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Dim room.
A small window with a blank curtain
emitting no light.
The ceiling fan is spinning.
No sound is heard.
A French fry container is open
on the floor beside a Washington Post paper
and a big coffee mug, that has no coffee.
An unmoving body has crashed out on a thin mattress.
The smoke from a cigarette between two of his fingers fills the room.
His hand is hesitant to grab the last fry.
It’s probably cold and dry.
It looks delicious
but it won’t taste delicious.
He seems in no mood to eat
after yesterday’s junk food dinner
that he had with his thoughts.
His head is on the pillow that he holds whenever the inner battles begin.
I ask him, “what battles?”
“Of finding a place to call home, of finding a place to call home!” His eyes fill with tears, and he breaks the silence.

Mohammed S Arafat
July 15th, 2020
This poem is dedicated to the refugees of Palestine, Yemen, Syria, Afghanistan and many other war-torn countries, who are still looking for a home.
Dante Rocío Jun 14
Words like
somehow as beautiful sound
like oil pastels
on beige
Quick call of Pastel Heart
HasnaShereen Apr 26
My little friend,
I'm sure you are in the best hands now
who sees everything up above,
Where there will be no sorrow

My little friend,
This is a world of insanity
Human without humanity
Becoming a place for calamity

Hey world,
As we slowly destroy the earth
Will you ever learn the lesson?
Find yourself deep, feel your heartbeat!
Where is the love? where is the fairness?
Khan BA Mar 11
Hey give me a hand
Hey please give me a hand
Have mercy on me, at least
Give me something just to eat
I have been hungry for over a year
Don't you all have His fear
Don't you see I am all bones
The flesh eaten away by war & drones
There is no roof over my head
Only mother Earth my all time bed
The bullets & shells took away all
Until I couldn't stand the fall
I am feeble & can not move
This hunger has eaten even my torso
While the World watches me die
How will it face the Creator with its lie
For I will not forgive you on that day
When I will stand tall on the Judgement day.

(Khan, BA)
For those hungry orphans of Yemen and Syria
Post me a letter bomb to ******* up.
Reduce me to pieces for I've had enough.
The biggest bit of me, my thumb.
Look at it just sitting there, on the floor.
I’m like strawberry jam, all over the walls.
Best way to be in this selfish money grabbing world, dead.
Blown up like those stuck in Aleppo.
Blitzed by Putin's bombs in the world's weapon proving ground.
I want no part of it or the world.
Tell them I'm from Aleppo and that I too write.
What will you write about us all, when we’re gone?
Then gather my ****** remains and put them in a hole.
For then I'm home and finally free.
Like all of the others, killed my Putin and the rest.
Worse than the Devil at his worst.
All for power, weapons sales and pride.
She is supposed to get to live to enjoy life
Her birth is in war
with no baby clothing available
but a blanket and a pillow

Her mother screams
higher than loud booms around
higher than the voices of politicians
It hurts to give birth during wars

She is in a tent
donated by good people
who don’t believe in war
but in love

Her little world is a war
The skies are dark and grey
and a lot stands in her way
not only this war

She joins her mother’s cries
wrapped with the grey blanket
Cries of rockets heard as well
emigrants from other tents cry too

Fear breaks into her tent
Smoke coming out of the tent
mixed with cries, screams, and wails
The tent shakes
The tent collapses

Her mattress is rubbles
Her blanket is ash
Her cries gone in vain
Just like humanity
Many babies don't expect to come to this life to start it in war, but they do.
ScribeMeAName Feb 17
Candles are lit.
The family gathered.
The son brought downstairs, eyes covered.

Make a wish my son.
I wish..
I wish, the Russians were gone.

Confused? This is not birthday party.
This is Russian airstrikes dropped down daily.

Syria is my home.
A tyrant on the throne..
I'm not Syrian, but as a human my heart breaks for those in Syria, Yemen and all across the middle east, lives ruined by these wars.
Mandi Wolfe Jan 16
Australia is on fire
and I imagine that I can smell
the burning fur and flesh of
animals I can’t even name.

I’m full of ****.

The truth of me is that
bushfires a world away
are not the reason
I haven’t been dry
a day since Christmas.

The World’s Problems
do not keep me awake.

Syrian children with melted skin
won’t ever feel as real as
knowing I have not looked -really looked
into the eyes of my own in months.

The m&m’s the Vraylar drug rep brought are real though
they are as real as the number on the scale.

Which is at least as real as my boss
when she used the words “corrective action.”

Which was at least as real as my ex-husband
who is back to the job of propping up his half of my life.

Which is at least as real as The Boy who is a friend turned stranger
who wrote the poem I stole those words from.

It’s turtles all the way down.
Rizna M Rameez Aug 2019
Did you buy the air for money, perhaps?
Or your lungs by labour?
Why is it that you feel entitled to be privileged to live, yet you
Deem for me no worth of life?

Was it not the same God that gave you the air and the lungs to breathe it by?
Then why do you consider the ground you tread deserving of my blood sacrifice?

Why is it that you feel entitled
To live,
While me,
To die?

In God's realm there is no majority nor minority,
Only that there is the one who hoarded pleasures,
And the one who was robbed of it.
And one day,
One day,
You will answer for why you thought the lungs and air
You and I got for the same price
Was only worthy of yourself.
Again, the plight of the Uighur, Rohingya, Syria, Yemen and Palestine etc, does not cease in torture. (Also, I am back from a half-year long writer's block, guess I lost the inspiration and passion, and eventually interest).
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