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Gerry James Apr 2019
He started walking quicker.
Deep inside, he felt scared and hollow.
For as long as he walked under streetlights,
He’d be leaving a shadow to follow,
But if he walked where light didn’t shine,
It’s the darkness that would consume him whole and swallow.

Coz it started by seeing the crimson on the concrete,
Dripping down the street,
Cop just standing there, standing on both feet
But doing nothing to the man holding a ****** knife sitting in the Lexus’ backseat
And not stopping the passers-by from taking a pic and putting it in a tweet.

But our main guy, he’s no saint,
He saw the whole thing go down,
He watched the killer plunge the knife with little more than a frown,
And he stared at him slamming the Lexus door and rolling on downtown.
But he just let the murderer get away.

Because on his hands he’s got the same taint,
Just a bit greener coz all he does is steal,
And after all, isn’t there a gun right below his heel,
For later in the night, when he goes to make a “deal”?

But seeing a fellow criminal made him stop and understand something,
He rips off his mask and begins to kneel,
In his head, the whole feeling is so surreal,
Because the big question on his mind was, “Is a sinner finally beginning to heal?”
when evil meets a greater evil, evil becomes good.
Gerry James Jan 2019
“Smile, my boy.”
The dad, with a smile, said.
The boy just shook his head.

“Please smile, son.”
The dad said, his voice pained.
Jaw muscles, the boy hadn’t strained.

“Smile, look at the cam, boy.”
The dad said with a frown.
The boy looked down.

The dad shouted loud.
The boy no longer bowed.
If i coulda advised my younger self i woulda just said "look straight g and force that smile, no problems caused." :)
But if you think about it, isn't this just another variant of smiling to hide our true emotions?
Gerry James Dec 2018
Every scar narrates a story.
Just like every drop of ink illustrates wars fought.
Life's full of stories of all kinds and i love it
Gerry James Nov 2018
Shaky hands reach out
Wrinkled hands, bony fingers;
All for a little bit of salvation
From the heat and the hunger.
Ribs sticking out of his chest
Lungs wheezing,
Struggling to breathe properly
Inhaling the unforgiving dust and smoke.
Sleeping on the cold concrete
With a frayed mat for warmth.
Worry lines permanently etched
Around his weary eyes
Realizing he can barely support
His family because of his sorry state.
But still he gets up and works;
Begging in alleyways,
Rummaging through trash bags,
Working in factories that tax him
Making him look gaunt;
All so that his loved ones
Can sleep with food in their tummies.
A poor man with a responsibility
Is the toughest soldier
This world can craft.
Poor people are God in disguise.
Gerry James Oct 2018
The monster that has no name.
The faceless beast that makes one feel
Utterly helpless
Simply by pretending to be
As warm as a blanket on a cold night
But really wrapping one
In a layer of despair and melancholy
Wound so tight that
We can barely feel the heaving of our chest,
Reducing the bravest souls
To a weeping, dishevelled mess
Curled up in a ball on the unwelcoming concrete
Eyes shut tight
Trying to block out anything
That may ever inflict pain
Ever again.
sorry i haven't uploaded, just not been in the mood to write
Gerry James Aug 2018
I live in Kerala, South India
Where it's usually unbearably humid and hot.
But it’s been rather different lately,
Cool gusts of wind have been brought,

Along with some rains that have turned into floods
Poisoning even fresh water with mud
And so the people, just like the fish our local fishermen catch,
In a net they have been caught,
Leaving friends and family distraught,

Coz trapped by water, a symbol of life,
People have suffered death
And been left to rot
In the houses where water breathes in human space;
Imprinting in our minds a memory we would like to erase.

Everywhere I look I see prayers, with help sought,
But people are just having their hopes shot.
The only grace is that atleast those who have their heads above water
Are having their prayers slowly answered.

I thank God for the army,
Who for the safety of our lives have fought
Pushing through broken homes with everything they’ve got.

I thank God for the navy,
Who have sent men in fleets
Just to save our countrymen off the flooded streets.

I thank God for doing everything to keep us safe and alive,
All so that we would not have to make that final dive.
Quite literally.

Right now, we may mourn this disaster that has led to our demise,
But I promise you, our beautiful state will rise,
And when I say this, I assure you, I speak no lies.
So I live in the state of Kerala, South India.
We the people of Kerala are suffering.
Its flooding beyond measure, and people are dying.
People i know are losing their homes and their families.
This is roundabouts the worst flood in our history.
I know there may not be many, if any, people on HePo from Kerala,
But my request is that anyone, Indian or  non-Indian, prays for this disaster to come to an end.
And that anyone who may live in nearby states like Tamil Nadu or Karnataka, please send supplies. We are desperately in need.
I thank y'all for reading my plea for help.
Pray for Kerala.
Gerry James Aug 2018
The worst part of writing with a quill
Is when the stories don’t flow no more.
After a point, there are no more secrets to spill,
Without sounding shrill and repetitive,
And falling to the floor, tired of this ****,
Trying to make your words sound ‘lit’,
While in fact just disappointing your readers
Just that little bit.
Just a fear of mine.
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