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There were doves.
Amongst them was a raven.
The doves did not treat the raven unwell.
The doves treated the raven the same as they treated other doves.
They did not look at the raven with disgust.
They did not look down upon the raven.
They are all birds, after all.
The birds treated all each other the same, as an equal.
It didn’t matter what one looked like.
It didn’t matter what parts one had.
It didn’t matter if one was a male or not.
Why should they treat one like that?
After all, they are all birds.
They help each other fly.
They can chose where they want to fly.
They can soar high and low together.
They grow from their strengths.
They grow from their weaknesses.

The birds befriend other animals.
Dogs, cats, foxes, wolves, and many more.
They befriend a little human girl.
The human little girl wished she was a bird, but the little girl said that if she were to be a bird, she’d be locked in a cage.

‘Why? Why is that?’ We birds asked.
‘Humans. That’s why.’ Replied the little girl.
She said that she would have limited freedom.
She said that humans would control her ability to fly,
Humans would control where she would fly.
Even if she wanted to go the other direction.

‘Why would humans do such a terrible thing?’ We asked.
The little girl hung her head low, ‘Humans want to take advantage of others. They tie each other down. They cut off each other’s wings, and rip out their feathers so they cannot fly. They put each other in cages, where only they are in control of one’s freedom.’

Humans don’t fly as one. They never will. Not even in millions of years.
To be as one is something humans only hope to achieve. Something humans only dream of achieving something so simple.
Just because one is different, they are not treated the same.

Even birds are different.
Birds sing differently.
Some sing higher.
Some sing lower.
Some sing better than others.
Yet they sing in harmony.
Even though they are not the same, they treat each other the same.

Why can’t humans fly as one bird? Why do some have to fly lower and some fly higher?

Each day the little girl visits,
she has to be home by 5:00 PM.
Each time, before she leaves,
she says that she’ll come again the next day.

One day, she hadn’t returned.

Oh, how sad.

She was only just a bud, in a field of full grown flowers.
Yet they picked her for decoration.
Living decoration, never lives very long.

Oh, how sad.

She was only a bird,
that had her newly grown feathers, plucked.

Oh, how sad.

Just like a butterfly,
When those wings are broken or ripped,
They will vanish within the earth.
Becoming one with the earth.

Oh, how sad.

Children are supposed to fly. Not fall.
Children are supposed to grow. Not sink.
Children are supposed to be brought/taken under one’s wing. Not to have their wings stolen, so that one could fly higher.
They are supposed to be taught to help others fly. Not fall. To be taught to grow and not steal.

Oh, how sad.

Now we sit upon her rock, with her name engraved. Lobelia Anemone/Verbena Anemone.

Oh, how sad.

The raven, weeped the most.
The little girl and the raven were closer than others.

Oh, how sad.

The rock was covered in feathers and flowers, that was only left by the birds.

Oh, how sad.

They left flowers that were just like her name.
Other flowers were left too.

Oh, how sad.

You couldn’t be one with your kind. So now, you can be one with the earth.

Don’t worry dear child.
A bird doesn’t live very long.
We will see you soon again someday.

I am sorry.

Maybe one day, you are reborn as a raven.

Maybe one day, we could all fly together,
As one.

Maybe one day, we could all sing in harmony together,
As one.

Something a human could never achieve.

I am sorry, my dear friend.

If only you could fly.

I would be there.

I am sorry, my dear child.
A free verse and elegy poetry by me: Maderina Waruka
NOIR Jun 10
Ohh, Mother,
You once carried me in you.
The first definition of HOME.

Now, you look at me,
A pearl lost its shining.
The only thing
Gives you itches to your bones
Me living up to my own!
You only see
what I wear how I speak,
You only nod,
When my feelings come to your door.
Long ago, closed, with the caveat
Of leaving the host!
Now this house doesn't feel HOME.

"Cherry blossoms never bloom,
In the months of Summer", You said,
"Once on a Summer noon
An unwanted storm knocked
On your door".

An unwanted wind whispers to her mom,
"Why?!"
Cheyenne Jun 10
I feel Hollow.
Barren.
Empty.

That hollowness erodes my body,
leaving a trail of decay.
Cracks crawl through my brittle bones,
shattering my skull,
fragmenting my thoughts.

A carmine-colored river floods into my caving lungs,
before dragging itself up my throat.
The metallic taste slowly overwhelms my mouth,
and seeps through my gapped teeth.
My glass smile falls and shatters.

Terror grips what was once my voice,
holding sound captive-
my call for help erased by despair.
Only strangled sobs exist.
I'm left choking on my own life force.

Each sob collects upon my face;
a veil of tears cover my broken visage.
Shrouding me from prying eyes that encompass judgemental gazes.

Without even seeing,
their stares spear my soul and blacken my heart.
The forgotten, grayed ash
smothers out all that remains.

My rotted husk: a void, a dismal skeleton.
A vast emptiness that nothing can fill.

Broken.
Decayed.
Hollow.

It's what I am.
I'm reposting because I just won 7th place in a state contest with this poem. Any thoughts on it? Or advice to improve?
starseeker Jun 9
Hold, hold—
keep holding your breath
keep biding your time.

Put your grief
back
in it's sheath

Abide—
there's been rules set
for a reason.

Who are you,
to unlock the cage
around your lungs?

How dare you wish? How dare you hope?

Silent warrior—
who begs to be loud
who begs to be violent.

Hold, hold—
not a sound.
because what is grief, if not a sword you learn to sheath before you learn to swing around?
The matchbox
was hers—
bright red
with a tiger on it,
its head tilted
like it knew the ending.

One match left.
He kept it
in the drawer
beside loose buttons,
an eye drop bottle
half full,
a packet of salt
from a meal
they never finished.

He never lit it.

Not when
the bulb blew
above the stove.
Not when
monsoon took the power
three nights straight.

He’d reach—
then pause.
Then close the drawer
softly.

Until
the day
her number stopped ringing.

He struck it.

Once.

It flared—
brief, bright,
then gone.

The drawer
still smells
like her.

- THE END -

© 2025 June, Hasanur Rahman Shaikh.
All rights reserved.
A poem about memory, grief, and the small things we keep — and finally let go.
Hold me like a weapon,
bite me like a sin,
and watch me burn—
because I’m yours,
wild and wanting,
and I want it—
every savage, filthy second.
A child sleeps in neon static
his ribs spell passwords no one reads.
Coins blink on screens, not in palms.
A mother trades her breath for bandwidth.

They stitch worth in barcode veins,
souls archived in debt.

Yet
in the ruin’s hum,
a hand still reaches
not to take,
but to hold.
Adnan Shabbir May 23
Resembling sharks in the dark, deaf ocean

the wise harbour conceit in the pit of their heart

the language of egotism defining from their faces

Sermons fanning the flames of Ego's swirling smoke

Bold they stand as defenders of the Din

After themselves, who else have they deceived?
Din is the Arabic/Urdu word for religion so referring to those who outwardly act/claim they are defending the religion but inwardly are focused on boosting themselves.
Cheyenne Apr 25
This is the hill I will die on.
I choose to stand on the high ground,
And fight in the war.

I will be bloodied.
Bruised.
Broken.

But I will not run to the safety,
In the home at the bottom.
I will not cry for mercy,
As you raise your blade above my bowed head.

I will stay.
I will empty your lungs of hot air,
And shove you over the edge.
I will watch your body lie at the bottom,
Pointed at gruesome angles.

For in your one-sided battle to knock me down,
I have turned the tide.
This place that I have chosen to rest
Is no longer my grave,
But yours.
minisha May 18
The embrace of spring kisses good bye to the crystals of winters,
and flowers bloom among mosses within crumbling walls,
yet rather that dancing among the roses,
I press myself against the thorns,
since the crimson string ties the last knot
with the bullets cherished by the winters.
based on a personal experience, haha
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