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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
Fainche Siobhan Dec 2018
you **** in such things—
the goodbyes and colloquies
but love, i do, too
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,
**** 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.
That dormant feeling of insecurity arose,
when travel journal got ****** adjacent
     to my tattered (holey tattooed) clothes
while I knew with crossed eyes

     aroused anger from peaceful doze
my younger sister felt about her
     globe trotting exploits, an over expose
jour ever since voyaging out on her own

     after graduating top of her class
     where mine hatred glows
indirectly snidely sneering
     at ma dough less brother hoboes

(a 1979 Methacton High School alumni),
     unanimously chosen valedictorian
     dressed in Calvin Klein
     Harris tweed, couture

     and silk ***** hose
like me prolonging, promoting
     on par with quasi staff sergeant, who knows
artful disciplinarian gingerly launching
     Cider House rules,

     asper formerly commanding G.I. Joes
     and pronouncing, predilection
     exhaling natural highs no lows
traveling solo, with surviving Wilburys,

     or just mows
zing nonchalantly
     (though a foreigner) with swarthy skin color
     easily camouflaging as civilian
     all points on the compass,

     where minute needle doth nose
upon returning home (being honorably feted
     at once glorious estate of Glen Elm,
     where she did propose

to the Lord Taylor (swiftly), which location
     situated at 324 Level Road, Collegeville,
     Pennsylvania 19426),
     thence a great huzzah a rose

an immediate nauseousness welled
     within from me head tummy smelly toes
I did not want to here, or see any details,
     which would accentuate personal woes

popping, snapping, and smarting,
     and slapping skin raw tib bits,
     ache'n to yanked strings
     of mama's heirloom yo-yos!

Poet Script:

trials and tribulations,
     visited upon head of young
concocted ("FAKE") gusty and gutsy
     kid sister enterprising ingenue,

     christened easy on the tongue
Sharodd (not her real name),
     to top off talents sung
like a professional opera singer, which rung

a shiver along small hairs of spine did tingle
heard all the way to Lake Woebegone
where bachelor farmers did mingle

every Christmas, a decreasing
     number donned Kris Kringle
hit with blitzkrieg of yawping brats
     hoof pranced to bell weather jingle!
With ink in my weapon, I sit to fire my emotions,
Raw and authentic, some dispersed and many condensed ,
You read my work and exclaim,
It was the poet who was the sailor in this tidal sea,
It was the poet who brought snowfall in the blazing sun,
It was the poet who met the doom in life ,
And you say , I am a poet and I am born to write !
But in the crooked silent corner of suppressed blazing flames,
When my inks get dry and pages do cry,
I exclaim, " I am a poet and I struggle"!
Harsha ravi Jun 2017
She couldn’t fight when her father didn’t want her home
She couldn’t fight when her mother told her not to roam
She couldn’t fight when they “married” her off to another man
She couldn’t fight when he left her to pursue his lifelong plan
She couldn’t fight when she held her crying 1 year old
She promised herself to be bold
She stood up to the world, the world that said she couldn’t
She fell back down when they said a she shouldn’t
Mane Omsy Apr 2017
A minute of your attention
Just pretend I'm something
Let me rent a room inside you
With all this stress pressing hard
Down, I'm supressed, I'm the nail
Pull me out of this wooden smell
Had my anxiety crave for admiration

Leave me a trace of hope for love
Leave me a page from your history
On this silent road
I just want to hear a horn
An affectionate one
A residue to remind myself
It's meaningful to wait
Or could it mean to move on?
Redemption - V
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