od roku 2011 vždy najmenšie číslo a aj napriek tomu sa to stalo. A ja teraz čítam tvojho asi najobľúbenejšieho autora a ničomu nechápem. Tebe, ani tým básniam. A ty tu nie si, aby si mi to vysvetlila a tak *** čítam a strácam sa v texte, ktorému mám ešte hádam šancu, na rozdiel od teba, porozumieť.

Chýbaš mi, spi sladko.
allie May 2017
It happened to me.

That is me now.
I scream and I cry
Into the depths of my pillow.

I had not been wearing something that showed me.
I screamed and thrashed.
I am now a


Help me.
Rid me of the memories
That play across my eyelids
Whenever my eyes close.

I regret every second
Of that tortured night.
And just when I thought it stopped
and the pain was gone
The real pain
Hadn't even started.
I've been wanting to post this for a while, so here it is. And if you ask, no. I am not going to expand on this topic. This is my first and last poem on this subject.
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