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Shutterr Aug 31
You speak
I listen
I speak
You speak
Like the sun my mind sets,
like the moon my heart comes in power
;
the emotion filled tides
rising and crashing.
Like a waterfall my emotions flow,
like a volcano words escape.

Suppressed emotions unveiled

letting words with no logic escape
for the words are true,

the emotions are pure

allowing the ones around me
to hear my secrets as they divulge
,
catch a glimpse of vulnerability , raw and honesty

that are veiled by the morning light.
Sara Kellie May 14
If you know me.
I write from many a different mind.
Yes, they're all mine
You cannot quell my thoughts.
I refuse.
No, I absolutely ******' refuse.
You cannot **** what's in my head.
I'll do that myself.
When I am dead.

Kaydee
**** the suppresors
Poisoned without consent.
S Bharat Apr 9
The Master

The Master had a dog
And a docile goat.
Once he went through
Jungle in the boat.

There, he left his dog
Known as bad hat.
The dog returned home
And received a pat.

The Master's was then
A sweet darling pet.
It made the dog happy,
The goat very upset.

The goat annoyed none,
Made no mistake.
Still she was ******* to
A rusty-iron stake.

S. Bharat
Luna Jay Mar 27
I’m hiding myself again.
I don’t mean to,
It’s just easier to not deal
With relationships
Amongst others.
I can only take on my stress,
And I’ve been trying to teach myself that
For years.
It’s not that I don’t know that it’s unhealthy,
I think that it’s more habitual.
Which is pretty horrid,
That I’ve already formed this habit of self isolation.
But it’s so much easier to deal with.
I’d rather have no friends at all
Than a chance of losing them.
Tyler Harper Feb 26
O, facing fate.
O, without grace.
With the woes, sewer grate.
Post rain seeps, all misses my face,
Cold steel on cheek, sets my sate.

But enough rain comes,
Past sewer's sum,
The tradegy shall come
And come and come.

Sweep me  
With a mighty typhoon,
Neptune's Lampoon.
Until my fingers,
get a fine prune
We, the voice of the most oppressed,
Work in the profession remaining the most humble,
Throughout histories, as slaves our lives still remain tumble,
With our strangled necks, we are deliberately suppressed

For the centuries, our voices remain unheard,
Like a weeping fish at the sea,
We are treated zombies at the rush of a blood,
Collecting by hand, the human society’s poops & pea

Things for us got intensely worse,
We work as a group with an isolated curse,
For our livelihood, go into manholes as bare-bodies
Mostly get out as dead-bodies

From pathology to oncology,
We are treated untouchables, even by the modern technology
We are the oxygen-offering trees that remain green
Hurting ourselves, collecting excreta making this world neat &clean

With our hand-cuffs we shout and fight,
Rulers remain drunken-deafs to our plight,
Hell with your knowledge, to those who go to college
And keep pushing us to the drainage,
We remain living dead and frustrated, to get our right

When asked about work, we remain dumb and blind,
Fearing the responses to our ***** revelations,
Because humans are unemphathetic and unkind
To get our life some elevations.

Our mind said us “Please think! Please Think!”
When we revolt not to work, societies stink,
We warn, Witness your locality *****,
To our sufferings, if you keep blank & empty.

We are a collective voice,
Representing inhuman humanity,
That keeps the society on a poise,
So raise your voice, with a clarity of choice
To get us work with the utmost dignity!
Manual scavengers is a decent term. People who collect human and animal excreta on bare hands are the manual scavengers. The quality of these people in the south-east Asian countries like India remain pathetic. Their voices are often neglected and ignored by the rulers. They remain struck in a state of vicious circle, where poverty and untouchability keeps chasing them continuously and push them towards this work. This poem is a pain of the masses that had been engaged in manual scavenging for centuries immemorial that continues unlikely, till the present day. Rulers don’t offer the mandatory occupational standards and technological support to the manual scavengers. The motive of this poem is to voice their concerns to help them work peacefully and offer them a dignified life. This poem is written in the style of a ballad.
Josh G Sep 2018
This bucket of mine
Has become a curse
I add to the pile
And it adds a verse
I keep it hidden
And tucked away
But its made apparent
Each and every day

I add to this bucket
And the weight piles on
This facade grows heavy
Tearing down my con
I fill this bucket
Up to the top
And when its full
It proceeds to pop

I cry and I scream
As I make ammends
This bucket of mine
That I cant show to my friends
I've grown up now
But my bucket has not
It wears its cracks
From the battles I've fought
This is a work in progress. I'm not 100% sure that I'm happy with the finished product but as it is right now is good enough for me. I will continue to add to this as more comes to me.
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