...gentle breezes
rung the wind chimes
of two hearts
pulsing
for freedom
chorused ecstacy
tickled
the goosepimples
of breathy lovers
caressing
their love-slick bodies
oil
of romance
dripped
sizzling
'pon the ground
of their windswept haven
their sighs
matched the melody
the hollow sighs
of our earth's lungs
for they
were the energy
sustaining
love
and giving atmosphere
to worlds
untold...

Sit close
Listen with your soul
not just your ears
No book gets it right

You ask me,
Were you one of the good ones?
There are no good ones
Only those who bled slower

They’ll call it justice
A stand
A reckoning
A cleansing
Our last shot at salvation

They’ll dress it in slogans,
wrap it in flags
They’ll give us names
Patriots, Rebels,
Loyalists, Traitors
But all of them fall apart
when the guns begin to sing

Your uncle...
the one you never met...
he looked at me
eyes wide, afraid
But I didn’t care
He wore the wrong color
And that was that

Remember your grandfather
remember these hands,
how they shook,
how they never stopped shaking.

Don’t let them hand you a weapon
and call it purpose
Don’t swallow lies
and call it reason

There is nothing civil
about a civil war
Nothing brave
in killing your own
No valor
in tearing your country in two

If I must choose,
I choose war—
Right hand against left,
Infants against beasts—
If every cause is just.

by (The Soul-Warrior)

I think I was a warrior once—
not of war, but of wounds.
My blade wasn't sharp with steel,
but soaked in silence,
forged from the fire of forgiveness.

I see him—
my past self,
kneeling in the ruins of choices,
bloodied not from battle,
but from bending.

My hand rises—
not in anger,
but to end the echo of suffering.
A mercy...
to silence the screams he swallowed.

But he smiles.
That broken boy with fire in his eyes.
He places his hand on my shoulder and says,
"Congratulations..."

"You endured."

"You didn’t fall. You didn’t give up."
"You wore the spikes like a crown,
bled wisdom from your wounds,
and now—
you are wiser than me."

And in that moment,
the blade in my hand dissolved,
and all that was left...
was peace.

Two minutes, we sacrifice.
The value of a human life.
Not to work two minutes harder,
or push ourselves 2 minutes further.

Not enough to contemplate
the pain and fear, the spite and hate.
Not 2 minutes to reparate,
our broken world, our shattered people.
The ones we left, who've grown so feeble.

We give 2 minutes for those who died.
Who died in wars so many times.
War and again, over and over,
and louder, the silence,
and longer, the violence,
so dilute in its gunfire and sirens.

Silence, 2 minutes, for those who died.
Yet silence eternal, for those deprived,
of human rights, and chance to live,
If only 2 minutes were all we'd give.

The hill I will die on,
Is that most battlefields aren’t worth dying on.
Some people see a mob,
And grab their pitchforks and their torches,
Without even understanding,
What they’re fighting for.
Perhaps they love the bloodshed,
Perhaps they love the gore,
Perhaps they feel righteous indignation,
And are adamant to settle the score.
It could be some primal need to fight,
Or some could be sure that they’re right.
Either way, I don’t see the point,
I understand that sometimes a war is just,
Most times, it feels like a bust.
A waste of money,
A waste of time,
A waste of precious human lives.
All for what? Some measly land?
How greed corrupts the righteous hands.
So the hill I will die on,
Is that some battles aren’t worth fighting,
That they aren’t worth the pain.
The lives they ruin,
The families they break,
The friendships covered in contusions,
The human souls that are broken and bruised.
All for what?

She stood in the field of Violets.
A distressed lady in war.
While others charged in the battlefront,
Only I noticed her, from afar.

She was enraged, with dreadful eyes,
Murmured words I didn't hear
A cluster of sunken syllables
Rose a song too hard to bear.

Forgiveness, O Damsel of Violet
Release me from these cries
Let me sing a song so dear
For those hazel eyes.

Trust me O Wrathful maiden,
No harm was ever planned.
Yet here I stand, entranced by you,
Still spellbound where I stand.

They say speak your truth,
but only...
only if it doesn’t make others uncomfortable.
Can't smile it away.
They say speak up,
but only...
only if you aren’t too loud.
They say walk proudly and tall,
but only...
only if you don’t attract too much attention.
Can't smile it away.
Though I am tired...
Tired of listening to their empty advice.
You can change for so many people...
you no longer recognize yourself...
until there is nothing left of your true form.
Can't smile it away.
The truth of the prejudices that still exist,
the harmful biases,
the injustices which live in our world,
are not erased, simply...
simply because some choose to ignore them.
Can't smile it away.
The misogyny which exists in our world,
cannot be tucked under the rug,
it can’t be smiled away.
These sentiments aren't meant to bring joy,
these words are not fragile,
these words are not beautiful,
this is just me,
speaking about the truth,
and not feeling ashamed to speak it.
Can't smile it away.
There are still far too many places...
places where women must fear...
fear to walk down their own street,
ever watchful of the hands...
hands of those who feel...
feel their bodies are not their own,
because they are women,
because of their gender.
Can't smile it away.
There are still far too many who do not realize,
that many generations of slavery and oppression,
have left their mark on current generations,
and that hate still lives.
Can’t smile it away.
There are still far too many prejudices which poison the minds,
of those who fear...
fear a religion foreign to their own,
and too many wars are still waged,
in the name of religion.
And when does it end?
You can’t smile it away.

-Rhia Clay

In a distant land, a city bright,
Where olive trees bathed in golden light.
Fields of oranges, ripe and sweet,
Where children’s laughter filled the streets.

The markets buzzed with joy and song,
With bread and sweets the day stretched long.
And in the air, so soft and near,
The call to prayer, both calm and clear.

A boy named Adil, young and free,
Kicked a ball beside the sea.
His laughter rang through ocean’s roar,
His joy, untouched, his spirit pure.

The sky, once bright, shattered apart,
A deafening BOOM that shook the tide.
The earth exploded, a deafening roar,
Shaking the heavens, tearing the floor.

Adil, still laughing, thought it was a game,
Chasing his cousin, calling his name.
But with each step, the world shook more,
And childhood crumbled to the floor.

His cousin’s grip was all he knew,
They ran, though neither understood.
“What game is this?” young Adil cried,
As they fled with nowhere to hide.

They ran through streets of bloodied cries,
Each corner echoing with broken skies.
Adil, with innocence in his chest,
Held his cousin’s hand, still thinking this was a test.

Where once stood a shop full of sweets,
Now rubble, fire, and twisted streets.
The joy he knew had turned to dust,
The city crumbled—lost to rust.

Still, Adil ran, his mind confused,
This had to be a game, he mused.
“Mama,” he whispered, wild with dread,
But this was not a game he had been led.

Through empty streets, they ran in vain,
Until cold metal came like rain.
A machine, massive, towering high,
Once seen in movies—now his sky.

Adil stood, still thinking it’s a race,
The terror too real, too much to face.
“Is this the game?” he thought in fear,
But the nightmare pressed far too near.