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Mystic904 Nov 2017
Left myself behind for Thy sake
Modify me through soul's remake

O' Lord! can't be more of a betrayer
Still though, I yearn for a divine remake

My heart is in Makkah
My heart is in Makkah!

Eyes can't bear watching, but none bothers
I ask for protection, for me and my brothers

Extreme suffering, such a cruel massacre
I ask for Jannah, for me and my brothers

Over our heads have we turned ******* n waste
I ask for purification, for me and my brothers

None cares for the sufferers as though not human
I ask Thy attention, for me and my brothers

My heart is in Palestine
My heart is in Palestine!

I plea to be bathed in the divine henna
In the home of the Prophet, madina madina

In the land of peace, make me offer a prayer
For me, my fellows, in the heart of madina

Revive once again the brotherhood amongst us
Like them ansaris and muhajirs of madina

Can't wait but for a chance or an opportunity
Offering myself forth, take me to madina

My heart is in Madina
My heart is in Madina!
Kenn Rushworth Jun 2015
I have curled into a ball
in the corners of Europe,
Known the fractions of the nights,
Felt the breeze of the days
Pass softly through the gaps in my ribs.

The sky here does not know me.
Robin Lemmen Aug 2018
Sometimes I feel like a sunflower lost in a sea of roses. Drowning out my sunshine with endless streams of red. Killing my words with the poison of your laugh. Bleeding out my confidence, replaced by curious venom.

Sometimes I feel like a tree lost in the comfort of the forest. Handing out leaves to cover up bruises. Letting me die over and over again to bring me back around every fourth season. Roots deep in the ground, no way to escape now.

Sometimes I feel like a monster in a halo of angels. I am the reflection of your nightmares hiding in broad daylight. I am the devil’s daughter pretending not to care. Claws sunken into my back whispering words of despair.

Sometimes I feel like a book lost to a world of imagery. Words to give lost to the ones that don’t care about it. I am a song in a foreign language begging to be understood. I fight my mind with movements captured on a screen.

Sometimes I feel like I am screaming in silence. Begging, pleading, dying. All with a smile on my face for we only care about what others don’t know about us. What the world sees.

Sometimes.
A Yorks Jun 12
Is daar a woord
Wat ek kan gebruik,
Wat beteken wat ek bedoel,
As die woorde in my eie taal
Nie meer volstaan nie?

Wat sê 'n mens,
As sy moedertaal
Nie meer die taal
Van sy siel is nie?

Die frases pas nie reg
In my uitheemse mond nie,
Die vokale klink nou vreemd,
En die konsonante is ook.

Die werkwoorde werk nie,
Die naamwoorde benoem niks,
Die vrugtelose adjektiewe
se Beskrywinge is nikswerd.

Ek's 'n kind van die wêreld,
En my taal is 'n moeder
Wat my lankgelede verlaat het.
Sy't geen liefde vir my nie,
Net 'n onbekende tussen tale.
Janek Kentigern Apr 2015
Your life is threadbare
and it's cosy

Uncomfortable
but safe

Poor
yet secure

It's not killing you
but then neither are you living.

The head is above water,
Struggling against the tide.

Grinding along on a hamster wheel
that badly needs oiling

I mean

You now earn less than you did at your first job.
It was **** all then

and that was 5 years ago.

The years have not been kind. The hairline has crept upward
Roughly in line with inflation.

A job's a job's a job's a job's a job.

There's a damp roof over your head.

Are you ready to trade all this in for a taste of adventure?

A main course of personal growth
washed down with a side order of

Drudgery

loneliness

and Japanese Encephalitis.

Will they find you out?
Will you be pulled into an office

while a polite local
explains how her English is better than yours?

That could all happen, says the head

but the frightened, quivering heart longs to change.

To jump into the fire and emerge reborn
strong, dynamic, brave. All the things you aren't now.


Just don't hope for too much.
دema Apr 5
the first time
our lips met
didn't feel foreign,
it was as if
you were my home
country
and I had only just
entered your land,
then took a taste of the berry tree
which my greatest grandma had grew,
in either ways;
she would be
******.
bebe = grandma in my language (Iraqi)
Along multitudinal channels
Infinite possibilities exist.
Yet all universes point to you
And in all, you're sorely missed.

The mind plays tricks on us
As the imagination interrupts
With a reality where we lie in peace
Without the surrounding chaos.

A present on the road in awe
Of nature's biggest achievements.
A present without separation
Where that restlessness subsides.

Presently the future feels like home
While the the present isn't real,
An author under a pseudonym
Or cliched red herring.

I fell in love with your mind
But ran away in mine,
I think perhaps you did the same
And flew away in time.

Still at home when you write,
Or text, or call past three am.
For now i lie awake at night
Hopelessly wishing for then.

This sometimes passing yearning
Falls quiet while I sleep,
Wish fulfilment filters through
And reality takes a leep.

Like the oscillation of electrons
Through expanding neural pathways
You fluctuate between hemispheres
Bringing split-second clarity.

Here I sit in false nostalgia
Wishing a different prologue,
Yearning for a different arc,
Longing for a life unlived.

Perhaps next time you sit there too
You'll adapt the narrative.
“The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there.”

― L.P. Hartley, The Go-Between
zz Feb 9
Loving you is the purest act
I' ve done in my life

Even if you don't care
I won't change a thing
Dante May 18
I hope you know that this is foreign land.
I hope you know that when the men and women of home told me,
“You are a fool to dream”, I grew to despise their voices.
That when they told me travel was ludicrous, black was sin, and I a devil because I was a 12 year old autistic child,
I grew to despise their land.
It was not my land, I’d say. It was theirs. It was their rotting green, their putrid sand, La Isla Del Encanto.

I hope you know that this is foreign land.
I hope you know that when I left the Island, I left that house.
It was all I knew; the house, el pueblo. The men who saw me with hungry eyes. The moriviví sprouting from the wood. The church whose women scorned me.
The grave my father slept in.

I hope you know it was a terrible thing, the bone thrown at me, the thing I had to eat because nobody knew to give me meat.
Marrow. The only love I’ve ever known.

You must know. This is foreign land.
This place you call free, this place with flag blood-stained and heavy.
This place I cannot seem to breathe in, where I cannot sit without first buying coffee even if my voice cannot come out, where my head is wanted because my mind is a darkened white, my skin is muddied by race, my eyes are black, black like your wood deer and owl– and I hear the voices of the men and women from home who learned from the white man to say— black is sin.
My skin was made to be loved by the sun, my nails were grown from the bark of the tree en los montes. I am carved from the stories my teacher told me of los Taínos, and slashed with the lesson that Cristobal Colón was a man to be celebrated.

I hope you know your land is foreign.
I hope you know your flag is bloodied.
I hope you know that when I stand on your soil, my body knows

it is not free.
The Red Rain of Kerala wrote this Plague
Un-supported by Evidence and Song
As it wept and bled that once-thirsty Plain
Locals knew their throats will not dry too long
But how could they drink this very strange Guilt
When their Sheets un-furled like the Flags of War
And not until the Google-Heads came in
They realised it was foreign before
Samples were taken in pursuit of Cause
Then page by page those Suspects came to light
Was it Bacteria? Or Lichens-at-Lost
Either way there was some Blood to incite.
When those Findings end, much was to conclude
Which Creation's Purchase falls upon you.
patty m Jul 2018
Beyond the reef
                     in crackling amber
the sun rises above the earth,
                     kissing river beds strewn with lovers

Passed mouth to mouth they whisper innuendo
the possibility of  living *******.
Bobbing bodies mimic boats on waves
and soon delirium penetrates a new country.

Heat and fire flare in bandied breeze
                          igniting insatiable shadow;
Pure and venial, the air incarnate
excites the ocean and ****** sing.

The quivering above ground
slithers silkily spilling watercolor rhapsody,
                         in a gush of white a fertile tsunami
reeks reckless abandon.   Once by moonlight,
they rubbed sleep from eyes, hugging hurt
as they clamored high in ghostly pallor.
Some leading the dance, hungered for knowledge,
others played shadowy roles.
Yet wafting still, comes the foreign fragrance,
fragments of spirituality,  a longing to touch,
as abundance rolls in shorelines green.
                         Offered mercies, fragile as wings,
shades of truth cascading like water, breathless
in sensual splash;
                       how tremulous
                       the image of truth,
                       the threshold of tomorrow.
Rowan Elizabeth Dec 2018
a box
packed lovingly
from a mother
to a son
far away
in another land
he doesn't know

the contents wholesome,
inspected still
once, twice, a thousand times

before it even ships

a box
packed lovingly
from a mother
hoping it will reach her son
far away
in another land
she doesn't know
too much interference
has been extensively run
by those who hold
the kingmaker's gun

as a consequence
of this kind of thing
the democratic process
is under a clouded ring

the flow of votes
which were meant
for the out in front candidate
got subverted somewhere
in the ballot box's victory pate

foreign countries meddling
with other country's domestic autonomy
so the results of elections
will satisfy their sovereignty

transgressors are employing
their technics from nations far away
to determine who'll wear
a crowning array
fearfulpoet Aug 2018
school starts soon
smoking joints on the weekday afternoon

in a sidelined shady
freight car, property of
Norfolk Southern

debating if this car will be
northbound or southbound
and master-bating our fantasy
where we want to be taken

knowing full well maybe one of us -
(and they all looking at me)

will get out of this car and live to
see foreign places without having to
return in a body bag

we argue lazy who should go get the beer,
collect the quarters and sweaty dollar bills
and **** if I am not reappointed
leader of the beer fetching

besides it’s my
tan lab panting needing water so it’s my
responsibility and the nasty liquor store owner don’t hate me that much as the others so he’ll sell me beer without too much **** talk (some for sure)

asking where I’m laying low on a **** hot day like this one

tell him i’m getting on a train getting out of this two bit town which makes him reminisce and ask which direction

could be northbound could be southbound
hell could be west
but for sure won’t be
going eastbound

cause I seen the Atlantic and didn’t like it

too **** big and too **** cold,
too **** mean
Antino Art Feb 2018
South Florida
if you were a body part,
you’d be an armpit.

You’d be a bulged vein
on the side of a forehead
forever locked in a scowl
behind sunglasses.

You speak the language of horns
middle name, finger
blood type, combustible

You're a melting ***
that's boiled over the lid
sweating salt water at the brows
eyes red as the brake lights
in the maddening brightness,
you’re torrential daylight
heating nerves like greenhouse gasses
waiting for a reason to explode.

You’re a tropical motilov cocktail
no one can afford
2 parts anger, 1 part stupidity
melting in place, thirsty for attention
full of yourself in a souvenir glass with a toothpick umbrella
You're all image

You’re the curse words breaking out the mouths
of the angry line mob at Starbucks in the morning
You’re the indifferent silence
in the arena at the Heat games leaving early,
showing up late
due to the distance
from Brickell to Hialeah,
West Palm to Pompano
the gap between the entitled and the under-paid
a skyline of condos in a third world country
You’ve always been foreign to me.

You’re winterless, no chill
you attract only hurricanes
and tourists,
shoving anything that isn’t profitable
out of the way like the Irma storm debris
into the backyards of the Liberty City projects,
onto Mount Trash Can off the side of the Turnpike
hidden beneath Bermuda grass, lined with palm trees
you’re cold blooded
crawling with iguanas
blood-******* mosquitos
parking lot ducks and people not afraid to get run over
you get yours, Soflo
and you'll go as low
as the flat roofs of your duplexes
and the incomes that can barely pay the rent to get it
latitude as attitude
temper as temperature
if you were a body part
I swear you’re an *******

south of the brain, one hour
in all directions,
I’d find you.
You’d impose your way
onto my flight to the Philippines,
to Seattle, to Raleigh
You’d follow me like excess baggage,
like gravity,
bringing me back when asked where I'm from:

That area north of Miami, I’d say
(the suburbs, but whatever, we are hard in our own way)
I'd show you off on their map
as if some badge of grit,
certificate of aggression
I know how to break a sweat
walk briskly thru Walmart parking lots, drive evasive
ride storms in my sleep
I know you, I’d say,
“He’s a friend of mine.”
and I’d watch them light up
and recount
the postcards you've sent them
of the sunrise
welcoming brown immigrants
onto white sand beaches
You were foreign to us
yet raised us as your own
in the furnace of your summers
edges sharpened, iron on iron
the forger striking softness into swords
built for survival
I'm made of you

my South Floridian anger cools down
in your ocean breeze

if you were a body part,
you'd be a part of me
a socked foot in an And1 sandal
pressed to the gas pedal
as my drive takes me north
of your borders, far from home
You in the rear view mirror
tail-gating
like a sports car on the exit ramp
the color of the sun
Jordan Rowan Aug 2015
See those red windows by Midland Park
Where the schoolyard stands empty in the frozen dark
See that Neon motor in 21st gear
And the only question is "why are we here?"
In memory motel with unchanging rates
I still see the Moon Glow in your face

By the edge of the stream with bread in hand
Two doves chase the wind to a foreign land
As our voices are carried to a teenage past
In naïve reclusion we knew couldn't last
With a palette of hate I still can taste
I still see the Moon Glow in your face

Weathered storms on a Parisian stage
The book can't be written unless you turn every page
On a worn out, de-facto, company car
The diamonds will promise to make you a star
In sovereign rule of my mind's estate
I still see the Moon Glow on your face

On Ebony's wings coming down from the sky
Miracle rides close behind
The waves from Mexico have long since passed
No moment is forever and it won't be the last
With ocean eyes and a passioned embrace
I still see the Moon Glow in your face
This woman speaks in tongues
Foreign languages roll from her mouth
Like summer fog ladled over the rim
Of Candlestick Park
In the not-so-distant
Far far away of long long ago

This woman speaks in rotund sentences
Effulgent with vocabulary
That shimmers with the electrified joy
Of lights over Ghirardelli Square
In the not-so-darkness
Of the clammy and cabalistic night

This woman speaks with her hands
Impresciable, implacable, and inconsolable
As she tries to mold untranslatable words
From air that is as thin
As the promises she’d preferred
And purchased with the shards of her heart

This woman speaks in lyrics
Arpeggios of adjectives and alliteration
That tumble acrobatically with the intricacy
And grace
Of a hummingbird in spring
On the kiss of a blossom
Rich and fragrant and giving as
This woman speaking in tongues
Vicki Kralapp Aug 2012
Searching to find my place once again
     lost in this foreign state of happiness.
Left with no one to guide me…
     alone.

I strive to pave my own way now;
     along new paths, unafraid.
I risk nothing,
     as most is lost.

I have left the old behind,
     bruised and bloodied.
For my heart has been at war;
     sanity at last has prevailed.

Amidst the bodies left behind,
     the old shells of who I once was,
transformed as if emerging from a chrysalis.
     A new life on the wing.
All poems are copy written and sole property of Vicki Kralapp.
Val Ajdari Nov 2013
Like a child enlightened by heightened curiosity,
So is a native poet by poetic luminosity.
A verse in sight and sound devoid of modern flair,
For poetic convention the poet does not care.
So, take this vague verse as one roaring rhyme,
And take it as verbiage very overdue in time.
Unjustly sunken voices the poet seeks to hear,
Battling a torrent history...above, below, and near.
This inquisitive writer infers a present too dismal,
As around an angry sea lies an origin; abysmal.
Rejecting fables history’s assassins inked true,
The writer seeks fair chroniclers, but wreckage was their due.
Sought is Illyria, a place far from here.
Land said "not to exist," but its roots still reappear;
Fabricated history most poets cannot fathom,
Quelled grandiose splendor serves political stratum.
Calling curious minds to ponder this heck of a theory,
First, consider the writer's roots with impartial query.
What the Illyrian believed in was a life well spent,
Not man-written "guidance" begging cents to repent.
Since Illyria’s rebel ship sailed onto history a fright,
Shakespeare's pen amorously inked the 'Twelfth Night.’
Around Illyria’s outskirts sly mythology prevails.
Modern Illyria’s pervasion of such mythology still fails.
So, how does one interpret Illyria’s butchered will,
As her Godless schism fibbing history faux fills?
Her feeble-minded native is essentially to blame
For their grand, deceptive role in the imperialist’s game.
Brutal eradication of Illyria’s vocal reason
Deem the native conspirator of ultimate treason.
So,  while the State buries the poet's piercing wits,
The treasonous dog barks, upon foreign command he *****.
The dog's filthy betrayal, painted by his foreign master,
Is an art to be repeated in future governing disaster.
In the European south roam these bad hounds of species,
Anatomical sketches of Europe's rear excreting feces.
A pile all imperialists eject with laxative ease,
A pile all imperialists still smear as they please.
Above Illyrian graves (those below made to inspire)
The ***** dog dances, blind to his own fate in fire.
This ****** work of art, not a site for you and eye,
Is an emblematic governance gagging an eerie cry.
As today’s political pawns (in corruption they engage),
Illyria’s distinctive scions remain fools on a stage.
Our bodies dance and sway like silly puppets at play,
Our minds confined to idiocy as the socialist's prey.
So,  a poet's jingle jangle on probing minds they should linger,
As besought are worthy scions who must leave behind a "finger."
Patricia Feb 2018
//the door to your bedroom was a portal to a world unseen

your bed, the ocean
& your sheets, the sand
with the crevices caused by the tide
it flowed so sweetly over the soft sand
beyond the door, serenity was foreign to you

you were only there when you needed to be

you, who had knit the thickest wool to pull over my eyes
thicker than the blindfold we used
the frenzy I remember
frenzy further cured with discipline
and you know what?
"I like that ***** ****."

how will you discipline me today, daddy?

it was what you taught me after all
to be a brat for no one but you
to be no one else's little girl
if not I'd be a bad girl
bad girls get punished
bad girls get no love

so I saved you the trouble and left my collar at the door//
KM Hanslik Jul 2018
Keep your eyes soft and your dreams
up on the highest shelf so you won't take them down too early;
keep everything that you spill in the dark locked
behind your teeth during the day, don't bring it out before dusk;
like secrets we drip over sidewalk cracks
from cotton-candy sticky fingers and leave our names
dissolved under each other's tongues, the warmth of you is keeping me company
as I try to crawl out of my blood again, they told you to leave
a bread-crumb trail in case your heart becomes too watered down by just visiting
to even remember the vacation at all; you carry
kisses on the knuckles of amputated arms,
driving through parking lots with your seatbelts on,
collections of constellations growing
in the bruises on the insides of your thighs, reminders
of salt & the whites of your eyes;

I'll always carry you around
like scuffed knees and the last time I told you "I'm okay",
I wanna press my fingers into you until your skin is melded
with fire and scraps of things that I could never be,
I hope steel rods grow out of your bones and I hope you gather
bruises before you gather dust,
we are all a little lost and lonely but that never stopped
the accumulation of well-spent nights
coughing up new ways to spell my name
(it sounded foreign before you)
leave this on repeat,
we're going in again.
Aj Jan 2018
you are words.

you are crashing syllables that drip off of wilting rose petals and each letter is a star. you make up constellations while foreign galaxies drip from your lips. nebulae dance across your angel-shedded skin and particles of the sun hide under the freckles resting on your shoulders.

you are life.

the wonders of the cosmos that swirl in the pit of your lean and golden tummy, finding solace in the way you breathe in and exhale the energy of the universe that you created in the beating passage of my worn-out soul.

you are the universe's child.

and the stars that accumulate under your skin will explode. i'll inhale the stardust and debris, letting the particles of life that you emit pollute my bloodstream.
constellations dedicated to a lover who lost his way.
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