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K Cash-Staley Oct 2013
Band-aids to prevent the social infections that could eventually
spread to the frontal lobe,
Diseases started on Fox News, spread to the living room,
circulate around the family dinner table
putting victims of ignorance on the coroner’s slab
Alleviate the pain.
Should we let the gapping wounds of intolerance fester, decay and grow maggots?
***** bigotry, vile illiteracy, primitive ideas coat the skins of society like a black goo.

Band-aids: self adhesive bandages
We aren’t teachers. We are medics.
covering the gapping wounds of life
lathering the lesions with Neosporin.
Healing the scars from parenting gone wrong
- scars from wounded self-esteems
-lacerations to the proverbial heart

Scars lasting longer than the body itself.  
No one knows where its impact will end.

temporary fix
heal the wound fast, heal the hurt faster
A Johnson and Johnson remedy for damaged organisms
Well-meaning ones hurling scriptures scald hands with tainted words
Healing is a matter of time.

Arm teachers to protect children from the crazies who loom?
What will protect them from their own inherited ignorance?
The damage is already done when they get here.
Equip us with Band-Aids, boxes and boxes.

Hello Kitty over their ears to block the infection from coming in
Spiderman for their mouths. Stop the seepage of any contamination from spreading to others.

The remaining scars will fade, but not disappear.
even with a band-aid.

Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;

Nelson Mandela, South Africa's anti-apartheid beacon, has died
One of the best-known political prisoners of his generation,
South Africa's first black president, He was 95.
His struggle against apartheid and racial segregation
Lead to the vision of South Africa as a rainbow nation
In which all folks were to be treated equally regardless of color
Speaking in 1990 on his release from Pollsmoor Prison
After 27 years behind bars, Mandela posited;
I have fought against white ******* and
I have fought against black *******
I have cherished the idea of a democratic
And a free society in which all persons live together
In harmony and with equal opportunity
It is an ideal which I hope to live for and to achieve
But if need be, it is an ideal for which I am prepared to die,

Fortunately, he was never called upon
To make such a sacrifice
And the anti-apartheid campaign did produce results
A ban on mixed marriages between whites and folks of color,
This was designed to enforce total racial segregation
Was lifted in 1985
Mandela was born on July 18, 1918
His father Gadla named him "Rolihlahla,"
Meaning “troublemaker” in the Xhosa language
Perhaps  parental premonitions of his ability to foment change.
Madiba, as he is affectionately known
By many South Africans,
Was born to Gadla Henry Mphakanyiswa,
a chief, and his third wife Nosekeni *****
He grew up with two sisters
In the small rural village of Qunu
In South Africa's Eastern Cape Province.
Unlike other boys his age,
Madiba had the privilege of attending university
Where he studied law
He became a ringleader of student protest
And then moved to Johannesburg to escape an arranged marriage
It was there he became involved in politics.
In 1944 he joined the African National Congress (ANC),
Four years before the National Party,
Which institutionalized racial segregation, came to power
Racial segregation triggered mass protests
And civil disobedience campaigns,
In which Mandela played a central role
After the ANC was banned in 1961
Mandela founded its military wing Umkhonto we Sizwe
The Spear of the Nation
As its commander-in-chief,
He led underground guerrilla attacks
Against state institutions.
He secretly went abroad in 1962
To drum up financial support
And organize military training for ANC cadres
On his return, he was arrested
And sentenced to prison
Mandela served 17 years
On the notorious Roben Island, off Cape Town,
Mandela was elected as South Africa's first black president
On May 10, 1994
Cell number five, where he was incarcerated,
Is now a tourist attraction
From 1988 onwards, Mandela was slowly prepared
For his release from prison
Just three years earlier he had rejected a pardon
This was conditional
On the ANC renouncing violence
On 11 February 1990,
After nearly three decades in prison,
Mandela, the South African freedom beacon was released
He continued his struggle
For the abolition of racial segregation
In April 1994,
South Africa held its first free election.
On May 10,
Nelson Mandela became South Africa's first elected black president,
Mandela jointly won
The Nobel Peace Prize
With Frederik de Clerk in 1993
On taking office
Mandela focused on reconciliation
Between ethnic groups
And together with Archbishop Desmond Tutu,
He set up the South African Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC)
To help the country
Come to terms
With the crimes committed under apartheid
After his retirement
From active politics in 1999,
Madiba dedicated himself
To social causes,
Helping children and ***-AIDS patients,
His second son
Makgatho died of ***-AIDS
In 2005 at the age of 54,
South Africans have fought
a noble struggle against the apartheid
But today they face a far greater threat
Mandela he posited in a reference to the ***-AIDS pandemic,
His successor
Thabo Mbeki
The ANC slogan of 1994; A better life for all
Was fulfilled only
For a small portion of the black elite
Growing corruption,
Crime and lack of job prospects
Continue to threaten the Rainbow Nation,
On the international stage
Mandela acted as a mediator
In the Burundi civil war
And also joined criticism
Of the Iraq policy
Of the United States and Great Britain
He won the Nobel Prize in 1993
And played a decisive role
Into bringing the first FIFA World Cup to Africa,
His beloved great-granddaughter
Zenani Mandela died tragically
On the eve of the competition
And he withdrew from the public life
With the death of Nelson Mandela
The world loses a great freedom-struggleer
And heroic statesman
His native South Africa loses
At the very least a commanding presence
Even if the grandfather of nine grandchildren
Was scarcely seen in public in recent year

Media and politicians are vying
To outdo one another with their tributes
To Nelson Mandela, who himself disliked
The personality cult
That's one of the things
That made him unique,
Nelson Mandela was no saint,
Even though that is how the media
Are now portraying him
Every headline makes him appear more superhuman
And much of the admiration is close to idolatry
Some of the folks who met him
Say they felt a special Mandela karma
In his presence.
Madiba magic was invoked
Whenever South Africa needed a miracle,

Mandela himself was embarrassed
By the personality cult
Only reluctantly did he agree to have streets
Schools and institutes named after him
To allow bronze statues and Mandela museums
To be built
A trend that will continue to grow.

He repeatedly pointed
To the collective achievements
Of the resistance movement
To figures who preceded him
In the struggle against injustice
And to fellow campaigners
Such as Mahatma Gandhi, Albert Luthuli
Or his friend and companion in arms
Oliver Tambo who today stands in Mandela's shadow,
Tambo helped create the Mandela legend
Which conquered the world
A tale in which every upright man
And woman could see him
Or herself reflected,
When Prisoner Number 46664 was released
After 27 years behind bars
He had become a brand
A worldwide idol
The target of projected hopes
And wishes that no human being
Could fulfill alone,
Who would dare scratch?
The shining surface of such a man
List his youthful misdemeanors
His illegitimate children
Who would mention his weakness for women?
For models
Pop starlets
And female journalists
With whom he flirted
In a politically incorrect way
When already a respected elder statesman?
Who would speak out critically?
Against the attacks
He planned when he headed the ANC
Armed wing Umkhonto we Sizwe
And who would criticize the way
He would often explode in anger
Or dismiss any opinions other than his own?
His record as head of government
Is also not above reproach
Those years were marked by pragmatism
And political reticence
Overdue decisions were not taken
Day to day matters were left to others
When choosing his political friends
His judgment was not always perfect
A Mandela grandchild is named
After Colonel Muammar Gaddaffi
Seen from today's perspective
Not everything fits
The generally accepted
Picture of visionary and genius,
But Mandela can be excused
These lapses
Because despite everything
He achieved more than ordinary human beings
His long period of imprisonment
Played a significant role here
It did not break him, it formed him
Robben Island
Had been a university of life for Mandela once posited
He learned discipline there
In dialogue with his guards
He learnt humility, patience and tolerance
His youthful anger dissolved
He mellowed and acquired
The wisdom of age
When he was at last released
Mandela was no longer
Burning with rage,
He was now a humanized revolutionary
Mandela wanted reconciliation
At almost any price
His own transformation
Was his greatest strength
The ability to break free
From ideological utopia
And to be able to see the greater whole
The realization
That those who think differently
Are not necessarily enemies
The ability to listen,
To spread the message of reconciliation
To the point of betraying what he believed in,
Only in this way could he
Serve as a role model
To both black and white humanity
, communists and entrepreneurs,
Catholics and Muslims.
He became a visional missionary,
An ecclesiast of brotherly love
And compassion
Wherever he was, each humanity was equal
He had respect for musicians and presidents
Monarchs and cleaning ladies
He remembered names
And would ask about relatives
He gave each humanity his full attention
With a smile, a joke, a well aimed remark,
He won over every audience
His aura enveloped each humanity,
Even his political enemies,
That did not qualify him
For the status of demi-god
But he was idolized and rightly so
He must be named in the same breath
As Mahatma Gandhi, the Dalai Lama
Or Martin Luther King
Mandela wrote a chapter of world history
Even Barack Obama posited
He would not have become
President of the United States
Without Mandela as a role model,

And so it is not so important
That Mandela is now portrayed
Larger than life
The fact that not everything
He did in politics succeeded is a minor matter
His achievement is to have lived
A life credibly characterized
By humanism, tolerance and non-violence,
When Mandela was released
From prison in 1990,
The old world order of the Cold War era
Was collapsing
Mandela stood at the crossroads and set off in the right direction
How easily he could have played with fire, sought revenge,
Or simply failed; He could have withdrawn from public life or,
Like other companions in arms, earned millions,
Two marriages failed because of the political circumstances
His sons died tragically long before him
It was only when he was 80 and met his third wife,
Graca Machel,
That he again found warmth,
Partnership and private happiness,
Setbacks did not leave him bitter
Because he regarded his own life
As being less important
Than the cause he believed in
He served the community humbly,
With a sense of responsibility
Of duty and willingness to make sacrifices
Qualities that are today only rarely encountered,

How small and pathetic his successors now seem
Their battles for power will probably now be fought
Even more unscrupulously than in the past
How embarrassing are his own relatives
Who argued over his legacy at his hospital bed
Mandela was no saint
But a man with strengths and weaknesses,
Shaped by his environment
It will be hard to find a greater person
Just a little bit more Mandela every day
Would achieve a great deal
Not only in Africa
But in the bestridden geographies
Epochs and diversities of man,

In my post dirge I will ever echo words of Mandella
He shone on the crepuscular darkness of the Swedish
Academy, where cometh the Nobel glory;
Development and peace are indivisible
Without peace and international security
Nations cannot focus
On the upliftment
Of the most underprivileged of their citizens.
R B M Dec 2019
Band aids
Protected my wounds
After I made those wounds to feel

Band aids
Hid the pain away
After I got too scared of looking at the scars

Band aids
Clotted the blood
After it dripped from my open skin to the tile floor

Band aids
Covered the cuts
After the blade was put away

Band aids
Invisible to the open eye
After I hid them in the scarcely seen places

Band aids
Held me together
After I tried to tear myself apart
so when I peeled those band aids off, everything but my heart were healed... I'm okay now
Rosie Wisniewski Feb 2013
Band-aids cover up the wounds
Like a smile hides the pain
Day to day we pray
That we won't need anymore band-aids
When we can smile and mean it
We can pray until that day
But until that day we will smile
In hope that they will be real
Because there isn't much to do
Besides struggle and fight
If we value our life
If we believe in the day
When we won't need anymore band-aids
And we can smile
But, until that day
I pray.
Kìùra Kabiri Jan 2017
Did you read the novel of our uptimes: Confessions of an AIDS Victim!
Did you watch the films of our time: about Philly Lutaaya and Wangeci!
First filmed movies of victims living with Aids in Africa
And did you see humans like living skeletons: thin as threads  
Body emaciated-denied of any fond flesh and tissues: zombies with souls only  
Ribs lean like loose groups of marionettes glued sticks-countable
Skin stretched slender and dry like rotting drought carcasses
Like harvest’s bounty, daily on reed-mats taken outcasts to dry in the suns
Waiting, waiting, waiting for its delaying-about-death!

Did you watch the agony in the victims of the viral virus?
The emotional struggle with rejection and dejection
The sorrows in regrets and the sadness in the imminent eventuality  
Did you watch the scare in those inwardly suckled sockets of eyes?
The hollow horror-stigma, severe in their scrawny faces clearly drawn and written
The dryness of their fears and fates, daily as they awaits for the-no-coming-damnations  
The torturous anguish of hoping, hoping, hoping the waiting will soon be over-rested!

Did you watch them with sorrows?
How mùkingo, kang’eeri, kìng’ùki………….....
Had ruined and damaged their promising lives
Had you watched them with fears?
How deserted and dejected they were
Did you watch their burials, a polythene bag for a coffin as outcasts of the suffering society-Emotional families alone in the final procession somewhere faraway from ancestral burial grounds?
Rest of the society watching from a safe distance as hastily they are sent deep into their underworlds

Did you watch how havoc ***-AIDS had done to families?
Grannies alone grappling with swelling families of needs
To eventually warm loneliness of surrounding graves: a total devastating calamity
Terrible tombs of sons, daughters and grandchildren: forever wiped-out generations
Did you watch the wiping out fatality of UKIMWI in rural villages?
Where the most sick finally retreated to, to reconnect with their angered ancestors
Gray-Aged counting on the crosses and daily, freshly dug moulds of soils
Carrying-containing their loved-ones larvae-ravaged remains

O God! Why did you create this thing between our thighs?
And burnt in it a desire to rise-jump, romp, **** and pump
O Lord! Why did you put in place this dry well between our *****?
And installed in it an urge to die to be drawn, drenched and danced
O’ Almighty Father! Why did you generate in us a desire?
A desire only to be quenched by this sinful sickening act-***!

Oh! Lord! Must we all die atop the trap of death-the ball inside the socket?
With all the sick beauties and wealthy behind bellied fat fed ARVs bodies-
Humanity, must we pitifully perish this way-slowly but disgraceful!?
Clearly know your partner; holily respect your partner!
Chain your dog, lock your kernel, secure your cheque-
Abstain-protect your love: protect yourself!  

© Kìùra Kabiri. All rights reserved.
Simon Clark Aug 2012
Shutting down,
My immune system fails,
Vulnerable to the germs that breed about the town,
One mistake,
Protection wasn’t used,
Vulnerable to the taunts that make my soft heart break.

Although my heart is broken,
Words only cut so deep,
I know that I am human,
Even as I drift to endless sleep.

For advice and help – please contact any of the organisations below:
Terrence Higgins Trust
Helpline: 0845 1221 200
Offers free and confidential services for people with ***.

Positively Women
Helpline: 020 7713 0222 (staffed by *** positive women: Mon-Fri 10am-4pm)

Information, news and resources for people with *** and AIDS.

I dedicate this poem to all those who are suffering from ***/AIDS, those the world has loved and lost through ***/AIDS and to all of those affected by ***/AIDS.
written in 2009
Kara Rose Trojan Dec 2014
My Second Letter to Allen Ginsberg
Dear Allen,
Almost five years ago, I wrote you a letter, and in
That letter, I purged my drunkenly woeful cries
That seem so first-world now and naïve –
The things I grimed over with luxuries I didn’t
Realize that rubbed against my plump limbs
Like millions of felines poised at the
Tombs of pharaohs.

Oh, Allen, I’m so tired –
These politics, and poly ticks, so many ticks that
Annoy my tics. Allen! I smear your name so liberally
Against this paper like primer because the easiest way
To coerce someone into listening to you like
A mother
or predator
tugging or nibbling on your ear –
Swatches of velvet scalped from a ****’s coat
Are you and I talking to ourselves again?
Candid insanity : Smoky hesitance.

Dear Allen, I’m so tired –
Yes, I love wearing my ovaries on the outside like
Some Amazonian soapbox gem glistening from beneath
The iron boots of what the newspapers tell me while
I cough at them with the hurdled delicacies of alphabet soup.
Give vegetables a gender and call them onions, Allen.
Sullied scratch-hicks pinioned feet from slapping
Society’s last rung on the ladder.
Ignore the swerve of small-town eyes.
Scapulas, stirrups, pap smears, and cervical mucus – now do you know who we are?

That fingernail clipped too short, Allen. We’ve all got AIDs
And AIDs babies, haven’t you heard? Hemorrhaging from the political
****** and out – they haven’t reached the heart.  
Since when have old white men given a **** about some
13 year old’s birth control? I’m riding on the waves of the
Parachute game and I swear this abortion-issue is just a veil outside Tuskegee University
Being further shove over plaintive eyes, swollen and black.
Pay up and
shut up.

I still remember my first broken *****, Allen.
Can you tell me all about your first time?
The vasodilatation that made veins rub against skin,
Delirious brilliance : unfathomable electricity.
I made love during an LSD experience, Allen,
And I am not sorry. I see cosmic visions and
Manifest universal vibrations as if this entire world is
A dish reverberating with textiles and marbles, and
All are plundering the depths of the finished wine
Bottle roasting in the sink like Thanksgiving Turkey.
The patience is in the living. Time opens out to you.
The opening, between you and you, occupied,
zoned for an encounter,
given the histories of you and you—
And always, who is this you?
The start of you, each day,
a presence already—
Hey, you!

Ah, Allen, if you are not safe, then I am not safe.
And where is the safest place when that place
Must be someplace other than in the body?
Am I talking to myself again?
You are not sick, you are injured—
you ache for the rest of life.

Why is it that I have to explain to my students that
sometimes what I'm spouting is prescribed by a pedagogical pharmacy --
but all they want to know is "what do the symbols on the television mean?"
I am completely aghast against the ghosts of future goners --
I am legitimately licensed to speak, write, listen like some mothers --
I am constantly cajoling the complex creations blamed on burned-out educators --
I am following the flagrant, fired-up "*******"s tagging lockers --
Pay up and
shut up.

Yes, and it’s Hopeless. Allen.
Where did we get off leaping and bounding into
The dogpile for chump change jurisdiction, policing
The right and the left for inherent hypocrisies when
Poets are so frightful to turn that introspective judgment
Upon ourselves?
We didn’t see it coming and I heard the flies, Allen.
Mean crocodile tears. Flamingo mascara tracks
Up and down : up and down: bow – bow – bow – bow
Buoyant amongst the misguided ******* floating around
In the swirlpool of lackadaisical introspection.
What good is vague vocab within poetry?
Absolutely none.
Would you leave the porchlight on tonight?
Absolutely, baby.

Dear Allen, would you grow amongst the roots and dirt
At the knuckles of a slackjawed brush of Ever-Pondering Questions
Only to ask them time-and-time-and-time-and-time-again.
Or pinch your forehead with burrowed, furrowed concentration upon those
Feeble branches of progression towards something that recedes further
And further with as much promise as the loving hand
Attempts to guide a lover to the bed?

Allen, I wish to see this world feelingly through the vibrations of billions of bodies, rocking and sobbing, plotting and gnashing like the movement of a million snakes, like the curves collecting and riding the parachute-veil.

Ah, Allen! Say it ain’t so! Sanctified swerve town eyes.
And everything is melting while poets take the weather
Too personally
And all the Holden Caulfields of the world read all the
*******’s written on the walls and all the Invisible Men
Eat Yams and all the Zampanos are blind and blind
And blind and blind and blind and blind
Yet see as much as Gloucester, as much as Homer,
As much as Oedipus.

Oh, Allen, do you see this world feelingly
and wander around the desert?
Colored marbles vibrating on the curtailed parachute paradox.
Lamentation of a small town’s onion. Little do we know, Allen,
That what you cannot see, we cannot see, and we are bubbling
Over in the animal soup of the proud yet weary. I can see,
However, how the peeled back skulls of a million
Workboots and paystubs may never sully the burden
Of an existential angst in miniscule amounts.
Pay up and
shut up.  

My dearest Allen, there is always a question of how
The cigarettes became besmirched with wax to complement
What was once grass, and
What was once a garish night drenching doorknobs.
The night's yawn absorbs you as you lie down at the wrong angle
To the sun ready already to let go of your hand
As you stepped, quivering, on to
The shores of Lethe.
Tommy Johnson Dec 2013
You can hear the voices of our peers being silenced, ignored, shunned and distorted.
Staggering out of their bedroom doorways to the street corner to score a dime bag.
Bright, insightful millennials freezing in search of warmth from something to believe in that will encourage them to look forward to see another day.
Where our economy has made financial prudence clear when talking about education, yet price tags of university tuition's skyrocket.
The refused, the ones with hope but no money or scholarships; tread the streets with the echoes of electro house pulsing in their skulls.
Those who strip themselves down and shred their own morals to scraps just to find themselves and to see their own limitations.
Searching for answers to the unknown, to ascertain what they are, who they are and why.
Timid in high school, pushed along with nothing and no one to put their creative vigor into.
The squeakiest wheels that were never even considered to be given a good greasing.
Faculties giving them lethargic hellos on the first day of school, bestowing celebrated goodbyes to them on graduation day, diplomas in hand.
Now are the ones slumped over in a lackadaisical position contemplating how they can afford an education.
They work eight to ten at seven twenty five an hour Monday to Friday; and weekends staying in as not to blow their earnings.
Those who commute to university and balance a job with it, I applaud you.
The bewilderment of adulthood, the overabundance of pressure and responsibility.
Awakened from nightmares of lost opportunities, missed trains and lost contacts.
To step out of bed and splash water onto a severely distressed face and staring into a mirror with a despairing look.
Then hoping a bus to Garfield to bring back weight for all the embryonic smokers not yet at the point of make or break, just save up enough to pave my own way.
Gazing at the town on a roof top, chugging down the tenth…no…twelfth beer of the night wondering how this all happened.
Wild sensations of kissing an attractive stranger, the rush of touching on things never felt, tasting pleasures only the lucky have known.
The passionate, yet dissolute yearning for that ever eluding ******* adrenaline. Pounding, Pounding, Pounding until the culmination of energy has come.
Flip sided to those dizzying, tear jerking thoughts of suicide, annihilation of ones being, the contradictions of their faith in themselves and the people around them.
Unexplainable waves of anxiety crashing onto the shore of a diminutive island of optimism
Striving to look past the panic, the gloominess and fury that may or may not be present. But to remain composed and press forward to what awaits them.
Coffee keeps them going. Cup after cup, late night cramming every bit they can; into their caffeine driven psyches until the indisputable crash and failure.
Packs and packs of menthol cigarettes to calm their rattling nerves but at the same time killing them slowly. Their lives will seem shorter than the time it took to finish one bogey when death is near.
Marijuana induced ventures to run down burger shacks, laughing hysterical in the car ride, eyes heavy with a most ridiculous elastic grin extending from ear to ear. While inside millions of thoughts and realizations of consciously simple speculations and troubles become clear and unproblematic. So the joy is mirrored outside in.
LSD trips in Petruska dancing and singing in the rain! Making music, making love; playing pretend and creating art. Becoming a family while kicking back under the warmth of an illuminated tree on a cool fall night.
MDMA streaming through the body, everything is as it should be
Beautiful, lovely to touch, wondrous to stroke, marvelous to move.
To contact and connect, converse and converge with the dwelling desire to share what you feel with everyone for it would be selfish and unpleasant to keep it in.
Mushrooms oh the emotional overflow I need not say more but ****.
Then there are over the counter candies, Oxycontin, ******, Adderall and Xanax, painkillers and antidepressants. Ups, downs, side ways and backwards.
Selling addiction and dependency legally to kids. Making heroine, ******* and speed easily obtainable to them. Changing the names and giving out prescriptions so the parents can feel like they're actually helping their children but are subconsciously making it easier on themselves because they cannot handle the way their offsprings actually are. Some parents a feel it is the only way, I wish it wasn't so. Becoming zombies, mindless addicts before they even start to mature into puberty. I've seen it, firsthand front row.
Oh, the monotonous, mundane rituals and agendas of our lives. School, work, sleep eat, the sluggish schedules and repetitions of yesterday's conversations and redundancy of itineraries we had plotted months prior.
Same people, the constant faces of boredom that groan in apathy and hold the fear of complacency.
We talk about how hum drum out lives have become and what we could to put some color in our world but don’t.
We speak of how unfair the system is but ultimately confuse ourselves and everyone else due to lack or organization and dedication so nothing is changed.
We speak of breath taking women we want to share ****** fantasies with but can’t even muster enough courage to send a trivial friend request.
Texting away for hours trying to court those who now occupy our minds and possess our hearts hoping they may allow us to acquire their attention and affection. Calling them only to receive futile dial tones and know we are being evaded.
Weeping on and on for seemingly endless time frames of a dilapidated relationship that was so strained that a miniscule breeze could cause it to collapse but still clinging to every memory as if they were vital hieroglyphics depicting your very essence.
Brilliant theories blurted out in a drunken stupor.
Ingenious hypothesis shrouded in marijuana smoked out room.
Remembrance of friends long gone.
The marines, the navy.
The casualties of drug addiction.
The conquerors or their afflictions.
The scholars.
The insane locked away on the flight deck never to be seen again.
Teenage mothers unsure of themselves, abandoned by their families for they believe that they brought fictional shame upon the family’s name. The fate of the child is unclear but the mother’s everlasting love shines through any obscurities in its way.
Dear mother of the new born winter’s moon may the aura of life protect you and your baby.
The father gone without a trace.
He will never know his daughter.
And it will haunt him forever.
Parents bringing up their kids with values and morals, The Holy Bible, mantras and meditation, the Holy Quran, The Bhagavad Gita, and Upanishads. Islamic anecdotes and Jewish parables.
The names all different
The message the same
The stories unlike
Goals equivalent
Kabala, Scientology and Wicca
Amish and Mormons
All separate paths that intertwine and runoff each other then pool into the plateau of eternal life.
But do we have faith in our country, our government?
They do not have faith in us. Cameras on every street corner, FBI agents stalking social media, recordings of our personal lives and police brutality. 4th amendment where have you gone?
We say farewell to Oresko the last veteran of the last great war. And revisit the Arab spring, Al-Assad’s soldiers opening fire on innocent protesters, one hundred fifteen thousand lay dead. Bin laden dead, Hussein hanged, Gaddafi receiving every ounce of his comeuppance. War, terrorism, the fear of being attacked or is it an excuse to secure our nation's investments across the sea? Throwing trillions of dollars to keep the ****** machine cranking away, taxes, pensions, credit scores, insurance and annuities all cogs in the convoluted contraptions plight.
My dear friend contemplates this every night laying in bed, fetal position; the anxiety if having to be a part of this.
Falling apart on the inside but on the outside, an Adonis, *******, Casanova wanna be. Who worshiped the almighty dollar, gripping it so tightly until it made change, drank until he had his fill falling face first into the snow. The guy who lead on legions of clueless girls wearing their hearts on their sleeves not knowing he had a girlfriend the entire time. Arranging secret meetings in hidden gardens, streaking into the early morning. Driving to Ewing in his yellow Mustang to woo a sado masochistic girl. The chains and whips do nothing to him he is already numbed by the thrill. Then he comes home, lays in bed until one, with no job and having people pay for his meals.
He knows what he does and who he is wrong. He recites and regurgitates excuses endlessly. He cries because he knows he is weak, he knows he must fix himself. I sit on the edge of myself with my fingers crossed hoping maybe, maybe he will set himself straight.
My chum who can talk his way out of any confrontation and into a woman’s *******. Multitudes of amorous affairs in backrooms, backseats, front rows of movies theaters. Selfish, boastful and ignorant, yet woman fling themselves at him like catapulted boulders over a medieval battle field just to say hello. These girls blind to see what going on, for their eyes were taken by low self esteem. A need to be accepted, to feel wanted even only for fifteen minutes. Poor self image, daddy issues, anorexic razor blade slicing sirens screaming on about counted calories and social status. Their uncontrollable mental breakdowns and emotional collapse. Their uncles who ***** them, their parents who split up and confusing their definition of love and loyalty for the rest of their lives. Broken homes, domestic abuse and raised voices, sending jolts of fright into the young girl’s fragile minds. I send my sorrows to you ladies, to see such beautiful creatures suffer then be used and thrown away with the ****** that was just ****** deep into their *****.
Then I see women and men of marvelous stature, romantic in the streets holding everyone and everything in high regards. Finding beauty in anything and anyone. Enjoying every second as if the rapture was over head eating exotic foods from unheard of countries and cultures. Bouncing to the sound of whimsical , reverb ricochets and sense stimulating music. Huffing inspiration to create something out of thin air. Dancing to retired jazz and swing albums as if no time had past since their conception. Wearing bold colors and patterns, thrifty leather shoes or suede.
Dawning pre-owned blazers because why spend hundreds of dollars on new clothes just to look good but feel uncomfortable with a hole in your pocket. Dressing up but dressing down, so class yet urban I love it, chinos, pea coats and flannels so simple but chic.
At night they go to underground dens, sweaty bodies, loud music and freedom. Expressive manifestations glowing fueled with MDMA and other substances to further their enjoyment of the dark glorious occasion. Kandi kids sporting colorful bracelets, not watches for time is of no concern to them, they have all eternity they know that.
Going to book stores, coffee shops just to have some peace of mind and a moment of silence to themselves so that can weave the tapestry of imaginative innovation. Writing their own versions of the same story, endless doors of perception, reading news papers and taking it with a grain of salt. Watching the news on TV with a hand full of salt. Searching for the real story so they can know if the world they all live in is actually safe.
She who made her own way breaking hearts, rolling blunts and making deals. The flower child of the modern age, left the rainy days in search of radiant sunshine, idealistic. Reality was subjective, purple dyed hair, multicolored sweater with sandals on her feet. A ten inch bowl with bud from California packed in tightly. Coming from Dumont to Bergenfeild then on to Philly to Mount Vernon. Off to Astoria and the Heights. Now to Sweden laying in the grassy plains below the mountains. Good for you my friend whom I have loved, may fortunes of unsullied joy come to you and all you meet.
Since you’ve left I have encountered drunken burly firemen just trying to have a good time. Pounding down Pabst Blue Ribbon as if it were water; as if it were good tasting beer. But heroes none the less.
EMT's, young eighteen years old high school graduates, saving lives reviving people who are a mere inch close to death.
Sport stars getting scholarships thanks to their superior skills and strength.
Striking beauty school students who are into making the people of this world a little bit more beautiful on the outside.
All these people, successful, doing things. Departing to their desired destinations. I see inside them, they carry baggage, loneliness and insecurities. I can feel their guilt slowing them down. All have their loads but it’s the way they carry them that shows who they really are. And to me their all gems.
Not far in Paterson I watch the junkies limping across busy winding street, perusing a severely needed fix. “Diesel!” they shout beneath flickering streetlights, asking for spare change and if bold enough a ride to some shady sketchy place. I give them a dollar and politely decline. They’ll die without it. Vomiting up bile and blood, twitches and shivers are all you feel when it’s not in you. They cannot stop, they need help. Why not help them instead of “assisting” those who are homosexual? Cleansing so they can be granted entry to the kingdom of God. Looking down on people who have found love and understanding and a deep attraction to others who just so happen to share alike genitals.
Narrow minded uproars about the spread of AIDS, nonsense! The puritanical onslaught of those who want nothing more than the rest of us, love. "Gay", "****", "******", "queer", how about "kind", "funny", "genuine human being"? The right to be married and divorced should be an option for everyone to enjoy. The strains and hardships of matrimony are yours if you want them. If you don’t agree don’t hate or harm just allow them to be peacefully. Same goes for anything for that matter, Jehovah's going door to door, Mormons from Burbank. New ideas are never a bad thing, they’re not a waste of time. On average you have about eighty years to mull over your options.
Some people don’t live long enough to do so, cancer is rampant, blood diseases, ****** diseases, natural disasters coming right out of left field and blindsiding the innocent bystanders of both hemispheres. Some go through life handicapped, autism is apparent these days. Schizophrenia, Asperburgers, ADD and ADHD. Some lose their golden memories of their many valuable years walking down Alzheimer's Lane, not being able to remember whatever transpired only a few moments ago but revisiting gold nuggets from from fifty-some-odd years ago with ease. Some go through life delusional or bipolar. Some can't even sleep at night but they still carry on. And if assistance is needed it is our job as a race to help our brothers and sisters, no one deserves to be excluded from the gala of life. Or be denied by society and pumped with brightly colored pills from doctors promising a cure but prescribing a crutch.
Finding solace in sincerity.
The serendipity of it all hasn’t been uncovered and that keeps me going.
“Radiate boundless love towards the entire world above, below and across. Unhindered without ill will without enmity.” Oh Buddha the truth as it ever was.
Who is he who keeps these thoughts from the conscious minds of the population?
Who is it that distracts us from the humbling beauty and overwhelming devastation of this place of existence we’re in?
It’s they who do under the table parlor trick behind our backs.
Those who broadcast mind numbing so called reality TV shows without an underlying value or meaning.
Those who produce music, proclaiming extravagance to be the end all be all gluttonous goal we all should aim to achieve.
And those who turn noble causes into money making scams and defile pure ideas.
And of course those who give false promises of easily obtained  bright futures, those who don’t care, those who steal, ****, curse, bad mouth and lie. But still manage to get elected into positions that more or less decide out fates. Monsters, demons, banshees howling inconsequential worries and leaving us deaf to hear the real issues.
zebra Jul 2018
like cellophane wraps hard candy
like ink loves to dry
like hot sauce drenches noodles
like sunrise casts shadows
like band-aids sooth cut flesh
like irons crease linens
like origami folds paper
like water floats boats
like a tempest loves a teapot
like syrup and bananas drench waffles
like spoons love soup
like cats love fish
like french fries love ketchup
like wild girls dance
like a crow loves road ****
like eyes love beauty
like a circle loves a square
like buttered buns fit a bikini
like a kissed mouth hungers for wet lips
like moths love a flame
like dogs love *******
and like ******* hug butts

like howling ******* pulse hearts
like vampires love blood and castles
like dark grapes ferment in bubbling cauldrons
like white loves rice
like madness loves a straight jacket
like a ***** loves a ****
and music gets you dancing

like suns fall through cobalt night all smashing diamonds
how i love you
JennyFrenzy Oct 2014
Do you remember Red Ribbons
And the fear the world felt inside
Could AIDS be transferred through vision
Was the air contagious outside

Some said the government made it
Others thought it was god's design
AIDS had infected our spirits
Was the air contagious outside

Was AIDS transmitted by touching
"Don't touch him he's gay and you'll die"
Repugnant minds were erupting
Was the air contagious outside

Do you remember Red Ribbons
Was the air contagious outside

I started wearing Red Ribbons
After hearing my friends tragic tales
Of the worst gifts they'd been given
Entombed in a black mourning veil

Our grandmothers they were best friends
You told me, my god I went stale
Sick with anguish for your grave end
Entombed in a black mourning veil

Once surrounded by many, now few
Your frame morphed from buxom to frail
Love you Joy, I bid you adieu
Entombed in a black mourning veil

I started wearing Red Ribbons
Entombed in a black mourning veil
I lost a life long friend to AIDS. Her name has been changed to Joy, because that's what she brought to her friends and family, so much joy...
Gabrielle Isa Nov 2017
His "I love you" came swiftly.
Like the monsoon pouring down on a leaky roof
Those three words broke through my defences.
At first they were an ambrosia;
They sustained my life and our relationship.
At least for a short time.

Then "I love you" became an excuse;
For absences, and purpose-filled accidents.
And I ignored the warning signs, the flashing lights.
I pretended like "I love you" was enough...

...But it wasn't.
His "I love you"s were like band-aids on bullet wounds;
Like using play dough to fix cracks in concrete walls.
But I rationed our good memories,
I held on as tight as I could to our love
And watched as it slipped through my fingers.

His "I love you"s became poison
That seeped deep into my bones
And turned blue skies grey,
And turned light into darkness,
And slowly killed whatever semblance of love
I fooled myself into thinking we had left.
I had never felt so whole before in my life. Not that my life had been particularly interesting or wholesome or rewarding or even long, for that matter. In fact, I was relatively an infant. The great mystery of life was something I promised myself I would solve. But somehow, for that one specific moment in my brief existence, I found myself feeling quite content. It was a moment unlike any I had witnessed before, that I could remember, at least.
I have no recollection of my childhood.  I have two memories. Only two. Two faded, crumbled, sketchy, detached, painful memories. And to my dismay, the first memory is of a moment where I was being chased by my cousin’s dog, and then: falling, and sliding, and wailing; the stucco cement erasing the skin on my legs, leaving shreds of flesh on the heather grey sidewalk. I heaved myself up and ran to my aunt, wobbling and wailing and whining all the way.
She sat me down on the edge of the table, and picked the gravel and dirt and stones out of my shredded skin. Or, what remained of my skin. After that, she found a tube of Neosporin +Pain Relief ointment, and slathered it generously from my thighs down the front of my legs, to my knees, and down my shins to my ankles. And since the damage down was so widespread, there was no single bandage to cover the new landscape of my legs.
My aunt came up with the most reasonable solution, I suppose, and took a box of Band-Aids, and emptied it onto the table, and began unwrapping them one at a time, and placing them, one at a time, onto my legs, in the most strategic way possible, covering the most ragged, tattered, ****** shreds of flesh first, and then, with the remaining Band-Aids, she covered the less pulverized areas, until there were no more Band-Aids.  And then the box was empty, and so a second box she brought to me.
She handed me a cluster of tissues to wipe away the tears that were slithering down my face and dripping off my chin. And so incessant were the tears slithering down my face that my reddened cheeks began to burn. They began to sting and itch, and so my eyes began to dry out of pure sympathy for my cheeks, and so the box of tissues was saved from the same fate as the box of Band-Aids.
No wonder I am deathly afraid of dogs. And luckily, allergic. But I digress. My second memory, of my childhood, escapes me at this moment. They tend to come and go, and only when I truly focus on them often, and bring them to the front of my mind nearly ever day. But in the interest of my story, my second memory isn’t that important at all. Or perhaps it is, but I cannot remember.
Now back to the moment of wholeness. I had spent an exorbitant amount of time, focusing on a rising darkness welling up deep inside me, somewhere in my chest, behind my lungs, deep in my very soul. In that moment, I was sitting on my bed, with my knees tucked up under my chin, hugging my legs against my chest. I was searching for some amount of comfort or release from myself. But I could not find any.
Since I couldn’t find anything remotely helpful inside myself, I climbed out through the window onto the roof. And I sat on the sharp rough shingles. I felt the stucco texture under my skin. And I traced the scar on my right knee. And I unconsciously held my breath, remembering the pain of one of only two memories. Then I exhaled and blew away the stale breath in my mouth, and let my shoulders drop down and my eyes closed.
And I realized, on the inhalation of my next breath, that when I had stopped searching, for just a fraction of a moment, I was content. I got quite nervous, for a second, and became frantic, for I feared that once the moment was gone, the darkness would once again rise.  But I found in several seconds, that the moment wasn’t gone, and the darkness hadn’t reared its head. I found that the simple unconscious reminiscing of a moment from years gone by, the simple pausing in my racing thought, opened me to a world of contentment. In that moment, I ceased to strive.
Kara Hesketh Oct 2014
Ebola! Ebola! Ebola!
you are only hunting in the exhausted fields,
you predecessors have done evil marvel in this land
Africa's sons and daughter were heavily taken away
in slave raid, colonial rampage two world wars, cancer
and *** aids, Ebola you must be ashamed to come here,
are you as foolish as lioness that must follow the path
initially taken by her husband the lion?
Ebola Africa is dead tired and lain forlorn
by strange diseases not known by it
but only named in the land of their cradle
where *** was born in the Irish Laboratory
on trial and error to decimate Africa's populations
in the racially biased arsenal you have also come
you fangled teeth a bare menace to each of us
you make us bleed from out body holes,
blood oozing out like Nile water from lake Victoria
Ebola! Ebola! sympathy is not a vice, but heavenly
virtue, only protege of the Godly please be sympathetic
to Africa the orphan of the classic times with no succour
her wounds of Cancer are fresh and fresh as those obnoxites
from the nasty Aids aka ***, kindly empathize with Africa
you have eaten Mali and Nigeria after Congo Kinshasa
you are now in Kenya the neighbor of Sudan
the last born of Africa already rendered forlorn
by the AK 47 and AK 74, shot in the tribal tremors
O! Ebola Ebola! my prayer to you is as brief
as that; forgive me for my weird mourning
of my brothers and sister in death mongering
mandibles so ugly and Abysmal like
Gehenna of Jesus Christ, Amen!
Elihu Barachel Dec 2014
AIDS…do you have it? Guess what your going to die
You will pine away…won’t have the strength to cry
Why do you have AIDS? Because you’re a ******* Queer!
After you are dead…Damnation so sever [1]
You will burn in Hell, every ****** will
***** and Gomorrah, a lesson you’ll fulfill
Pretend it isn’t so, be so very “gay”
Your eternal soul, is the price you’re going to pay

[1] Romans 1:26&27
Don't judge me by my hearing-aids,
before getting to know me.
I'm as bright as the stars and the deep blue sea.

Don't judge me by my hearing-aids,
before getting to know me,
Don't say she didn't hear me.
wait for a response,
Give me a chance.
I will answer with my voice,
or in Sign Language.
This is another one of my poems that I just wrote. It is based on my experiences today.

Ebola! Ebola! Ebola!
you are only hunting in the exhausted fields,
you predecessors have done evil  marvel in this land
Africa's sons and daughter were heavily taken away
in slave raid, colonial rampage two world wars ,cancer
and *** aids, Ebola you must be ashamed to come here,
are you as foolish as lioness that must follow the path
initially taken by her husband the lion?
Ebola Africa is dead tired and lain forlorn
by strange diseases not known by it
but only named in the land of their cradle
where *** was born in the Irish Laboratory
on trial and error to decimate Africa's populations
in the racially biased arsenal you have also come
you fangled teeth a bare menace to each of us
you make us bleed from out body holes,
blood oozing out like Nile water from lake Victoria
Ebola ! Ebola ! sympathy is not a vice , but heavenly
virtue, only protege of the Godly please be sympathetic
to Africa the orphan of the classic times with no succour
her wounds of Cancer are fresh and fresh as those obnoxites
from the nasty Aids aka ***, kindly empathize with Africa
you have eaten Mali and Nigeria after Congo Kinshasa
you are now in Kenya the  neighbor of Sudan
the last born of Africa already rendered forlorn
by the AK 47 and AK 74 , shot in the tribal tremors
O! Ebola Ebola ! my prayer to you is as brief
as that;  forgive me  for my weird mourning
of my brothers and sister in death mongering
mandibles so ugly and Abysmal like
Gehenna of Jesus Christ, Amen !
Clare Margaret Jul 2017
It’s common knowledge that nobody dies of AIDS,
it’s the common cold or bronchitis or some other infection
that annihilates the broken immune system.
Alternatively, people with AIDS die
of suicide.
I didn’t even consider suicide an option
until you bolted your front door twice
and strung your neck up with a rainbow silk tie.

I don’t have AIDS,
I don’t even have the common cold or bronchitis,
but I do have a long gold cord under my bed
coiled up like a snake curling around its own head.
I do not want to die today, but I checked tomorrow’s forecast
and it sounds like the perfect day
for my madness to burst outward in hot yellow rays
as I choke on my own grey spit
and fatal sins.
Salmabanu Hatim Aug 2019
In childhood you play with your toys and hold them close to your heart.
In youth there is one thing on your mind; the opposite ***,
You spend your time and money on them.
In middle age you devote your life on your children till they grow up and move out.
In old age there is you unable to do what you could do before,
Spiced with illnesses and weak mobility.
Now you live with AIDS:
Medications and First Aid,
Sensory Aids,
Mobility Aids,
Toileting Aids,
And Care Aides.
Sandra Jun 2014
Why is it
When I see your face
All I could think of, is how much I miss you?
How much I want to keep laughing
And hugging
And cuddling you.
How much I want to keep you safe inside my arms
While your voice kept on mumbling about her.

I just can't help myself
From loving you
Even though you still don't understand it.

Why am I trying so hard to give you as much lights as I can
When I don't even have a small gleam to keep myself awaken
And alive?

All you're doing, is break me and hide the scars
Putting on as many band-aids as you can
And making my skin joins up together again
But you never take the time
To look inside my flesh
And see how much veins, and thews you have tore.

You flip my world upside-down
You break my bones all the time
You kissed my hopes away
Can you at least fix me once again?
it looks like you have my heart again.
Corndog08 Sep 2014
Oh band aids,
You are more to me than women,
You’re brown, holey and sticky,
With your beautiful pores,
You stick to my skin,
Till a scab may form,
You protect my wounds,
And my hygiene,
When its time to go,
You must have to stay,
You stick,
I pull,
Until you are away,
In the bin,
You will go,
Until my brother,
Decides to eat you.
Mihlali Stwayi Apr 2014
Coming from unknown shores, arrived these Western boats,
with disastrous as well as deceitful tactics they took our gold,
jump to the modern era, they are the ones' promoting ***,
they bare minimum death rates due to *** and Aids,
while African's lives in bitter ruins as the notion of "safe ***" seems perplex.
*** promotion misconstrued as our kids continue ****** the old,
Such consequences were never told,
when they sold us back our own gold.
Systematical control is now the definer of societies
Africans not taught of Qamatha but tested on Socrates,
African souls enticed into materialism by paper and cheese,
while Western supremacists economically ****** African Identities.
African child, fight back please!
This poem aims to tell the untold truth about the legacy of colonialism and imperialism as well as the effects of modern day capitalism on the African child.
Q Jun 2015
I stole a box of band-aids from the Rite-Aid,
The beat-down one ten minutes away.
In a gas station bathroom by the wash basin,
I cut my arms up, whispering, "Stay."

I was shivering badly, my lips chapped and ashy,
The whole box of bandages didn't quite do the job.
With my sleeves unrolled and a confident stroll
I walked out pretending I wasn't terribly lost.

Home is the kind of torture my mind chooses to blur,
Domestic fairy-tales that never come true.
Staring at the ceiling entranced for days with a popcorn maze,
Thinking of questions no one's ever had an answer to.

I stole a box of band-aids from Rite-Aid
The day I opened an artery with a knife.
The cashier would have listened; would've called an ambulance
If I'd had any inclination to restore my faith in life.
Sydney Ann Jan 2015
No matter how many drugstores I rob
I will never have enough Band-Aids
For what you've done to me
Sacrelicious Apr 2012
Like you're only
driving me

Until you
break my brake-line
at one hundred
butterfly heart-beats
a minute.

I know
want to
speed me up
so fast that
I won't even be able
to survive,
when you
hit the brakes
so hot &

Just to send me flying across
Lust Lane.

I need some band-aids.
My heart cracked on
the pavement
& now
my eyes can't stop leaking.
Cafiifa Jeylani Jul 2014
His blood drips onto the floor,
His mother is by the door.

My young little brother has left his corpse.
Mother cries after he went out cold.

He won't be revived,
You can never survive.

The oppressors won't stop.

Zionist commit the crimes of the holocaust. This crime isn't even discussed.

Everyone supports them, aids them but never ever reassess them.

The martyrs cry can be heard from afar, just as the rest of us rip apart.

I can't shed tears, I know they can pull through. And even if they don't Allah will help you ❤️

Free Palestine ❤️ actions speak louder than words.

Cafiifa Jeylani ©
Free Palestine ❤️
They're suffering
If you wanna know what happens behind closed doors go read Haaretz news. Thank you
Ellie M May 2014
Dried Up Tears
(To a stranger that I call Dad from your Daughter with a broken heart)

There is pain that can not be fixed by Band-Aids and Poetry.
To the stranger I call Dad.
The one who left me and my sister.
For lies and greed, For your selfish gain.
Why did you run away?
Am I anything to you?

You said that you love me, That was all lies.
That you always be there, Nothing but lies.
You took my heart and stomped on it, a part of me has died.
For years you never said a word, so I write, I stand here with a broken heart.
John Cena May 2015
when life give lemon
make aids
we all like aids
now we party

join at
Children born with *** is the most sadest thing in life. Everyday there is a child born with ***. The reason for this is because adults and children are ***** each and every day. By the curel careless people in this world. Kids are sent off to oprphanges in some parts in Africa where honestly is better then some other places in Africa. Thats not it though the ones that are not in oprphanges are at risk each and everyday for there lifes. Not only for this disease but for the curlest people that will **** them for basically no reason because they dont have freedom like we do. Why treat children this way period but why treat them especially if they have limited time in life. They dont get to see and experience what we get to see and experience because we have the freedom. Each and everyday children in Africa risk there lifes to go to school most of them don't survive because once again the cruel poeple in this world **** them. Unlike we get to go to school for free and have freedom. We get to have the oppertunity to have an education. When they are not even given a chioce. The kids that are not in a orphanage are slaves they get torchered they get wipped they even are forced to see there parents wipped, ***** and murdered. They dont have choices at all for there life the chioces are made for them. Barely any water to drink or even food to eat. Children in Africa die each and everyday either from ******, starvation, dehydration or there disease. We act so ungreatfully to people in our lives we should be ashamed. When poeple in Africa don't have parents or if they do they dont get to see unless seeing them be torchured. I am thankful for everything I have and the freedom I have. Learning about this in school was intrestingly horrifying because of what these people do to these children and there parents or to people in general. They dont get *** from chioce of *** or born with it or lack of condoms they are forced with this horrible disease that is life killing and that most likely turnes into AIDS. With out any medical or lack of medical attention the poeple with disease are left to die. With people torchering them by watching and ****** them each and every day. It makes me furious to know that there are children human beings out there that are being torchured, *****, murdered, starved and dehydrated each and everyday of life. This is the life to the day they are born untill the day they die. After reading this think really hard about your life and the things and people in your life is life really hard for you is it that painful is it that horrifying. Put yourself in there shoes would you like seeing your parents child or sibling get ***** murdered or even wipped each and everyday. going without food or water or having barely food or water. For me after writing this and learning it my whole life is heaven compared to them. I have everything they don't and better and  I am not even close to being as greatful as I should. Think about this and this is so very true this is there lives each and everyday for the children and adults that are slaves that have ***/AIDS in Africa.
K Balachandran May 2014
I left my shores in that fateful night,
my heart was torn in to pieces,
and blood rushed out, a red river
still I fought like an battle hardened soldier,

My old boat made of  seasoned wood was broken
in many places, lost my navigational aids
the sky was windy and overcast, the sun avoided my eyes
at dark nights, the lone star that loved you and me
and wanted us to unite, was covered with angry clouds
that wanted me to get lost in high seas
the storm that was brewing didn't daunt me
I set full sail and saw the island in my mind
listened only to your voice within me , firm and clear
you  are my rudder, light house, love song
Love, is the only light that's left for me
will I reach your abode against all odds?
My heart goes to Maria,  our friend in this moment of intense pain
eatmorewords Apr 2017
My car tyres are going bald,
most probably cancer.

That would just be my luck.

I once had a bike that got AIDS.

Please don't ask.

Seeing it just fall about, a nut here,
a bolt there, the broken
spokes, the clunking chain that
would turn no more.
It's rusty revolutions.

Disintegrating in front of my eyes,
like Tom Hanks in Philadelphia.

Seeing a BMX brings it all back.

Once at a car boot sale, I bought 3 car boots
only to find they were broken but
on a positive, someone bought my shoes,
even though they weren't for sale.

I walked home, socks on feet, the rain
seeping through,

the car boots on my back clunking,
I was thinking
life really isn't so bad
michelle Dec 2013
If you're a gas stove
I want to be propane
I want to fuel you.
And I know I sound pretentious
up here
making a stupid, messy stab
into the heart of poetry.
Forcing it to bleed
an open wound
I don't know how to do this
I don't know how to make you see
these ******* characters
that form words
when words morph into lines
then to stanzas
then a ******* poem.
Just a bunch of broken sentences
but I guess that's why
they say poetry is for broken people
to mend their broken hearts.
Love for the loveless
hope for the hopeless
poems are broken
just like all of us
us broken people with plastered smiles
and Hello-Kitty band-aids
holding together
our shattered hearts.
Such a beautiful art
to be so broken.
Like butterflies
fluttering in the calm breeze.
I've always hated butterflies
and butterfly knives and butterfly band-aids.
So what am I going on about?
As my heart looks to my brain
it whispers softly,
"Shh...I got this."
Well then heart, might I ask you something?
What do you have?
My sanity, that's for sure.
Do you even understand what you're doing to me?
Huh? Do You?
You don't see how when you break free
free of those butterfly band-aids holding you together
you're not fixed
you're still crumbling to ****
taking me down with you.
Because then my body
listens to you and says,
"Oh, I'd better crumble down too!"
I don't want to be a ******* poem
full of pretentious *******
I don't want to be a broken sentence
maybe a cracked one.
Because let's be honest
a whole sentence isn't real
nothing is whole
there's always gotta be a crack
or a chip
which is what allows us to break
and to crumble
to become nothing
but charred remnants
we've all been thrown into a pit of fire
as people watch and laugh.
Like we're some sort of freak show!
Perhaps we are.
Put here to entertain.
When I was young,
I was scared of freak shows.
How could that lady bend like that?
Wouldn't that blade cut too deep into that man's esophagus?
Maybe that was the point
we want to feel
our days and nights are full of the same pointless banter.
Becoming so numb to who we are,
we long for a feeling of adrenaline
to corse through our veins
and assure us
we're alive.
You wake up and plaster on your best smile.
What if you don't?
What if you let yourself cry?
Well that, would be feeding yourself to the sharks.
They want to watch you bleed
and taste your pain between their teeth
as you slip down their throat
like you're the sword and they're the man in the freak show.
You're nothing of fear to them.
fear pulses through your veins
perhaps that's how you became so numb.
You feared the carnies in the freak show
and the strangers in the street
as their shoulders brushed against your's.
Raised in a bubble
but all bubbles POP
now don't they?
What they don't know
when all those sharks swallow you
is that you were never fixed
your insides are still a pile of broken shards of glass
so you're choked on
spit into the air
not even a ******* shark wants someone so broken.
So tell me now
why is poetry placed on such a high pedestal?
No one loves so broken a man
but they're mystified at the words one can place on paper
in broken sentences
to a ******* stanza
we gawk at the people
who's words flow like rivers
and eyes are nothing but black holes
poetry is supposed to be dark, deep.
when you're truly so numb and empty,
do you have that depth?
I think so
I think that when you have an empty hole where your heart belongs
then you're able to feel the emptiness.
You plunge your hand into your chest
and brush the emptiness between your fingers
just like sifting pink sand at a tropical resort
little pieces of glass mixed in,
eating away at that hand
placing little cuts so you never forget
you're being branded on the outside
branded by the inside.
By the only one you cares
but also the only one who couldn't
give a **** if you live or die;
Abandoned by the ones you love
your papers passed through
and they were slammed
with a big red stamp
They turned their backs
as you fell through fire
and met the devious sharks mouths
forever is a hollow word
filled with nothing but the air
they breathe out as
they whisper it into your mouth
the taste filling from them
to you
it seems like a kiss of life.
Giving you a reason to stay
but you notice something...
something strange
its like milky,
bittersweet chocolate
seeping into the cracks
in the lungs
you thought
would save you
but they only crack more
under the pressure of the slimy goo
and leave you wondering
your thoughts pounce at you
like a puma hunting prey.
Did they ever even love you?
The bitter symphony of their voice
floods your thoughts
and you know
they never told you the truth
it was all
a trick
for a cliche
masquerade ball.

— The End —