Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
it is said that
a prophet finds no honor
in his own country

hard truths
boldly spoken
are received as a
wretched cacophony
threatening to melt
the caked wax
blocking the closed
intolerant ears of
intransigence

Madiba
once found no
personhood
in his homeland

his people driven
from their land
by Voortrekkers

snortling Boers
gobbling the land
uprooting native
people from villages
they had occupied
since the dawn
of time

spilling Zulu blood
into roiling rivers
of conquest

meeting peaceful
petitions of the
aggrieved with
Sharpsville bullets
splattering
the blood of
innocents onto
hardscrabble roads

redressing crimes
against the victims
by corralling them into
denuded Bantustans
where rivers do not
flow, grass never grows,
game cannot graze;
only the dust doth blow

riddling the captives
with torments of
Transvaal Apartheid,
mocking the speakers
of mother tongues with
the fained eloquence
of bastardized Afrikaans

the dominion of the
oppressors, sanctioned
and affirmed by exiling
a people from their land,
outlawing their language,
dividing the nations into
a fallacy of separate
destinies where a forgetful
history blessed with amnesia
will anoint the conquerors
with the spoils of abundance
stolen from the vanquished

Madiba spoke of these things
and was awarded a prison
cell for twenty seven years

but the hostages of
a conquerors justice
remained destined
to be freed by the arrival
of an accepted truth
set free by the very words
prophetically spoken

prisons cannot contain truth
steel bars cannot imprison
the idea of divine justice

it slips through the smallest openings
like a wafting fragrance of the first day of spring

it saws away at the rust strewn steel bars
like the surest movement of a master carpenter’s arm

it melts the thickest links of iron chains
in the fiery forges that burn in the hearts
of all freedom loving people

the truth of justice
is born and takes flight
on the wings of history
covering the globes
cardinal ordinates

nesting in the most
humble villages
and mean estates
on God’s good earth

truth and reconciliation
can never be separated
planted together to grow
healthy nations and
communities of
trust and restoration

Madiba, you always
found honor with
the salt of the earth
the children of light
who seek to dispel
the darkness of
acrimony and
*******

we continue to
walk your way
guided by your
prophetic visions
we take the first steps
asking liberators to join
with oppressors, pairing
in a magnanimous walk
along wholesome pathways
perceiving the buena vistas
of reconciled communities
firmly established
on foundations
of peace, equality
and justice for all citizens

I caught a fleeting glimpse of Madiba
as he rolled by in the Canyon of Heros
showered under a June blizzard of confetti
and a resounding acclimation of love.

I was a plebe inhabiting a lower floor
Broadway office, yet my station blessedly
brought me closer to Madiba.  As he passed
I was moved by his miraculous smile and felt
the colossal reverberations of his waving arm
triumphantly hailing the sweet freedom of
liberation all hostages of feigned justice
exude in the vindication of divine justice
enraptured in the joy of affirmed truth.

Dearest Madiba
we are enriched
and blessed for
the time you walked
among us.  

You fought
the good fight
my brother.

Rest easy
for we shall resume
the climb to
the next mountaintop.

Well done Madiba
Godspeed

Rolihlahla “Nelson” Mandela
7/18/18 - 12/5/13

Ladysmith Black Mombazo
How Long

Oakland
12/6/13
jbm
Crystal Erickson Dec 2014
Sailing through sheer jagged thoughts
and cool running dreams
The merciless curse of emotion
overflowing the exhilarating streams

Witnessing the chaotic times
of the dark and ancient old
when the mystifying warriors heart
was branded honorable and bold

ever drifting ever more
in this sea without a shore
through this land of legends and lore
ever drifting evermore

Floating ever aimlessly
through translucent waters
seeing the weak of mind from this plane
exiling their sons and daughters

While beasts of burden trudge from within
the midsts of juxtaposing viking ships
ships of war and plague and death
that obliviously vanish within a breath

ever drifting evermore
in this sea without a shore
through this land of legends and lore
ever drifting evermore

Sailing after those laden beasts
that which so arrogantly stray
you see those morbid souls of life
so ominisqueskly carried away

To the ***** delight and warmth
of the strong and merciful earth
Away from this unknown land
Of legends miraculous birth

ever drifting evermore
in this sea without a shore
Through this land of legends and lore
ever drifting evermore


© Crystal Erickson 1999
I have been told this should be a song, however it was written as a poem!
mûre Feb 2013
About tea
Skinny tea, sweet tea,
Elixir exiling youth's ungainly exit
Tea and a lover, vogue tea,
Tea post ******, closing shoppe
Last call tea, homework, tea-and-a-boy
A born again tea boy
Cause she promised it was better than coffee
Kinda boy, the second steep
Citrus and swords battling them free radicals
Tea in a kiss, a sweet kiss, an oooooolong kiss
Third steep to keep and keep
Expensive swishy flower vase tea
Delicate butterfly **** **** tea
Tea time, closing time,
A steep for the road
Sleep off the load
Tea night,
Tea girl
About tea.
Kelly Roland Jun 2013
seven pages
of carefully picked words
arranged and placed
where they'll get the biggest bang for your buck
because
you never leave the house
without a goal

no, I wasn't astounded to
find that when you cut away the hair
that used to cover your ears
you were even more deaf, than before

your great you know
that charm, it shows
a smile and slicked
back hair style
and you make the rounds
safe and sound
behind the sunshine image
that you've questionably earned

but I made sure
to go light on the accessories tonight
and there is nothing to stop
the clairvoyance that fights its way to my mind

hidden behind my eyes
brown and smiling
long exiling thoughts of you
being like this

but you didnt hear a word i said
no point in discussing your retention
I'll ask although
I already know
have you ever not been
the center of attention
there are good souls in this world
shrouded in weathered skin
dry and cracked
with scowls hung upon their face
balancing on the scars of their brow
just as there are bad souls in this world
hiding under plush skin
their faces adorned with kind eyes and
cherry red lips made for kissing
or spitting with rage

picture a gorgeous brunette
with fair skin, bold eyebrows
and her hair in a subtle
yet nineteen-thirties style updo
wearing a red chiffon summer dress
the sun beats down on her
as she glistens with light perspiration
espresso in-hand cigarette in the other
her pale soft skin no match for
the thirty degree heat outside
of this café she nonchalantly finds herself
she is the epitome of carefree beauty

she kicked her lovers dog outside this morning
exiling him to a six hour long toilet break
after she "forgot" she had let him out
before leaving to go shopping
whilst her feller finished his shift
because the dog is old and smelly
and gets almost as much attention as her
she even saw his pensioner neighbour
struggling to take the bins out
as she walked to her car
and laughed rather than help
because she always
thought Mary was a no good Jew
she even called her Mrs. Goldstein
"Have a nice day Mrs. Goldstein."
but Mary's surname is Cohen

picture this beautiful girl a siren
leading good men astray
she can get any man she wants
and plucks only the finest
most succulent
I mean successful
and well put together men
from gardens of bachelors
maturing in the hardships of city life
she has plenty choice but she's fickle
you see, her man has to be almost perfect
for it to be as enjoyable as possible
to watch his life unravel and unfold
into everything he wanted it not to be

achievable only through toxic beauty
her joy is venom soaked insides
of lovers caught in a sultry web
of lies, ambition and ***
she loves a scandal
or a text sent to the wrong person
and she has everything to hide
but does nothing to do so
she gets by just fine
being beautiful and sickening  
and sickeningly beautiful
you know the sort
she is a bad, bad girl
robin Apr 2013
in the fog of a cold summer,
you shivered like a seismograph
tremors assaulting your faultlines
and i took you in my arms,
zipped you into my ribcage to keep you warm -  
you shivered to the rhythm of my pulse,
hot blood exiling
the summer chill.
from the fog of a cold summer,
i took you into my bed,
plucked your feathers
to keep you with me;
made dreamcatchers from your feathers
to keep the nightmares from your mind.
shivering seismograph,
can't fly with bare wings.
through the fog of a cold summer,
i walked with you,
held your hand
anchoring you to my side,
shackles between  us
keeping you safe
[you can't fly in this fog
little seismograph:
the clouds will eat you up
the fog will wrap around you
and dash you against the rocks.
oh, you are beautiful,
but you won't be when you're
bleeding broken on the talus,
your bones escaping your skin.
blood breeds art
but what use is art when you're gone,
when you've found your feathers and flown]
in the fog of a cold summer,
you asked to leave.
i need to fly, you said,
i need to become lost
in arms of mist
and fog.
your ****** arms aren't enough,
your ****** arms are staining me
corporeal.

just keep your arms around me,
just remain in my ribs,
just close your eyes
and let me be your
air currents,
lifting you above the talus.
i can fill all your fault lines,
i can ossify
all your fissures.
i'll fill your hollow bones with my
hot
blood
and exile the summer chill.
in the fog of a cold summer,
in the wake of a muscle spasm,
you fell from the sky
and i caught you,
plucked your feathers
so you could never fall again.
little seismograph,
shivering to the rhythm of my pulse,
i will keep you
so warm.
i'll keep you safe
in my cage.
title ideas much appreciated
Firefly Sep 2014
The stone, cold sidewalk lay below,
It's getting closer,
I bid the last breath to blow,
Flames, heart-racing,blue-black,windless night.
Tears forming, evaporating.....evaporating.....ditto,
Depression made clear,
Behind eyes,the devil's motto.
Confusion at my right hand,clarity disappears.
Firefighter's water,
My beloved abode no more,
Tears of men,hellfire licking the walls.
I stood,staring from afar,
Drowning in the torment that has come to call,
The world hushed,my vision torn to fragments,
Heat of salty tears.
Everything frozen in time,
My fears forever mine.
Confusion lays unsettled in the bowels of the soul,
Wreathing thick murrain,
Screaming at the misery of the brain.
I was startled,whimpering with bewilderment,
Everything before me in a trance-like state,
Then began awaking.
The men with sweet water,dear,
Starting surging backwards,
Their faces devoid of thought,without fear.
Like rewinding a record,
Time flew backward,
I stumbling,stunned,steel-cold.
Boom!,
Explosions,
I'm unable to move.
Then suddenly I stood up,
Walked unwillingly to the fiery effulgence,
Led by a teasing indecision,an untouched mystery,
Depleted of resilience.

The world stood still once more,
Froze me in place,
I fell into dementia's eye,
Nothing beclouding the gore.
Then regenerating,
Time modulating from cinders,beautiful phoenix,
Reality it began disseminating,
Blurry images flood my sight,
Blood,anger,depression rites,
Recapitulations,I beg for light.

My husband stood before me,weaving misery and woe,
Cursing me,making me small,
Shoving me under,way down low,
He stands as cold as ice,
Yet he burns inside,
He swings,hits,spits,
A love forgotten,
Dead inside.
He cuts me with the knife,
Watches my blood run,
My reality decaying,he's having fun.

Deep in the bathroom tub,
I lay fighting back shivers,
Making in the water red ripples,
Release my body's crave,
I uncovered in my mind a mystical grave.
Such dementia to see him flailing in my hands!

The daydreamed lust seemed inconceivable,
For the fiend still lives.
On our bed I saw him lay,
I remember how me met,
I fell into his arms,
Addicting,like to a powerful drug.
Conceived for evil,hmm,I might've found my way,
The idea came quickly,
I marveled at the absence of my active conscience.
I now creeped down the stairs,slithered!
Choking on hysterics,
On my spine angst lingered.
The kitchen door swung open,I stepped in,
Looking for th'inevitable tools,
Fury flared,kerosene and match I fumbled,
Feeling the arctic love as it crumbled.

So quickly I flew up the stairs,
My,my,my someone's anxious!
Ready to sear him,ignite his cold,fringe his hairs!
I fed my pain with venom-bitter hatred,
Stood ready to fry the *******,
My anticipation was sacred.
I stood before his bed,
Banishing the now present,dark,heavy,penetrating conscience,
The dream inside instead,I fed.
The mind picked up outside,
Midnight blows in through the window,
Dances 'round the room.
The kerosene I quickly threw,
Exiling any regret,
Ready to add the final ingredient to my dark,dangerous brew.
I striked,threw,watched the match,
Spinning through the air,
Waiting for the flames to hatch.
He awoke with the arrival of the fire,
Dark screams I like,
My cold desire.
Mariticide committed,
I tried not to laugh,
Joy was a pain,
Then my shrill scream was echoed by his bones,
Everything fell,the chains of the brain.
I smiled,now a black widow out of her cage,
Beaming at the empty hole of mis'ry,
Finally made satiable,the sin's wage.
Freedom came then,
Shattering,a worthy phenomenon,
It came into my crazy world,
Like a cool and cleansing rain.
                                                      -**Firefly
Sean Flaherty Jul 2015
Out-of-that same hole, you built the bridge that brought you into my apartment, and closer, enough, to laugh, at my-joke. Enough to make you comfortable, once. And well-built-bridges survive torrential burns. 
[Good pitching usually bests good hitting, bad defense is hard to play-beyond, but, for some reason, sonny keeps-on. Practicing that shot, past-the-arc, [page 8] feet-so-far from the floor.]
I bet on another-blaze, from that boy. Bet his broker--- down at the "bridge-insurance-agency"--- bet, that he bets, too. One big tragedy and The Bad Boy-Blonde bought himself a little capital-l Legitimacy. Or at least a capital 
M-mulligan, ~~~~ _~~. "******, man, can't make another mistake?"

I mumble, again, to myself. But this time, I'm not complicit. I won't be the lubricant, whilst he wears-down his looks, or when he can't use his **** every day, or when he runs out, again--- back, with mean things to say. And now he's ******* disappeared, and you're back on my couch, and we both complain. And you read a poem, and I write a love letter. And---

That part there, that ain't-even projection! Another delusion, maybe. Again. Am I trapped, in [page 9] typing out words that later, I'll trick myself into believing? Or? Truly? I'm more sum, than total, when you tag-along. I'm totally, and tragically, head-over-heels. You'll hear this, here, and have a hard time listening--- "no, listen, I understand all that, and have a position on your counter-punches."

I couldn't, possibly, corrupt my own kingdom by exiling you entirely. Because, yeah, you're so beautiful, but you're also my-best bud. You, fit-flawless, and fearless, and effortlessly, into the hole, left by the jigsaw-piece, lost-years ago. My friends, and ******-when, had it, penultimately, "pieces-no-more," way-back then. 

Yet you're sure you weren't there. "You're sure? You weren't there?" You can be sure, I [page 10] believe you. I'm not under the impression that this is the long-con. I know, I'm a little-less-adorable, when I yawn. Or I cough, or I cry. And if I fawn, all-over you, still, after, I admit. I've really been trying to get-over-this, for a bit. (you could, honestly, be the best-friend that I've never-had-yet.)

And, you could, plainly break-my-heart, again. Apathetic over my annoying requests, for you to, "read my ****!" For it to be this, and you, getting-so-mad. For Adderall-sale to become the staple of our "extra-workular-relationship." For us to lose all contact, like my personalities, currently. For losing the ability to over-explain HBO programs to "This-girl-from-seven-nine-three." For you, this might be easy!

No, sir! Miss, I mean! No, you! I won't let it happen, if you say you won't, too. Put this down, make no mention, if it's made you upset. I've [page 11] already trusted you, once, to forget. And, he did, as well, so we're on the same page. Writing about him: lettered-love, turned toward rage (never, in-your-direction). I'm sure, at one-point, I had promised: no-more interventions. Lashing out was true, but convolutes my intentions. True, also, is the certainty of this-thing, I claim. The third-dream, "with ~~~-~~~~ ~~~," ~~~~~~-~~~~, yeah. You're the name.
I censor the sensitive bits, solely, sorry though.
Hey, it’s ten o’clock,
Time for another snort,
The Elixir: Clan MacGregor
“Blended Scotch Whisky,”
Spelled without the e,
“Imported from Scotland,
Distilled, aged, blended &
Shipped, by Alexander MacGregor & CO.,”
Our boys in Glasgow
“Mixing up the medicine
I'm on the pavement
Thinking about the government.”
(Read more: www.bobdylan.com/  us/songs/subterranean-homesick-blues#ixzz3aKTl­eIUb http://www.bobdylan.com/  us/songs/subterranean-homesick-blues#ix­zz3aKTleIUb)
To quote my pal, Rabbi Zimm,
Which is what we called Dylan
Back home in Minnesota.
No wonder he left town.
He’s been heard to blame the winters,
But I know it was the rabid,
Anti-Semitism, driving
Robert Allen Zimmerman
(Hebrew name שבתאי זיסל בן אברהם
[Shabtai Zisl ben Avraham]),
Driving his escape outta town.
It was virulent Jew hatred
Driving him away,
Exiling him from Duluth.
But, I digress.

I have written this morning’s poem
Many times before, giving it the title
“BUKOWSKI MORNINGS” last time.
I get my Clan MacGregor at
Wal-Mart, $16.97, 1.75 liter,
40% ALC./VOL. (80 PROOF).
Another astonishing value &
Habit I can afford.
One more shining example of
Walton Family benevolence,
Give us our daily bread,
Give to us,
Us the many,
The many shamed 99%.
The Walton crystal ball,
Anticipating the future way back when.
Going even so far as to
Sponsor a beloved family TV show,
1972 – 2010?
Is a run like that, fecking possible?
Still broadcast today,
Hallmark Channel.
The Waltons:  John Boy, Olivia
Grandma Esther &
Grandpa Zebulon,
Played by, his Reverence,
The cherished Will Geer.
How could you not esteem The Waltons?
The Walton Family: shrewd grocers of
Bentonville, Arkansas?
Lovable Sam—the one with the Club—
The association, not the clubfoot
Nor, the giant troglodyte club,
Wielded by Old Sam--
Mr. Walton, truly a swinging-****
In his day, intergalactic, a Mega-chain
Retailer of “a vast selection of Food, Apparel,
Home Goods & Electronics, not to mention
Garden shrubs & Patio Furniture.”
Again, I digress.

Clan MacGregor: no single malt liquor;
No Glenfiddich “Robert the Bruce Flagon,” $300 bottle;
No Balvenie “21 Year Old Port Wood Finish,” $200.00.  
No Laphroaig, no Glenlivet.
No Highland, no Lowland,
No Islay, nor Speyside . . . for me.
Not one drop of single-malted
Mist of the moors shall pass my lips.
Maybe I don’t know any better?
More likely, I can’t afford to,
Scotch snorting snobs be-******,
Clan MacGregor does the job nicely,
Nicely, thank you very much.
A take on violence

The exiling waves of life
Battered a Syrian child
Swept ashore. We scrolled.
We shrugged this violence.

Eyes glued to a simulacrum of love
Expecting the controlled dominance
Of a filthy rich fictional character
We said: “It’s vanilla.”

Violence as an idea is sweetened
You gulp down the pill
But violence as a means is condemned
You still gulp down the pill.

March 6, 2018
Lyon 1 University
Jamie Lee Aug 2013
Her eyes are a pure soft green,
The window into her soul,
Her beauty shines beyond mother nature,
Peering in, brings a feeling of whole.

Each emotion that we embrace,
Are visible as she stands still,
The intensity exceeds all comprehension,
Dazed into ecstasy minus the pill.

Tragedy marks its place upon her,
Wearing away her supple youth,
Her strength devours her pain,
Exiling any hints of the truth.

Though her presence is overwhelming,
She suffers a pain unbearable to all,
She weeps in utter mourning,
As death casts a shadow so tall.

Isolated beyond the perimeters forsaken,
Torn by her desire to be fed with life,
Slowly piece by piece she is taken,
Roughly cut away with a dull knife.

Though she knows hope it is lost to her,
For the facts overpower her silly thoughts,
Cursed with a lack of love for beauty,
For all the wrong things she sought.
Written on 2011-03-09 // Copyright ©2013 Jamie Johnson.
Emma Chatterton Dec 2012
I dedicate my all to you, I am your answer.
Every bit of you has been engraved on my soul and no attempted Armageddon could shake them away.
Drained physically from the tribulations the world had to offer, my heart still beamed excitedly at the sight of you.
Like clockwork, you placed the crown that reigned me Empress of your bed and there wasn’t anything more I could muster but surrender.
Temporary it may be, I soaked each blissful drop of time.
A tiny curl formed at the corner of my mouth, as you subconsciously slid your form close almost exiling the idea of space.
Once fitted perfectly into my arms, head nuzzled in neck resembling a longing for its rightful place; I caught a glimpse of your vulnerabilities.
Your soft and inconsistent snore was almost a lullaby that gave validation.

There was never a need for you to return the love I felt, only a selfish want.
To acknowledge what I felt for you was not in vain, but a need I yearned.
Paul A Moon Jul 2016
Which is my church with its green leaves, brown grass
and pine’s bark, all foresting in one motion.
I shall forest rituals of sacrifice,

but without Catholicizing faces drawn
from dark Crusading and my exiling.
Annaling to mark the sun’s solstice for Eastering
and holying days, the dew
coalescing upon the darkening and browning grass
at midnight and cooling air
arching constellations
and the mooning of the night: the cue
to lying for rest
by the small pool in this placing or
to strike, savaging at prey.

Owling as it does, darting as it does,
from a bed of branches, crying,
soundlessly shooting at a forest mouse, leaves
rustling for this night’s Nativity,
this one lifts its butterflying wings
like the soul’s silhouette
taken by an angeling force to heaven.
After owling, angeling, butterflying,
one must create Jesus as a verb.

Having witnessing these things,
limits are paining, as are knowings and doings.
The mouse must have been distracting
this owl from its offspring, thus it was Christing:
sacrificing itself for its children, thus fathering.

Seeing angels fluttering under the moonlight,
Hairshirting is my Church after living here,
after travelling through East of Eden in daylight.
  
Simplifying the Word---so heartwrenching---near
dawn or dusk, being as a penumbra’s cusp
I am Giotto’s halo in human form, keeper

of the haze, smoke, storm, and most of all, cup
from my own despairing.

Always there more to God than pain.

Churching myself is my work, thus by expressing
this foresting, owling, angeling, butterflying,  
I narrate my life’s kingdom.
Only beautiful words for my Beatrice, Florence,
and re-Edening.
Maggie McLeod Nov 2011
Lonely am I
who walks along my own path;
Lonely is the one who
pushes others away,
exiling themselves to their own
misery.
Lonely am I
who writes in her corner;
Lonely is the one who is
unsatisfied in their state of
mind.

Lonely are the ones who are
pushed away,
by both the ones they love
and the ones who love them.
Lonely are the ones who
never utter a single word
of their pain,
lonely are the ones who
express themselves through
written words,
screamed music,
pain...
Lonely are the ones like
me.
Mike Louisseize Jun 2016
I versus eyelid
Tryna' see through the thin veil
Small lights and large galaxies
Fill up the dark void
Constant change
As I still look back and try to learn
More and books are piled upon my desk

Finished writing,
Another blank page.
Finished reading,
Another wall of text.

Animalized
By the empty looks the mirror gives
Exiling all the facts of truth
But find I'm still ironside to the lies
Flipping through a never-ending glossary
For an answer that doesn't exist
On a search for the infinite
Emotions eight times flipped
They root it deeper down
As if it's the seed that never sprouts
Arfah Afaqi Zia Apr 2016
A quench of love
A wave of despair
Shackled heart
Vandalized repairs,

Catastrophic enchant
Oblivious soul
Sheltered emotions
Dwelling away,

Sea of desperation
Clouding my brain
Hold on you *****
It's for you to stay,

Selfish garden
Grows in haste
Flourished scars
Broken chains

Irresistible shroud
Exiling gay
Fondness stays
I don't fathom naive,

Fuming persona
Predictable hate
Destruct the bond
And carry it away.
Vyiirt'aan Dec 2017
The promise of romance
Lingers through an eternal dance
A childhood adventure unfolded
Embroidered with the hope of happiness
Exiling the remains of sadness
With the passion of love
As fireflies flourish like fireworks
In the marine ocean that is the sky
19/12:

The challenge is to create a poem using 10 randomly selected words:

adventure childhood dance fireworks happiness hope love promise romance sadness
Arfah Afaqi Zia Jun 2016
Shrouded bodies enveloped,
With stains, lifeless they lay in peace,

                                   Tears shed in vain,
                                   No humanity, no soul,

Screaming people dragged-
Within this circle of death and slaughter,

        Pain and remorseful families,
        Wail in pain, awaiting termination of terror

Blood of innocence,
Drains in catastrophic pool and trails

            Cold hearts and atrocities leavin' corpses,
            Exiling the countries citizens,

Wiping away masses,
In hundreds and more.
Arfah Afaqi Zia Oct 2016
Shadows haunt me,
I crumple in the corner of my room trying to release my aggravation,
Exiling my monotonous routine-
Of forcefully smiling,
I tremble at the twitch of the corners of my lips,
My tears flow hastily down my cheeks,
Pausing on every bump,
The coldness in my heart and my soul increments as I gradually fade away with the wind,
Crude words; half broken, half unspoken try escaping my mouth,
But not a word is said,
As if a lumpy feeling rages from within and a soundless whisper comes out,
Tortured and chained relentlessly in the dungeon of fear.
Lost
Lost
My precious is lost
But it’s not like I need it
To increase the cost
But we’re tired of trying
Of dying inside
Every day
Keep it quiet
And I would’ve
Stood with you
Looked to you
Smiling
Should all come to ruin
Return to exiling
Ourselves when the end of us
Doesn’t instill
What we feel
What we fail to see
Ails us
Ill will
The molehill into mountains
Too steep to traverse
The adversity
Can’t overcome it
Immersed
In impersonal
All out assaults  
On our faults
When the love becomes hate
And we hurt
By default
Aditya Roy Feb 2020
Surreal street
My neighbor's house still is green, gates open
Hangs from the clothes line, the halcyon image
Stuck inside these cold walls, a celadon boiling pan
In red and azure, granite and brick lay strewn
Like an unseen wind, that bellows in my neighborhood
Blue is the warmest summer, sun looks like day
When the skies turn to nubile solipsism, night changes
Polaroid of my childhood reminds me of the lost time, stars were fantastic
This was where I grew tanner and older, now we have grown
We just have love in common, there goes the police
Yoking together law and power, a colored footprint
Turning the graves more and more, concrete trees
Exiling the tenants, food for free
Keeping the truth alive though, but hope has died
The missing girl has now come back, with a Siamese cat short
She is on a holiday, in the UK
She reads much of the night, and goes away
Lest the memories feed on her lung, tail and heart
Tales from a storefront, is her only recluse
Her friend is now a balloon

— The End —