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"furious" poems
#*It is out of the heart’s cavernous longing and furious search for love, significance, acceptance, approval, identity, security, freedom, belonging, innocence, intimacy and transcendence— out of its primordial memory of what was lost to us in the Garden— that we begin to ***** idols for ourselves. Unconsciously we hope they might restore to us a taste of paradise, taking away our fear and shame and isolation. We yearn to go back but, alas, we cannot get in from there. We ache to connect to beauty, to be desired by it as much as we desire it, and Jesus is the only door by which we may enter. He is the Beauty, and all the rest are simply there like pealing bells to arouse our hearts to Him and tell us that He is coming for us. Still, as if we haven’t quite yet heard and believed the message, we keep aimlessly trying to forge a false righteousness through our false gods. When they are lost or the dreams of them unrealized we are devastated, for the shadows, echoes and reflections we had supposed would finally make us feel good about ourselves have been exposed as frauds, and once again we are left to feel naked but without fig leaves to cover us. It is at these precise moments, when the bottom of our false hope falls out, that we are best prepared to encounter Christ in His intimate fullness and most apt to recognize at last that He alone is everything we have been so desperately wanting. It is our boiling point, where the unbearable weight of failed expectation so crashes in on us that we are finally begging God to lift our idols off of us and deliver us from them, pleading with Him to come and capture us, crying out to Him to possess us fully.*#
0
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 12:58 PM UTC
alyssa-underwood
The Long Way Home
#*It is out of the heart’s cavernous longing and furious search for love, significance, acceptance, approval, identity, security, freedom, belonging, innocence, intimacy and transcendence— out of its primordial memory of what was lost to us in the Garden— that we begin to ***** idols for ourselves. Unconsciously we hope they might restore to us a taste of paradise, taking away our fear and shame and isolation. We yearn to go back but, alas, we cannot get in from there. We ache to connect to beauty, to be desired by it as much as we desire it, and Jesus is the only door by which we may enter. He is the Beauty, and all the rest are simply there like pealing bells to arouse our hearts to Him and tell us that He is coming for us. Still, as if we haven’t quite yet heard and believed the message, we keep aimlessly trying to forge a false righteousness through our false gods. When they are lost or the dreams of them unrealized we are devastated, for the shadows, echoes and reflections we had supposed would finally make us feel good about ourselves have been exposed as frauds, and once again we are left to feel naked but without fig leaves to cover us. It is at these precise moments, when the bottom of our false hope falls out, that we are best prepared to encounter Christ in His intimate fullness and most apt to recognize at last that He alone is everything we have been so desperately wanting. It is our boiling point, where the unbearable weight of failed expectation so crashes in on us that we are finally begging God to lift our idols off of us and deliver us from them, pleading with Him to come and capture us, crying out to Him to possess us fully.*#
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27
For my cousin, Chris Goldrick Lacing my skates after walking two miles in girl-strictured delight Mom's stories of Sonja Henie-- No, not ever Lacing my skates with  snow-ball pompoms felt skirt and nylon tights Cute little hat with matching scarf My thighs and fingers already freezing icy burn from miles on foot to get there the lake where-- I must get out I must get OUT! Knowing what to expect from my body the quick-twitch of muscle Could always sense specific-- gravity of water     at 22 degrees Desiring to feel the motion between ice and steel Read speed's vibrations through my body The brain registers relation to weather's effect Tell of velocity possibility of fall Feel the slash of the blades beneath me Throw my weight sideways, sudden to hear that furious hiss An object in motion tending, dire to stay in motion Threatening to stay there always in its heights-- of speed away-- from the crowds of skaters swirling distant in the lights Seeking instead the farthest reaches of Porter Lake speed and speed and more to overcome inertia of what it is to become undone at the outer edges, of humanity A force centrifugal unto myself Avoiding Pregnant and slow with years and babes.... The best must be broken and tamed of what it takes to stay free catching the edges with every stride catching my toe in the quick 180 spray of frost to the sudden still Listen to the frigid chill and the heave of my breath tumbling into evidence Gliding Once Forever-- on, into darkness of woods on frozen water The wildness of it all So infatuated with flight so full of grace I forgot Sonja The moon rose from her seat in the treetops and applauded
0
Jul 17, 2018
Jul 17, 2018 at 3:54 PM UTC
elizabeth-balise
Night Skating at Porter Lake
For my cousin, Chris Goldrick Lacing my skates after walking two miles in girl-strictured delight Mom's stories of Sonja Henie-- No, not ever Lacing my skates with  snow-ball pompoms felt skirt and nylon tights Cute little hat with matching scarf My thighs and fingers already freezing icy burn from miles on foot to get there the lake where-- I must get out I must get OUT! Knowing what to expect from my body the quick-twitch of muscle Could always sense specific-- gravity of water     at 22 degrees Desiring to feel the motion between ice and steel Read speed's vibrations through my body The brain registers relation to weather's effect Tell of velocity possibility of fall Feel the slash of the blades beneath me Throw my weight sideways, sudden to hear that furious hiss An object in motion tending, dire to stay in motion Threatening to stay there always in its heights-- of speed away-- from the crowds of skaters swirling distant in the lights Seeking instead the farthest reaches of Porter Lake speed and speed and more to overcome inertia of what it is to become undone at the outer edges, of humanity A force centrifugal unto myself Avoiding Pregnant and slow with years and babes.... The best must be broken and tamed of what it takes to stay free catching the edges with every stride catching my toe in the quick 180 spray of frost to the sudden still Listen to the frigid chill and the heave of my breath tumbling into evidence Gliding Once Forever-- on, into darkness of woods on frozen water The wildness of it all So infatuated with flight so full of grace I forgot Sonja The moon rose from her seat in the treetops and applauded
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80
Terrifying are the attent sleek thrushes on the lawn, More coiled steel than living - a poised Dark deadly eye, those delicate legs Triggered to stirrings beyond sense - with a start, a bounce, a stab Overtake the instant and drag out some writhing thing. No indolent procrastinations and no yawning states, No sighs or head-scratchings. Nothing but bounce and stab And a ravening second. Is it their single-mind-sized skulls, or a trained Body, or genius, or a nestful of brats Gives their days this bullet and automatic Purpose? Mozart's brain had it, and the shark's mouth That hungers down the blood-smell even to a leak of its own Side and devouring of itself: efficiency which Strikes too streamlined for any doubt to pluck at it Or obstruction deflect. With a man it is otherwise. Heroisms on horseback, Outstripping his desk-diary at a broad desk, Carving at a tiny ivory ornament For years: his act worships itself - while for him, Though he bends to be blent in the prayer, how loud and above what Furious spaces of fire do the distracting devils **** and hosannah, under what wilderness Of black silent waters weep.
0
41.2k
Ted Hughes
Thrushes
Terrifying are the attent sleek thrushes on the lawn, More coiled steel than living - a poised Dark deadly eye, those delicate legs Triggered to stirrings beyond sense - with a start, a bounce, a stab Overtake the instant and drag out some writhing thing. No indolent procrastinations and no yawning states, No sighs or head-scratchings. Nothing but bounce and stab And a ravening second. Is it their single-mind-sized skulls, or a trained Body, or genius, or a nestful of brats Gives their days this bullet and automatic Purpose? Mozart's brain had it, and the shark's mouth That hungers down the blood-smell even to a leak of its own Side and devouring of itself: efficiency which Strikes too streamlined for any doubt to pluck at it Or obstruction deflect. With a man it is otherwise. Heroisms on horseback, Outstripping his desk-diary at a broad desk, Carving at a tiny ivory ornament For years: his act worships itself - while for him, Though he bends to be blent in the prayer, how loud and above what Furious spaces of fire do the distracting devils **** and hosannah, under what wilderness Of black silent waters weep.
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26
#*It is out of the heart’s cavernous longing and furious search for love, significance, acceptance, approval, identity, security, freedom, belonging, innocence, intimacy and transcendence— out of its primordial memory of what was lost to us in the Garden— that we begin to ***** idols for ourselves. Unconsciously we hope they might restore to us a taste of paradise, taking away our fear and shame and isolation. We yearn to go back but, alas, we cannot get in from there. We ache to connect to beauty, to be desired by it as much as we desire it, and Jesus is the only door by which we may enter. He is the Beauty, and all the rest are simply there like pealing bells to arouse our hearts to Him and tell us that He is coming for us. Still, as if we haven’t quite yet heard and believed the message, we keep aimlessly trying to forge a false righteousness through our false gods. When they are lost or the dreams of them unrealized we are devastated, for the shadows, echoes and reflections we had supposed would finally make us feel good about ourselves have been exposed as frauds, and once again we are left to feel naked but without fig leaves to cover us. It is at these precise moments, when the bottom of our false hope falls out, that we are best prepared to encounter Christ in His intimate fullness and most apt to recognize at last that He alone is everything we have been so desperately wanting. It is our boiling point, where the unbearable weight of failed expectation so crashes in on us that we are finally begging God to lift our idols off of us and deliver us from them, pleading with Him to come and capture us, crying out to Him to possess us fully.*#
0
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 10:41 PM UTC
alyssa-underwood
The Long Way Home
#*It is out of the heart’s cavernous longing and furious search for love, significance, acceptance, approval, identity, security, freedom, belonging, innocence, intimacy and transcendence— out of its primordial memory of what was lost to us in the Garden— that we begin to ***** idols for ourselves. Unconsciously we hope they might restore to us a taste of paradise, taking away our fear and shame and isolation. We yearn to go back but, alas, we cannot get in from there. We ache to connect to beauty, to be desired by it as much as we desire it, and Jesus is the only door by which we may enter. He is the Beauty, and all the rest are simply there like pealing bells to arouse our hearts to Him and tell us that He is coming for us. Still, as if we haven’t quite yet heard and believed the message, we keep aimlessly trying to forge a false righteousness through our false gods. When they are lost or the dreams of them unrealized we are devastated, for the shadows, echoes and reflections we had supposed would finally make us feel good about ourselves have been exposed as frauds, and once again we are left to feel naked but without fig leaves to cover us. It is at these precise moments, when the bottom of our false hope falls out, that we are best prepared to encounter Christ in His intimate fullness and most apt to recognize at last that He alone is everything we have been so desperately wanting. It is our boiling point, where the unbearable weight of failed expectation so crashes in on us that we are finally begging God to lift our idols off of us and deliver us from them, pleading with Him to come and capture us, crying out to Him to possess us fully.*#
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27
The Violent Storm by the Water (Do You Trust Your Imagination) was not unexpected but its fury was without compare, poet awake in semi-preparation living by water should be a human right for all, even a small room, overlooking, gives new meaning to perspective we blessed with a patio door, encased in a glass window big enough for a smallish elephant to come visit and play with children a storm is observed up close and personal as if one was in an IMAX 3D  theater, and the edges of existence were being redefined, sharpened by fury, tooled by tools untouched by mortal hands miles of bay illuminated with bass drum furious accompaniment stand before the screen, poets arms outstretched as a supplicant, the light of the lightening passes through him, yet , behind me, she still sleeps then the entire house shakes, reverberates, as if to say: ”tremble humans, cower, you are not permitted to watch my majesty, for such it was when created heaven and earth” bold poet window worshipping risky answers: “but who will know if even a poet cannot declaim sights no one else has seen?” ”true, true, but you must choose if poet truly, do you trust your imagination human, to prove that the powers of the heavens are limitless?” write of storms unseen and nature endless miracles ***”then you may call yourself a miracle too, a poet***”
0
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 12:14 PM UTC
smoke-scribe
The Violent Storm by the Water (Do You Trust Your Imagination)
The Violent Storm by the Water (Do You Trust Your Imagination) was not unexpected but its fury was without compare, poet awake in semi-preparation living by water should be a human right for all, even a small room, overlooking, gives new meaning to perspective we blessed with a patio door, encased in a glass window big enough for a smallish elephant to come visit and play with children a storm is observed up close and personal as if one was in an IMAX 3D  theater, and the edges of existence were being redefined, sharpened by fury, tooled by tools untouched by mortal hands miles of bay illuminated with bass drum furious accompaniment stand before the screen, poets arms outstretched as a supplicant, the light of the lightening passes through him, yet , behind me, she still sleeps then the entire house shakes, reverberates, as if to say: ”tremble humans, cower, you are not permitted to watch my majesty, for such it was when created heaven and earth” bold poet window worshipping risky answers: “but who will know if even a poet cannot declaim sights no one else has seen?” ”true, true, but you must choose if poet truly, do you trust your imagination human, to prove that the powers of the heavens are limitless?” write of storms unseen and nature endless miracles ***”then you may call yourself a miracle too, a poet***”
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31
she's an angel but her wings are wings of the devil her smile is inspiring evil her glare was piercing , furious hiding behind a mask lacking affection seeking love that broken little heart that poor little girl a deafening noise a blinding light rose her head a warm perl ran through her cheek a sarcastic curve on her face kept walking yet walking towards a wall
0
Jul 15, 2018
Jul 15, 2018 at 4:10 AM UTC
Ellie716024
"with a broken smile"
she's an angel but her wings are wings of the devil her smile is inspiring evil her glare was piercing , furious hiding behind a mask lacking affection seeking love that broken little heart that poor little girl a deafening noise a blinding light rose her head a warm perl ran through her cheek a sarcastic curve on her face kept walking yet walking towards a wall
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17
I lost the ***** that held my world together There is no finding it now And yes, I looked between the cushions of the couch I prepare to run because Like water through a busted dam it is coming Like the pain of a stubbed toe it arrives in a furious instant That asks for select curse words to be shouted But so unlike pain in my toe, it does not fade My world comes crashing down The clouds in the sky fall As dust onto my outstretched fingertips (They hope to catch a bit of my falling world) The atmosphere caves in The air pressure intensifies Until it has wrapped me In a straight-jacket and I Am Paralyzed I Search for your comforting eyes as you Distantly ask me if I am okay I’m not Okay but I cannot Open my mouth For the words to say because I cannot move an inch to save you Let alone myself I couldn’t even save a Word document right now I try to scream but I Can’t Speak And my world is crashing down The water from the busted dam Hits me like a concrete wall My useless straight-jacketed body Is swept away The water washes away all emotion I Can’t Feel The sound of my demise is so loud In my ears I cannot hear you any longer I Can’t Hear The lack of oxygen In my brain Turns off the light I cannot see the stars I Can’t See Water everywhere World crashing down I Am Drowning My heart beats too Fast Fast Fast I don’t have enough air to Last Last Last World Crashing Down I Can’t Move Can’t Speak Nor Feel Hear See, I (Gasp) Can’t (Gasp) Breathe.
0
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 4:22 PM UTC
karissa-olson
Anxiety
I lost the ***** that held my world together There is no finding it now And yes, I looked between the cushions of the couch I prepare to run because Like water through a busted dam it is coming Like the pain of a stubbed toe it arrives in a furious instant That asks for select curse words to be shouted But so unlike pain in my toe, it does not fade My world comes crashing down The clouds in the sky fall As dust onto my outstretched fingertips (They hope to catch a bit of my falling world) The atmosphere caves in The air pressure intensifies Until it has wrapped me In a straight-jacket and I Am Paralyzed I Search for your comforting eyes as you Distantly ask me if I am okay I’m not Okay but I cannot Open my mouth For the words to say because I cannot move an inch to save you Let alone myself I couldn’t even save a Word document right now I try to scream but I Can’t Speak And my world is crashing down The water from the busted dam Hits me like a concrete wall My useless straight-jacketed body Is swept away The water washes away all emotion I Can’t Feel The sound of my demise is so loud In my ears I cannot hear you any longer I Can’t Hear The lack of oxygen In my brain Turns off the light I cannot see the stars I Can’t See Water everywhere World crashing down I Am Drowning My heart beats too Fast Fast Fast I don’t have enough air to Last Last Last World Crashing Down I Can’t Move Can’t Speak Nor Feel Hear See, I (Gasp) Can’t (Gasp) Breathe.
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84
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 HIV/AIDS in Africa.
0
Feb 3, 2011
Feb 3, 2011 at 10:35 AM UTC
brachel-ann-meyer
Children In Africa With HIV/AIDS
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 HIV/AIDS in Africa.
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1
the frustration I had after failing to bring myself to ****** for the tenth time this past week makes me more furious than depressed seriously my *** drive has always been high as soon as I got over the shame society places on women for enjoying their sexuality I have always used ************ as a release relieves stress leaves me relaxed and content or should I say, left me feeling that way usually it was once a day fairly frequent but, it matched my *** drive's needs what the **** is wrong with me I have tried imagining, watching, reading, looking at every form of erotica that exists I have searched through everything I can find from **** ****** stories, comics and my search history will let you know that I've searched everything from **** to ****** to interracial lesbian forced ******* and things worse than that e v e r y t h i n g used to take me, oh, I dunno maybe three minutes with my ******** after around an hour is when I give up now I even bought a different ******** NO RELEASE NO PASSION GONE what is WRONG WITH ME oh yeah - depression I mean I knew it was bad when video games no longer had appeal that was enough games have been a passion and a hobby of mine since I was five the other hobby I started a bit older than five but you stole that one, too after depression beat the **** out of me on Tuesday I thought that was it thought since the next morning I awoke without the urge to **** myself it was over nope you have robbed me of the simplest things in my life that give me pleasure no more wriggling moaning spasming the tingling sensation that starts in my toes and makes its way up the length of my body the warmness that follows with it the satisfaction slight smile snuggly sleepy post ****** me I miss her give her back I miss my life give it back this isn't ME for ***** sake! I am a ****** witty humorous creature full of passion looking for opportunities to get myself off! not this depressed apathetic vessel without soul. you won't stop until you have everything in my life you won't stop until you put my soul in your mouth chew grind crush it your saliva breaks me down spit me out please I am fighting for you to cough me up regurgitate the essence of me let me put myself back inside this body please please no you won't stop you will eat my soul until ever fiber protein ounce of health I had is now inside of you, depression cold-hearted *****
0
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 6:10 AM UTC
beckybabe
************ VIDEO GAMES AND DEPRESSION
the frustration I had after failing to bring myself to ****** for the tenth time this past week makes me more furious than depressed seriously my *** drive has always been high as soon as I got over the shame society places on women for enjoying their sexuality I have always used ************ as a release relieves stress leaves me relaxed and content or should I say, left me feeling that way usually it was once a day fairly frequent but, it matched my *** drive's needs what the **** is wrong with me I have tried imagining, watching, reading, looking at every form of erotica that exists I have searched through everything I can find from **** ****** stories, comics and my search history will let you know that I've searched everything from **** to ****** to interracial lesbian forced ******* and things worse than that e v e r y t h i n g used to take me, oh, I dunno maybe three minutes with my ******** after around an hour is when I give up now I even bought a different ******** NO RELEASE NO PASSION GONE what is WRONG WITH ME oh yeah - depression I mean I knew it was bad when video games no longer had appeal that was enough games have been a passion and a hobby of mine since I was five the other hobby I started a bit older than five but you stole that one, too after depression beat the **** out of me on Tuesday I thought that was it thought since the next morning I awoke without the urge to **** myself it was over nope you have robbed me of the simplest things in my life that give me pleasure no more wriggling moaning spasming the tingling sensation that starts in my toes and makes its way up the length of my body the warmness that follows with it the satisfaction slight smile snuggly sleepy post ****** me I miss her give her back I miss my life give it back this isn't ME for ***** sake! I am a ****** witty humorous creature full of passion looking for opportunities to get myself off! not this depressed apathetic vessel without soul. you won't stop until you have everything in my life you won't stop until you put my soul in your mouth chew grind crush it your saliva breaks me down spit me out please I am fighting for you to cough me up regurgitate the essence of me let me put myself back inside this body please please no you won't stop you will eat my soul until ever fiber protein ounce of health I had is now inside of you, depression cold-hearted *****
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196
Dawn in New York has four columns of mire and a hurricane of black pigeons splashing in the putrid waters. Dawn in New York groans on enormous fire escapes searching between the angles for spikenards of drafted anguish. Dawn arrives and no one receives it in his mouth because morning and hope are impossible there: sometimes the furious swarming coins penetrate like drills and devour abandoned children. Those who go out early know in their bones there will be no paradise or loves that bloom and die: they know they will be mired in numbers and laws, in mindless games, in fruitless labors. The light is buried under chains and noises in the impudent challenge of rootless science. And crowds stagger sleeplessly through the boroughs as if they had just escaped a shipwreck of blood.
0
12.7k
Federico García Lorca
Dawn
Dawn in New York has four columns of mire and a hurricane of black pigeons splashing in the putrid waters. Dawn in New York groans on enormous fire escapes searching between the angles for spikenards of drafted anguish. Dawn arrives and no one receives it in his mouth because morning and hope are impossible there: sometimes the furious swarming coins penetrate like drills and devour abandoned children. Those who go out early know in their bones there will be no paradise or loves that bloom and die: they know they will be mired in numbers and laws, in mindless games, in fruitless labors. The light is buried under chains and noises in the impudent challenge of rootless science. And crowds stagger sleeplessly through the boroughs as if they had just escaped a shipwreck of blood.
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20
The warrior furious, and fearless. Her eyes full of justice, and trust. Raising her sword at her enemies, showing she shows no fuse. She fights with grace and skill. No expression, no care. Her glowing eyes, made her foes fear her. Her sword raises as it slashes down, onto the foes. She is known as a mysterious, hero. The warrior that was silent. She showed no mercy on those who are, displeased. The Silent Warrior, is the one to be.
0
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 2:29 AM UTC
thesilentwarrior
The Silent Warrior
The warrior furious, and fearless. Her eyes full of justice, and trust. Raising her sword at her enemies, showing she shows no fuse. She fights with grace and skill. No expression, no care. Her glowing eyes, made her foes fear her. Her sword raises as it slashes down, onto the foes. She is known as a mysterious, hero. The warrior that was silent. She showed no mercy on those who are, displeased. The Silent Warrior, is the one to be.
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24
Jealousy used to be a girl with puppy eyes and braided hair. She lurks around the dark side of the room Waiting for someone to notice but they kept on denying her existence. Jealous? No. That’s all she could hear. ‘Til she grew bigger. She now has longer nails, no... claws. Her messy curls showed up after taking off her braids. Longer limbs and shorter temper. She screams loud. By the back of her head, she wanted to be noticed. She crawled around the whole room. Asking for attention. And I noticed her. So is the name she whispers in my ear. The sound is not loud now, but deafening. It didn’t have sharp edges, but it cut me through. That, did not made me bleed and cry. It did not make me weak, or so I thought. But made me furious. She’s slowly reaching out for my hand. I had doubts but, I reached back to her. She stood, emotionless, while I unconsciously threw a plate across the room. I cried. But not in agony. In anger. For sure. I can feel flames rushing through my veins like a waterfall. Jealousy is like a monster under the empty bed for so long that it learned how to dream. Jealousy is like termites, slowly chewing off the walls where I used to carve our names with a small blade, I used to use to cut myself. Jealousy is a box of “What If’s” A box full of surprises and one of them... called, “assumptions” Assumptions you thought were visions of the negative things. Negative things you’re scared to happen. Or even to think about. Jealousy thought your fear how to grow bigger. They’re friends now. And every walk she makes, Jealousy brought along Fear. They try to pay you visits in your room, that you seem to stay a lot in now. This is the room where I used to watch cartoons and once fell from the rope you tied on the ceiling. It wasn’t that strong. The rope, the ceiling, and me. It used to be just short visits, now they got themselves their own sofa bed lying next to your queen-sized mattress. But I wanted them to leave. As I see him packing his bags and opening the bathroom door to get his toothbrush. I wanted them to leave. But Jealousy invited a guest. Jealousy invited Pride. He left//
0
Jan 21, 2019
Jan 21, 2019 at 10:52 AM UTC
janicakatricia
*Jealousy*
Jealousy used to be a girl with puppy eyes and braided hair. She lurks around the dark side of the room Waiting for someone to notice but they kept on denying her existence. Jealous? No. That’s all she could hear. ‘Til she grew bigger. She now has longer nails, no... claws. Her messy curls showed up after taking off her braids. Longer limbs and shorter temper. She screams loud. By the back of her head, she wanted to be noticed. She crawled around the whole room. Asking for attention. And I noticed her. So is the name she whispers in my ear. The sound is not loud now, but deafening. It didn’t have sharp edges, but it cut me through. That, did not made me bleed and cry. It did not make me weak, or so I thought. But made me furious. She’s slowly reaching out for my hand. I had doubts but, I reached back to her. She stood, emotionless, while I unconsciously threw a plate across the room. I cried. But not in agony. In anger. For sure. I can feel flames rushing through my veins like a waterfall. Jealousy is like a monster under the empty bed for so long that it learned how to dream. Jealousy is like termites, slowly chewing off the walls where I used to carve our names with a small blade, I used to use to cut myself. Jealousy is a box of “What If’s” A box full of surprises and one of them... called, “assumptions” Assumptions you thought were visions of the negative things. Negative things you’re scared to happen. Or even to think about. Jealousy thought your fear how to grow bigger. They’re friends now. And every walk she makes, Jealousy brought along Fear. They try to pay you visits in your room, that you seem to stay a lot in now. This is the room where I used to watch cartoons and once fell from the rope you tied on the ceiling. It wasn’t that strong. The rope, the ceiling, and me. It used to be just short visits, now they got themselves their own sofa bed lying next to your queen-sized mattress. But I wanted them to leave. As I see him packing his bags and opening the bathroom door to get his toothbrush. I wanted them to leave. But Jealousy invited a guest. Jealousy invited Pride. He left//
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32
... While Warm water as the geyser Gives the skin a new taste After the sudden rain The sun peeped behind the clouds As if a fire peaks in the red flamboyant forest Then purple flowers of Jarul's Silently washing the suffering of long pain Worship to God with drunk Late afternoon in front of the house of crow Cuckoo calls repeatedly, Wings fluttering, Not unnecessarily She searches her left offspring Alongside a small river (Kumar) flows Small dazzling waves, With a Cold gentle breeze Flows over my sweet sweat Ah! Another form of Heaven Seduced far away from the darkness Furious within a dream, I bathe ... @Musfiq us shaleheen
0
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 2:13 PM UTC
musfiq-us-shaleheen
Late Spring
... While Warm water as the geyser Gives the skin a new taste After the sudden rain The sun peeped behind the clouds As if a fire peaks in the red flamboyant forest Then purple flowers of Jarul's Silently washing the suffering of long pain Worship to God with drunk Late afternoon in front of the house of crow Cuckoo calls repeatedly, Wings fluttering, Not unnecessarily She searches her left offspring Alongside a small river (Kumar) flows Small dazzling waves, With a Cold gentle breeze Flows over my sweet sweat Ah! Another form of Heaven Seduced far away from the darkness Furious within a dream, I bathe ... @Musfiq us shaleheen
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25
rumour has it mirrors shatter at the thought of you having your fathers eyes I hope you know that if you're looking for a sign you might find it tying to choke out one last goodbye at the end of the night you'll find it wherever home is I know you hate the smell of smoke but cigarettes are all I know so I'm asking you to put up with it you have every reason to be furious but I'm hoping you'll take deep breaths and see how calm they make my blood stream I only started smoking to ease the pain it was that or a needle to the vein a bullet to the brain too much going on up there anyways it all just needed cutting out so cigarettes just made sense I talk about them in the past tense but the one between my fingers seems to disagree open your eyes and see through all the smoke and mirrors lies me a double entendre for how things used to be and how they are currently the writing is on the wall in every ****** love song lies a promise to make the next one stronger and they keep promising that but the time between gets longer and all of a sudden the bands broken up and the symbol of love you used to **** to is broken like the bond of your parents love I love you is an apology forgiveness is given with every similar reply I love you means that I forgive you for being broken and for breaking me because picking you out in a crowded room is something I've become accustomed to god I can't stop thinking about the look in your eyes on that night in July with fireworks in the sky the last time I remember you saying goodbye because I shattered at the thought of you having my fathers eyes smoke and mirrors 06/22/14 9:10am j.s
0
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 9:43 AM UTC
moonboy
smoke and mirrors
rumour has it mirrors shatter at the thought of you having your fathers eyes I hope you know that if you're looking for a sign you might find it tying to choke out one last goodbye at the end of the night you'll find it wherever home is I know you hate the smell of smoke but cigarettes are all I know so I'm asking you to put up with it you have every reason to be furious but I'm hoping you'll take deep breaths and see how calm they make my blood stream I only started smoking to ease the pain it was that or a needle to the vein a bullet to the brain too much going on up there anyways it all just needed cutting out so cigarettes just made sense I talk about them in the past tense but the one between my fingers seems to disagree open your eyes and see through all the smoke and mirrors lies me a double entendre for how things used to be and how they are currently the writing is on the wall in every ****** love song lies a promise to make the next one stronger and they keep promising that but the time between gets longer and all of a sudden the bands broken up and the symbol of love you used to **** to is broken like the bond of your parents love I love you is an apology forgiveness is given with every similar reply I love you means that I forgive you for being broken and for breaking me because picking you out in a crowded room is something I've become accustomed to god I can't stop thinking about the look in your eyes on that night in July with fireworks in the sky the last time I remember you saying goodbye because I shattered at the thought of you having my fathers eyes smoke and mirrors 06/22/14 9:10am j.s
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45
When every other thing in your life has shattered and you are a shell of a person and all you do is call me at an ungodly hour to be alone, you don’t have to say hello. You don’t have to say anything. Let your sadness speak its lengths through the silence that permeates through our phones. I’ll stay on until you fall asleep, or I’ll come to your place and hold you until you find your breath again. I’ll wipe away the tears for you, but I won’t tell you not to cry. Sometimes crying is the only thing we can do. When you’re tired, just look at me and give me one of those exhausted smiles we share; I’ll carry you home and undress you. I’ll fold your clothes to the side, tuck you into the covers, and read to you while caressing your hair. Don’t worry about snoring or moving about while you sleep; just get your rest. When you’re furious and all the world has done is disappoint you, I’ll hang from a doorway and be your punching bag. Don’t be gentle with me. Yell until your voice splinters and you punch your knuckles raw and stomp until your knees give out from under you. I’ll lay you down and ice your hands and give you tea for your throat. I’ll hold you as the rage turns into anguish and frustration and all you can do is tremble. And even when my actions are futile and all my words do is come crashing about your ears, I promise that I will at least try for you. All your wounds heal both inside and out. I will always be here to soothe the burns. I will always listen to your rants and ramblings. I will always have a hand for you to hold. I will always love you; everything that I have and everything that I am, all that that I ever will be, is yours. Always.
0
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 6:56 PM UTC
harshhappens
Always
When every other thing in your life has shattered and you are a shell of a person and all you do is call me at an ungodly hour to be alone, you don’t have to say hello. You don’t have to say anything. Let your sadness speak its lengths through the silence that permeates through our phones. I’ll stay on until you fall asleep, or I’ll come to your place and hold you until you find your breath again. I’ll wipe away the tears for you, but I won’t tell you not to cry. Sometimes crying is the only thing we can do. When you’re tired, just look at me and give me one of those exhausted smiles we share; I’ll carry you home and undress you. I’ll fold your clothes to the side, tuck you into the covers, and read to you while caressing your hair. Don’t worry about snoring or moving about while you sleep; just get your rest. When you’re furious and all the world has done is disappoint you, I’ll hang from a doorway and be your punching bag. Don’t be gentle with me. Yell until your voice splinters and you punch your knuckles raw and stomp until your knees give out from under you. I’ll lay you down and ice your hands and give you tea for your throat. I’ll hold you as the rage turns into anguish and frustration and all you can do is tremble. And even when my actions are futile and all my words do is come crashing about your ears, I promise that I will at least try for you. All your wounds heal both inside and out. I will always be here to soothe the burns. I will always listen to your rants and ramblings. I will always have a hand for you to hold. I will always love you; everything that I have and everything that I am, all that that I ever will be, is yours. Always.
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36
My scars are NOT just scars sometimes they remind me of traumatic experiences. Sometimes people would stare at them with a look so curious, that I myself, would become furious. Because my scars felt like a punishment of a series of consecutive jail sentences. They had me Feeling overwhelmed by weariness So I put up a fence to hide what I believe was my hideousness. Then my naked eyes realized the true lies, that behinds these marks are where the truth hides My scars are NOT just scars they are Evidence of a Wound, evidence that after pain healing must come soon. My scars are a sign to show Life was adjusted just as a violin being tuned My scars are not just scars they show that I have gone thru a Transformation. My scars are not just scars The give me motivation in my times desperation. My scars aren't just scars They signify even after my trails, I am Triumphed! My scars are Marks Of my pass History to celebrate even I was hurt I have the victory! For Greater is He that is within me. My scars are NOT just scars, they show that God was With me thru it all Truly! My scars are not just scars they are Permanent sacred Marks Of Beauty.
0
Dec 3, 2017
Dec 3, 2017 at 10:10 PM UTC
tashea-young
"My scars are not just scars"
My scars are NOT just scars sometimes they remind me of traumatic experiences. Sometimes people would stare at them with a look so curious, that I myself, would become furious. Because my scars felt like a punishment of a series of consecutive jail sentences. They had me Feeling overwhelmed by weariness So I put up a fence to hide what I believe was my hideousness. Then my naked eyes realized the true lies, that behinds these marks are where the truth hides My scars are NOT just scars they are Evidence of a Wound, evidence that after pain healing must come soon. My scars are a sign to show Life was adjusted just as a violin being tuned My scars are not just scars they show that I have gone thru a Transformation. My scars are not just scars The give me motivation in my times desperation. My scars aren't just scars They signify even after my trails, I am Triumphed! My scars are Marks Of my pass History to celebrate even I was hurt I have the victory! For Greater is He that is within me. My scars are NOT just scars, they show that God was With me thru it all Truly! My scars are not just scars they are Permanent sacred Marks Of Beauty.
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14
the other day I occupied a chair at a sidewalk café watching the vanity fair of the quotidian float by in quickly changing apparitions an endless flow of different ages, nations, fashions, skin colors, miens, ****** expressions, postures & gaits kept passing through  my field of vision it made me wonder why some people get so furious when they  just hear about     not even meet     the ‘others’ different from themselves that they start dropping  bombs and shooting rockets I think they rather should be curious and eager to discover how the immense variety of humankind can help expand a locally grown mind and recognize that we are all of the same kind
0
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 5:20 PM UTC
wwhoelbling
humankind
the other day I occupied a chair at a sidewalk café watching the vanity fair of the quotidian float by in quickly changing apparitions an endless flow of different ages, nations, fashions, skin colors, miens, ****** expressions, postures & gaits kept passing through  my field of vision it made me wonder why some people get so furious when they  just hear about     not even meet     the ‘others’ different from themselves that they start dropping  bombs and shooting rockets I think they rather should be curious and eager to discover how the immense variety of humankind can help expand a locally grown mind and recognize that we are all of the same kind
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20
To Paint a Water Lily A green level of lily leaves Roofs the pond's chamber and paves The flies' furious arena: study These, the two minds of this lady. First observe the air's dragonfly That eats meat, that bullets by Or stands in space to take aim; Others as dangerous comb the hum Under the trees. There are battle-shouts And death-cries everywhere hereabouts But inaudible, so the eyes praise To see the colours of these flies Rainbow their arcs, spark, or settle Cooling like beads of molten metal Through the spectrum. Think what worse is the pond-bed's matter of course; Prehistoric bedragoned times Crawl that darkness with Latin names, Have evolved no improvements there, Jaws for heads, the set stare, Ignorant of age as of hour— Now paint the long-necked lily-flower Which, deep in both worlds, can be still As a painting, trembling hardly at all Though the dragonfly alight, Whatever horror nudge her root.
0
9.8k
Ted Hughes
How To Paint A Water Lily
To Paint a Water Lily A green level of lily leaves Roofs the pond's chamber and paves The flies' furious arena: study These, the two minds of this lady. First observe the air's dragonfly That eats meat, that bullets by Or stands in space to take aim; Others as dangerous comb the hum Under the trees. There are battle-shouts And death-cries everywhere hereabouts But inaudible, so the eyes praise To see the colours of these flies Rainbow their arcs, spark, or settle Cooling like beads of molten metal Through the spectrum. Think what worse is the pond-bed's matter of course; Prehistoric bedragoned times Crawl that darkness with Latin names, Have evolved no improvements there, Jaws for heads, the set stare, Ignorant of age as of hour— Now paint the long-necked lily-flower Which, deep in both worlds, can be still As a painting, trembling hardly at all Though the dragonfly alight, Whatever horror nudge her root.
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27
Whereabout of the heart, where might it be ? When fury is a feeling which engages your senses, your mind and your soul in a raging outburst of negativity expressed in adrenaline, Everything seems to be one sided, a loop which only fuels your anger with thoughts of unpleasant, disturbing annoyances, making it harder Harder to resist, until alike a super nova, you explode in a viscious rampage with knows no escape, so, where is the heart ? Where is it? A tantrum might be encouraged to grow in size if it's revenge you seek, desire, want to live for to make it expire, with violent passion, Mercy or compassion, forgiveness and simpathy may be forgotten, within the depths of your burning soul, lit ablaze solely by hatred, You may lose your mind, oh beauty of a living existence, becoming alike a lily of murderous intent, spiteful, yet elegant and wonderful, A shivering star, ready to take its opponent down with itself while destroying what used to be so precious, unique and simply sweet, Blemishing the unconscious without thinking of patience or the chance to calm this nuclear meltdown, unfolding in tragedy for us, The pure light of your praying palms might help in this regard, Because his remembrance is what makes furious hearts become calm. ~ Umi
0
Apr 23, 2018
Apr 23, 2018 at 6:33 PM UTC
UmiofLove
Fit of rage
Whereabout of the heart, where might it be ? When fury is a feeling which engages your senses, your mind and your soul in a raging outburst of negativity expressed in adrenaline, Everything seems to be one sided, a loop which only fuels your anger with thoughts of unpleasant, disturbing annoyances, making it harder Harder to resist, until alike a super nova, you explode in a viscious rampage with knows no escape, so, where is the heart ? Where is it? A tantrum might be encouraged to grow in size if it's revenge you seek, desire, want to live for to make it expire, with violent passion, Mercy or compassion, forgiveness and simpathy may be forgotten, within the depths of your burning soul, lit ablaze solely by hatred, You may lose your mind, oh beauty of a living existence, becoming alike a lily of murderous intent, spiteful, yet elegant and wonderful, A shivering star, ready to take its opponent down with itself while destroying what used to be so precious, unique and simply sweet, Blemishing the unconscious without thinking of patience or the chance to calm this nuclear meltdown, unfolding in tragedy for us, The pure light of your praying palms might help in this regard, Because his remembrance is what makes furious hearts become calm. ~ Umi
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12
perhaps it is to feel strike the silver fish of her nakedness with fins sharply pleasant,my youth has travelled toward her these years or to snare the timid like of her mind to my mind that i am come by little countries to the yes of her youth. And if somebody hears what i say—let him be pitiful: because I’ve travelled all alone through the forest of wonderful, and that my feet have surely known the furious ways and the peaceful, and because she is beautiful
0
8.5k
E. E. Cummings
Perhaps It Is To Feel Strike
perhaps it is to feel strike the silver fish of her nakedness with fins sharply pleasant,my youth has travelled toward her these years or to snare the timid like of her mind to my mind that i am come by little countries to the yes of her youth. And if somebody hears what i say—let him be pitiful: because I’ve travelled all alone through the forest of wonderful, and that my feet have surely known the furious ways and the peaceful, and because she is beautiful
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15
This is not a breakup poem This is not me liquifying when I open my eyes in the morning This is not my furious animal tearing at my chest to control the thrashing inside This is not the bile that burns my throat And this is not the hollow in my abdomen This is not a breakup poem This is not your static sobs and back-breaking voice cracks This is not your acid apology This is not your deadly uncertainty And this is not the jagged shards of yourself This is not a breakup poem This is not the blood bursting from my scraped elbows and knees when I went head over heels because you promised you would catch me This is not my pavement-smacked stinging palms This is not the gravel in my wounds from when you let go too soon This is not a breakup poem This is not your whiskey bottle on the shelf at the foot of my bed, a gentle reminder that now I have nightmares alone This is not the toothbrush and the hair gel and the speakers and the things that have more staying power than you And this is not a breakup poem
0
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 1:22 PM UTC
victoria-7
This Is Not A Breakup Poem
This is not a breakup poem This is not me liquifying when I open my eyes in the morning This is not my furious animal tearing at my chest to control the thrashing inside This is not the bile that burns my throat And this is not the hollow in my abdomen This is not a breakup poem This is not your static sobs and back-breaking voice cracks This is not your acid apology This is not your deadly uncertainty And this is not the jagged shards of yourself This is not a breakup poem This is not the blood bursting from my scraped elbows and knees when I went head over heels because you promised you would catch me This is not my pavement-smacked stinging palms This is not the gravel in my wounds from when you let go too soon This is not a breakup poem This is not your whiskey bottle on the shelf at the foot of my bed, a gentle reminder that now I have nightmares alone This is not the toothbrush and the hair gel and the speakers and the things that have more staying power than you And this is not a breakup poem
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20
Freezing a glance Wind cuffs down-white heliums Sweeps contrails Separates cirrus across the moon Cresting wave tormented wind against steel movement in movement sprays of hair Blizzard of petals from the apple Furious snow drifts off—  garage roof   Fog that haunts the river on the coldest nights _____________ The walk across the alley took— so long— A lifetime from the doorway of someone else’s impatience Prints of motion record the loss a single set in snow But there! on the icy, shoveled surface of night lies the snowflake of a bird impossibly molted Song of a feather caught— Flailing! Helpless! More than lovely for its lying there! Lying there!
0
Mar 12, 2017
Mar 12, 2017 at 6:38 PM UTC
elizabeth-balise
White Downy Feather on Black Ice (still life)
Freezing a glance Wind cuffs down-white heliums Sweeps contrails Separates cirrus across the moon Cresting wave tormented wind against steel movement in movement sprays of hair Blizzard of petals from the apple Furious snow drifts off—  garage roof   Fog that haunts the river on the coldest nights _____________ The walk across the alley took— so long— A lifetime from the doorway of someone else’s impatience Prints of motion record the loss a single set in snow But there! on the icy, shoveled surface of night lies the snowflake of a bird impossibly molted Song of a feather caught— Flailing! Helpless! More than lovely for its lying there! Lying there!
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30
PART II: A GLASS CEILING DRIPPING WITH BLOOD Mohanad Younis, of Gaza City; Where the sand is stained with blood As the world feigns pity. Broken families, unspoken tragedies – The order of everyday life. He was born amidst chaos and strife, To a divorcing husband and wife. If life were lived in peace, This dissolution would’ve been a release. Not much more, not much less – A family’s lore, a decision to digress. In war-ravaged land, however, One needs every helping hand, Especially a soul that was so clever. Such a curious, voracious mind needed to understand; A furious, rapacious search, Unexplained conundrums to unravel and unwind. Why do we exist? Why do we fight and resist? Is it worth living with all these scars on my wrists? Does anybody outside Palestine care? Will they keep on watching? Or will they be unable to bear? Of this and much more Mohanad must’ve thought, As he sat at the Marna House Hotel, Smoking cigarettes, freshly bought. A student at al-Azhar, a mild-mannered pharmacist, A prudent man who would have gotten far. An admirer of Bassel al-Araj, another victim of oppression – An inspirer, a brother who alleviated his depression. Hunted down and killed by the IDF, Another pacifist murdered for being an activist. One figure of many who died; One of those who did not want to hide. Mohanad wasn’t a resistance fighter – He felt that such persistence did not make their burdens lighter. Instead, he wished to make his mind brighter, And perhaps have family of his own. He was in love, and wanted to get married, But life was rough, and warranted a future far more harried. The final twist of horror? Having the intellect to apply for University, And deserving the respect needed to obtain a reply, Yet not being allowed to leave the city. That is the news Mohanad had received, Hopes and dreams suddenly deceived. Denied a right to education Because he was born on the wrong end of a cruel fabrication. The glass ceiling, dripping with blood, Swallowed his hopes whole like a flood.
0
Sep 10, 2018
Sep 10, 2018 at 10:04 AM UTC
Jdelia420
Hopelessness kills: A tribute to Mohanad Younis [PART II]
PART II: A GLASS CEILING DRIPPING WITH BLOOD Mohanad Younis, of Gaza City; Where the sand is stained with blood As the world feigns pity. Broken families, unspoken tragedies – The order of everyday life. He was born amidst chaos and strife, To a divorcing husband and wife. If life were lived in peace, This dissolution would’ve been a release. Not much more, not much less – A family’s lore, a decision to digress. In war-ravaged land, however, One needs every helping hand, Especially a soul that was so clever. Such a curious, voracious mind needed to understand; A furious, rapacious search, Unexplained conundrums to unravel and unwind. Why do we exist? Why do we fight and resist? Is it worth living with all these scars on my wrists? Does anybody outside Palestine care? Will they keep on watching? Or will they be unable to bear? Of this and much more Mohanad must’ve thought, As he sat at the Marna House Hotel, Smoking cigarettes, freshly bought. A student at al-Azhar, a mild-mannered pharmacist, A prudent man who would have gotten far. An admirer of Bassel al-Araj, another victim of oppression – An inspirer, a brother who alleviated his depression. Hunted down and killed by the IDF, Another pacifist murdered for being an activist. One figure of many who died; One of those who did not want to hide. Mohanad wasn’t a resistance fighter – He felt that such persistence did not make their burdens lighter. Instead, he wished to make his mind brighter, And perhaps have family of his own. He was in love, and wanted to get married, But life was rough, and warranted a future far more harried. The final twist of horror? Having the intellect to apply for University, And deserving the respect needed to obtain a reply, Yet not being allowed to leave the city. That is the news Mohanad had received, Hopes and dreams suddenly deceived. Denied a right to education Because he was born on the wrong end of a cruel fabrication. The glass ceiling, dripping with blood, Swallowed his hopes whole like a flood.
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51
The already preset disposition of being Asian. I must've been accidentally mixed in the wrong laundry basket, because they tell me I'm white-washed. Born with foreign looks but a native tongue my birth certificate calls me ***** I would be the blonde-hair-blue-eyes of a country on the other side of the world but here, I'm still considered an immigrant in my own home. When you are Asian-American, you are also the stereotypes that trail your title. You are sushi You are jackie-chan You are karate You are good grades You are the slant-eyed pignose supporting character WELCOME TO THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA LAND OF THE FREE, HOME OF THE BRAVE WHERE UNITED IS TRANSLATED AS DISCRIMINATED! BUT DON'T GET IT TWISTED, ASIANS ARE PRETTY COOL! Excuse me straight misogynist white male, your Godzilla type of Asian, or my culture? When have I as an individual played a character in these quote on quote American movies? Hmm oh yeah, that's right! I was in Fast and Furious! Didn't I also make an appearance in Harry Potter as the cute innocent Cho Chang? If this also applies to you can I please have your autograph because I'm pretty sure I've seen you star in every movie I've ever seen. Or at least your people, right? Don't try to tone down the damage I already know I'm categorized in this Asian fetish that all you'll ever see in me is rice and anime, nothing more, nothing less. And if I were to become an author instead of a doctor, I'd be considered as a social unnorm a disgrace but isn't it already disgraceful that in this bleached-colors world I have lost touch of my heritage, my roots replaced with a skeleton idea of who I'm supposed to be I wear a mask. My friends speak to my mom in their native language. Sitting there, disoriented, lost in pronunciation I ask my mother why she did not teach me her natural tongue. She says, "because you are American." And I still do not believe her.
0
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 11:48 PM UTC
jasyours
null
The already preset disposition of being Asian. I must've been accidentally mixed in the wrong laundry basket, because they tell me I'm white-washed. Born with foreign looks but a native tongue my birth certificate calls me ***** I would be the blonde-hair-blue-eyes of a country on the other side of the world but here, I'm still considered an immigrant in my own home. When you are Asian-American, you are also the stereotypes that trail your title. You are sushi You are jackie-chan You are karate You are good grades You are the slant-eyed pignose supporting character WELCOME TO THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA LAND OF THE FREE, HOME OF THE BRAVE WHERE UNITED IS TRANSLATED AS DISCRIMINATED! BUT DON'T GET IT TWISTED, ASIANS ARE PRETTY COOL! Excuse me straight misogynist white male, your Godzilla type of Asian, or my culture? When have I as an individual played a character in these quote on quote American movies? Hmm oh yeah, that's right! I was in Fast and Furious! Didn't I also make an appearance in Harry Potter as the cute innocent Cho Chang? If this also applies to you can I please have your autograph because I'm pretty sure I've seen you star in every movie I've ever seen. Or at least your people, right? Don't try to tone down the damage I already know I'm categorized in this Asian fetish that all you'll ever see in me is rice and anime, nothing more, nothing less. And if I were to become an author instead of a doctor, I'd be considered as a social unnorm a disgrace but isn't it already disgraceful that in this bleached-colors world I have lost touch of my heritage, my roots replaced with a skeleton idea of who I'm supposed to be I wear a mask. My friends speak to my mom in their native language. Sitting there, disoriented, lost in pronunciation I ask my mother why she did not teach me her natural tongue. She says, "because you are American." And I still do not believe her.
Continue reading...
53