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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.
03.06.2019
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).
Carl D'Souza Jul 21
Boom! Crash! Crunch!
A bombshell hits the top floor
of a concrete house
in an opposition held area of Syria.
Two childhood brothers
sheltering in the room
are now buried under rubble,
the sharp heavy concrete chunks falling
tearing their flesh and
breaking their bones.
The 10 year old brother
struggles to raise his head
above the concrete and
sees the hand of his 3 year old brother
sticking out of the rubble,
he screams for “Heeellllppp!”
Where are the voices now?
Where are the people?
Where are the documentaries?

Now, when silent holocausts in Yemen, Uighur, Syria, Rohingya

Or are these things merely reserved for after their souls have been ripped from their bodies
Where are the human rights?
Where is humanity?

What is the world doing, donating charities and leading protests by the thousands, yet turning a blind eye on the worst forms of torture?
27.05.2019
Just Why? Why is there NO way to help them out? Why is this allowed to even happen?
Dawnstar Apr 26
Down in the valley of the fleeting stream,
Parched Syrian tongues are crying aloud,
Below, below, the sacred river
Where war took away my sweetheart.

She was bright, now she is blue,
Like the cataracts dividing the stream,
And the tearducts dividing my eyes,
Below, below, the sacred river
Where war took away my sweetheart,

Torn in our tumult
From the bleak parade,
Starve we all like her delicate face,
Now forever blemished.

Therefore let us dine on hardtack!
Suffer for the things of the marble world;
Fast along the toiling road,
To the land of reward, we go.

I compared her to a flower:
The fairest fragrance ever conceived;
To think her smile is a nest for ants,
Below, below, the sacred river
Where death took away my sweetheart.

Alone I sit, I weep,
        My face is clenched by nightingales;
A country stained by grief,
        At night, I hear their biting wails
From ill-wrought molten blades,
        Alike to man and woman;
How can I reason fate away
        By crying o'er her *****?

Change these feelings about me!
I am eager to see her again,
But I won't obey the winds
Above, above the sacred river—
As far as the fragrance is concerned.

No more mourning in silence!
Turn your plowshares into swords,
Let the weak say, "I am strong";
We may yet have the final word,
Before the vanguard departs this world.
Stephen Starr Apr 21
A blue boat
in the Mediterranean,
seven hundred balance,
broken, silent,
an unchosen arc,
rocking hearts dulled
by a slender chance
at survival.

Bitter dread grips
those not in boats,
greeted by the unexpected,
fumbling the knot of wrongdoing.
Surprised faces
bob in peaks and troughs.

Somewhere
between the
abandonment of hope
and the next breath
lies arrival.
A remembrance of
a buoyancy,
a slender space
of kindness,
holds all refugee stories
breathing freely
wave after wave.
Written in solidarity with those left homeless by war and threat of death.
Jules AA Apr 4
"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!" - Emma Lazarus, The New Colossus

In 2015 alone, over 500,000 people crossed the channels from Turkey. So in response, they brought back out the “Dublin Regulation,” but it was slightly different this time, this time they made a point of saying,
“******* for living in the place that we’ve bombed to kingdom come, the place that we’ve
destabilized to the point of catastrophe.”
I met a man who casually talked about things that everyone you know would appalled by, he was there. Talked about something that there was a whole failed movement about, because helping those in need goes as far as buying some posters and buttons.
Upon hearing the words,
“When I was 8, I was taken as a child soldier,”
Casually in conversation you begin realize how little the west gives a ****. These people are often stuck in crowded camps for over a year, because the EU would rather keep them in the land of PIGS(as they call it). Close to where they can get sent back with ease. Where they can keep the chaos of the world out of mind. They’re telling these people, innocents seeking safety,
“We don’t want you. Not in our clean cities, not in our homogeneous society.”
Just like the U.S., just like us. Drawing up falsified statistics and promoting otherization to feel at peace in our complacency. And seeing a child dying in the street, we look away. Not because we feel for the child, but to shield ourselves from the truth that this child is not the first or the last who died today. The melting *** is cooled now, it’s cracked like the Liberty Bell, its old contents poured out and filled with Miracle Whip and stale, cloudy water from plastic bottles left in the back of a Ford Taurus.
slightly inspired by "Left" by Nikky Finney
They bid their parents the last farewell last week,
“They died from God,” they were told.
Not believing this,
they said, “good ones don’t die.”
That’s what they learnt in their 4 years of life.

A blond girl and a black-haired boy running,
not knowing where to go.
Their shirts aren’t being ironed for days,
and the pants worn out.
The long unwashed hairs are still flying though,
from the breeze of the windy winter.

They are running,
sometimes smiling,
sometimes crying,
sometimes flying,
like the scared birds above them.
Their screams heard.
They reach the tombs of their parents,
buried in the cemetery near the borders,
which is for the poor only.

Wither colorful roses planted,
by unknown,
on the graves.
No names written on the tombstones,
no death dates,
no verses from the Holy Quran,
no visitors,
and no prayers.

They raise their arms,
and try to pray.
They cannot pray,
because they aren’t taught to.
They just open their cold shattering hands,
look at the cloudy skies,
shed some innocent tears,
and move their shivering lips.

They spend hours there,
because they miss their parents,
which makes a gum-chewing ******,
with a metal helmet,
point his gun at them,
because they are “national threat.”

They run,
run,
and run.
They try to curse the ******,
but they don’t know bad words.
They curse him in their imaginations,
while running.

The girl’s life was the first be taken,
and then her brother.
They vanished,
not the two kids,
but two breezes,
blowing to heaven,
like two angels,
With long wings.
They now know their parents vanished,
by the same ******,
not by God.
because good ones do not die.

Mohammed Arafat
14-03-2019
For the kids of Palestine, Syria and Yemen
Liam Peare Jan 24
WAR
Beautiful paradise draping in wanton vain
Men and women visage in pain
Storming the Homeland with sorrow's wind and rain
Laundering the beauty of morning's eyne.

The carcass of Country men blown by the wind- identity.
The Clamour of torment soul of Fellow man to despair- scythed the sanity.
Tears  in woe as thy'd watch the Homeland in ash
Threaded in enduring the shrieking of Homeland.
I start having nightmares before the beginning of any war.
During my sleep, I remember my sisters and brothers,
who played, smiled, loved, and were loved before.
I remembered my mother and the rest of the mothers.

During my sleep, I thought of my school,
the kindergarten and the friends of my niece.
I thought of my swing, my toys and the big pool.
I realized I would miss living free in peace!

The war waged, and I saw what no one has seen.
In front of me, they got ready for the battle.
They brought tanks, guns and an F16.
With hate, they were rushing just like a cattle.

Guns made in East and West pointed at me.
I saw no birds, but warplanes flying over the skies,
bombing, not caring about a he or a she.
I saw blood, felt sorrow and heard cries.

They destroyed my family home,
burnt my books and broke my pen.
They murdered my brother’s spouse,
and threatened to **** me again and again.

Black smokes surrounded me from everywhere.
Big explosions hitting here and there sounded.
Toys broken on the ground, balloons flying in air.
Despair spread, fear planted, hatred rounded.

Despite the war, I raised my hands and prayed,
that I get back to my home where I played,
that peace come and never be delayed,
and that my freedom will never ever fade!

Mohammed Arafat

15-01-2019
This poem is the experience of every child found her/himself in a war waged by merciless decision makers all round the world.
Mohammed Arafat Dec 2018
I came from a beautiful place,
Full of trees of olives and oranges,
A running river and golden beach.
From north to south and east to west.
We had our own land,
a spacious house.
animals for food and milk.
I was a poet,
my sister an engineer,
my brother a doctor.
My parents owned a business,
And my mom was pregnant;
she wanted twins,
a boy and a girl.
I loved my country.
We lived in peace.
Until the hatred spread:
of my family,
my religion,
the way we talked.
We were unwanted.
They knocked down the door of my family’s home
and “disappeared” my father and brother.
My mother aborted the twins for whom she hoped.
I tried to protect my sister from ****,
but I couldn’t.
How cowardly I was!
We decided to leave, to flee.
Like thousands, we walked toward a mirage,
a dream of a better life.
My mother could barely walk,
my sister lost in her personal pain.
Only cacti, heat and sun for miles:
We crossed rivers and deserts.
mountains, hills and valleys.
Smugglers awaited us at the border,
demanding thousands to pass to a safe place.
“If you don’t pay, you die!”
What lay ahead we did not know.
But I knew no place could be better
than where I was born.

Mohammed Arafat
This poems talks about the refugees forced to leave their homelands.
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