"indian" poems
Maybe it's the way the national flag flies so high
Despite the country's imperfections
Maybe it's the way we're united
Not separated, despite the difference in cultures,
Believes, traditions, languages
Maybe it's the way you see an Indian eating with chopsticks,
The way you see a Malay in a saree,
The way you see a Chinese making ketupat's for Hari Raya.
Maybe it's the unity you see,
Maybe it's the goosebumps you feel when you say Merdeka,
Maybe despite the hate you have towards history,
Deep down, you know how grateful you are to be Malaysian.
Maybe it's the way you walk into a mamak,
And say
" tauke tapau roti canai 1 milo ais 99 "
And maybe,
It lies in diversity,
Beyond everything else.
Malaysia, tanah tumpahnya darahku.
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 1:27 PM UTC
mirrored fly-glass
and polished chrome
are tinted
in the blood orange dawn
running dogs of lummi
hush quiet
on this celestial
summer morn
clubman bars
and tan saddles
strapped to
the lowered hind
skull caps
and fitted chaps
for the open flow
and rich peripheral scene
concessions at the peace arch
(from the blue-coat fuzz)
black *****
and maples
cake the bow hill
and chuckanut
choppers launch
at edison
(with their metal fleck
and tuft)
a half moon rises
on the concho
and interstellar cross
cinnamon gulls
and ravens
scour the netted docks
warlock driftwood
and row homes
spot the winding
coastal roads
rumbling sounds
at the packer slew ~
with the redolence
of briny bay
alive
on the overlook
at fairhaven
Nov 18, 2017
Nov 18, 2017 at 5:55 PM UTC
Ilion gray
poet extraordinary
is away
learning the codes hidden in raindrops
no reason for surprise;
for the mountains of Brooklyn, the Manhattan caverns of Sunhenge^, corridors of narrow focus for trapping the declining sun rays,
neither high enough, narrow blinding,
to keep a good man from doing good things that life provides as opportunities
to do the right thing
he muses that it took five years for the other poets to understand our
poem-dreams;
avant-garde he says,
but I laugh,
never felt more misunderstood
and reply take care, be
en garde!
no matter for he is learning a new language,
the codes hidden in raindrops in a land of wheat
once called Indian Territory and eager
await his return so we may
walk along the Brooklyn shoreline,
beginning from under the Brooklyn Bridge
where Washington’s men escaped a British trap
and he can decode for me the whispery thunderous noises of
NY
showers that come up so sudden, so roughened, but right now,
the seductive sun blinks in Manhattan windowed towers reflecting back on to our East River as golden blinks of nature
We will walk lost in the absorption of our
different commonalities, holding the hands of
his young son, and my Wendy,
both of them equal in possession of round saucer eyes
that give us poems
He calls me me friend,
I call him brother, teacher, master, better than the best,
well recalling a late night message that bred
a five year conversation ongoing
not everything need be coded
what you read here
it is not coded,
for the raindrops come clear and clean
and the poems land on our tongues
bounce on the foreheads and eyes of the babes, all stored and saved for the future blessings spoken in a single tongue
7/18/18
^https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Manhattanhenge
Jul 18, 2018
Jul 18, 2018 at 10:41 PM UTC
for Susan O'Neill Roe
What a thrill ----
My thumb instead of an onion.
The top quite gone
Except for a sort of hinge
Of skin,
A flap like a hat,
Dead white.
Then that red plush.
Little pilgrim,
The Indian's axed your scalp.
Your turkey wattle
Carpet rolls
Straight from the heart.
I step on it,
Clutching my bottle
Of pink fizz. A celebration, this is.
Out of a gap
A million soldiers run,
Redcoats, every one.
Whose side are they one?
O my
Homunculus, I am ill.
I have taken a pill to ****
The thin
Papery feeling.
Saboteur,
Kamikaze man ----
The stain on your
Gauze Ku Klux ****
Babushka
Darkens and tarnishes and when
The balled
Pulp of your heart
Confronts its small
Mill of silence
How you jump ----
Trepanned veteran,
***** girl,
Thumb stump.
23.5k
I took the left path where hydrangeas grew and sleepy primroses under woods, edged shady trees.
The empty stream ran quietly dry
With grass cuttings piling high.
If one peeped, one would find tiny creatures
To cast a sparkle here and there, a delight.
So on tip-toe, with sandels bent
Up high I reached to take
The plastic fairy as she twirled a pirouette
In a theatre made by chance.
Reflected in a silver mirror intwinned with ivy branch
A mottled foal tends his dreams and Chrismas robin chirps.
My brother took the right hand path where the trees grew fruit
Ripe berries from the gooseberry bush bulged their prickles.
Dangling from hawthorn now a cowboy with a hat
Looking for his fellow Indian with the yellow back sack.
Sheep gather in a hollow, dark, protected from the sun
And Mr toad, now lost of paint, has turned a bit glum.
And so we leave our woodland friends and travel up the slope
Winding round the rose bed and goldfish where they float.
Then up we climb, the middle route, to jump the pruned clipped
Hedge.
The lawn divided in two halves, a contemporary taste.
Now we're nearly at that place where if one was to turn
Could see down across the land
To the sea and sand.
Of all the beauties that I've known
Nothing beats this Island home.
Love Mary x
My grandfather’s retirement bungalow was in Totland Isle of Wight.
It was named Innisfail meaning ‘Isle of Ireland’.
Behind, the garden led down to magical and delightful to children who came as visitors. My grandfather would prepare this woodland with some suitable surprises.
The garden and woodland deserved its own name and in retrospect
Is now named ‘Innislandia’ to suggest a separate, mysterious land.
Beyond the real world.
In the poem A Country Lane on page 8 the latched gate is the back gate to my grandparent’s garden and bungalow in Totland as above.
Jun 23, 2018
Jun 23, 2018 at 7:57 AM UTC
Hello Friends & Happy Holi to all my hello poetry friends ,Writers & Family..
May this holi brings you and your family a very bright, colourful joyful holi, With love of Peace, happiness , prosperity & success in Every ones life..
Today writing this letter by expressing my Feeling for one my favourite Indian festival, I know it is strange but this is what my excitement is all about.. what you like the most express it by Writing or enjoy it!!
Holi is a religious festival of the Hindus. Though, it is most popular in India, it is celebrated in every corner of the world as a Festival of colours.
Today describing you the importance of the different colors(Gulal) of holi festival which significance your face life with a different colorful world!!.
the face behind your colour are followed below:
Auspicious Red Colour bright the love of happiness
Divine Green colour binds you in the life of prosperity
Forever Blue color bleed your soul in a Blissful world
Pretty orange color mild your Elysian mind as a silence peace
Beautiful Pink color scents intriguing personality of life
Sunflame yellow color kisses your beautiful moment of time!!.
Well colour is a beautiful life were you experience the beauty of joy, beauty of passion, beauty of love , beauty of everything that you will experience in this festival !!.come once and get yours new experience of life ....Thank-you..
Mar 24, 2016
Mar 24, 2016 at 8:34 AM UTC
The private gun salesman
divine savior of our life,
liberty, and pursuit of happiness!
Washes his own hands
of the matter,
he has no need for Mary Magdalene,
divine ********** hippie.
Arms outstretched
he sacrifices his own collection
(for a sum of course)
for the anonymous benefit
of a person who
"seems alright".
They aren't Mexican or Black after all!
Or God forbid, Indian!
What would we do
without that Just defender?
Our private gun salesman,
divine savior of America.
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 6:41 PM UTC
During a walk through the hallway
of the primary school
I find hallways
filled with turkeys and leafs and stiff scrawled characters.
What is Mr. Smith's class thankful for?
Flowers and toys and cars and dresses and pink and purple and soccer and skirts and barbies and family.
How could you sum up all of the things you are thankful for in one word?
At the end of the hallway I am faced with a choice:
*What are you thankful for?*
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
What am I thankful for?
Happiness, and family and security and nature and
friends.
I am thankful for friends.
I am thankful for laughs and chatts and cries and sobs and games and smiles.
I am thanful for ****** contortions and 80s dance sessions,
for inabilty to speak.
I am thankful for hobos, eating on the side of the road,
and for devious scheymes of intoxicatation.
Hep beni anlayan bir arkadaşım var müteşekkirim
and who listens to my sob stories.
I am thankful for singing in the rain.
And styling hair in the sink
for screeching and howling
and hissing.
I am thankful for obkirchergasses,
for Ströcks and for ice cream plarlours.
I am thankful for mentos,
and walnuts.
I am thankful for bad lip readings and hilarious youtube vidoes.
I am thankful for unknown languages and nymphs
and for eloquence.
I am thankful for good taste in music
and for strong opinions.
I am thankful for dancing indian pirates with demon chicks and fireballs.
I am thankful for two-headed teenagers and barbeques.
I am thankful for God and healthy choice prayers,
and Hawaii get aways.
I am thankful for huge, hanging sweaters and crazy, funky leggings.
I am thankful for deep talks about the world's lack of beauty
and for poetry buddies.
I am thankful for dodgeball playing mice,
and poor old wenches.
I am thankful for pirate and mermaid adventures.
I am thankful for the looks we get:
looks of loud disapproval,
and whispers of quiet exasperation.
I am thankful for golden men and loud singing,
for crazy dances with crazy cousins and cute brothers.
I am thankful for Aunt Jemima.
I am thankful for banging on metal bars with rocks and shouting at the top of our lungs.
I am thankful for climbing over gates in order to not step on cracks.
I am thankful for amazing humanities teachers.
I am thankful for a laugh when the day is over.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
How those kids manage to fit all of their thankfulness into one word is beyond me.
Even the one-word things we are thankful for, must be described with a million words.
Nov 22, 2012
Nov 22, 2012 at 7:42 AM UTC
We play holi with colours,
And soldiers play it with guns and rifles.
At the risk of their own life,
They give us comfortable sleep and life.
A soldier is never sure of his life ,
And will he ever meet his daughter, son and wife.
Hats off and a dozen of salute,
Is nothing above a soldier and his sacrifice.
Besides a soldier his family also compromises,
Children sometimes starve to spent time with their father,
Mother's sometime don't even get to see dead bodies of their only son.
And what to say about the love of a wife,
Her sacrifices and compromises are just priceless.
After death a soldier is only remembered for a month or two,
Media is told to stay away too.
Payment of his life is done by some amount of money,
Is that all our duty towards our indian army?
This often chills my spine,
And brings a million years in my eyes.
A great salute to the Indian Army,
From the bottom of my heart.
I would help them anytime if they need me,
With each and everything I have.
Jul 27, 2017
Jul 27, 2017 at 11:27 PM UTC
Your clear eye is the one absolutely beautiful thing.
I want to fill it with color and ducks,
The zoo of the new
Whose name you meditate --
April snowdrop, Indian pipe,
Little
Stalk without wrinkle,
Pool in which images
Should be grand and classical
Not this troublous
Wringing of hands, this dark
Ceiling without a star.
13.4k
My India lovely India
Full of love and festivals
Bond us altogether
As like flowers have petals
With new hope our celebration
Starts with new year
With endless list of festivals
V celebrate throughout the year
Holi Diwali Durga pooja
Dusahera Christmas idul juha
Birthdays of great Indians
Are also celebrated
They every time make us
All awaited
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 10:34 PM UTC
On a mythical Mumbai weekend,
of no serene start or dubious end,
with imaginary beauties, invisible friends,
I stepped out of a puffing train,
my long unkempt hair a lion's mane,
getting used to my twitching tail,
Posing on the Gateway of India,
the extraordinary explorer pose,
took a boat to Elephanta (sans the hose),
and when my shivering co-passengers
had finished feverishly taking pictures
and started screaming holy mothers and sisters,
I took off from the starboard end,
and became the first man-lion to
cross the polluted Indian channel,
surviving to make the news channels,
my scientific name listed as a brand new mammal,
my mating call recognized as a gushing gargle,
On a mythical Mumbai weekend,
of no serene start or dubious end,
with imaginary beauties, invisible friends,
I devoured deep-kissing lovers for lunch
at Bandstand's low-tide on a hunch,
to the delicious sound of munch! munch!
even as Shah Rukh Khan watched disgusted
from his big big bungalow by the sea,
and as the city sharpshooters came after me,
and later when they brought me down,
from Nariman Point building, like KING KONG,
I tuned a dusty guitar and sang a melancholy song,
on the death of adventure, love and reality,
dangers of delusions, lethargy and self-pity,
repression, horniness and too much TV,
down in a shower of bullets when I went,
sky like the coming of rain, godspeed, godsend,
in a mythical city, where nothing is really meant,
On a mythical Mumbai weekend,
of no serene start or dubious end,
with imaginary beauties, invisible friends...
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 11:01 AM UTC
Dig the ground,
Deeper & broader,
Large enough to accommodate,
And peacefully lay us,
The commoners to rest,
Without causing any disturbance,
To the Clout-clad looters.
Don't rest till you collapse lifelessly,
Into the mud extracted for digging,
Digging their trap deeper enough,
Deeper enough for all the clout,
'Cause you wouldn't even want,
Their zombies to be turn-out,
Escaping out stark naked,
Out in future to plight,
****** and blight,
Pester and fester
The future generation.
Oh but do we not know,
They will survive and flourish,
Indian or Russian or American or British,
The clout will always be there to suck/eat,
**** blood and eat meatballs,
Why they will survive,
And why the civilians suffer isn't riddle.
Aug 16, 2013
Aug 16, 2013 at 1:56 PM UTC
you ‘why’ her.
While she is thrilled & happily beside you,
Telling you when she’s up to something new.
Your pre-existing notion of setting a “ya” for her limits,
Persistent "no" to her wishes,
She grows up to know that,
if she got to do something new
She got to fight over the, 5 Ws & 1 H!
Ow! & you convince it’s out of distress not mistrust!
And by the Indian parenting manual,
questionnaire weighs heavier at a girl.
ultimately,
“This time”, “That day”,
" This place", “Those people”
Would impregnate her!
Sons of yours -
Son of nights! freely hatching eggs past curfew.
Not foreseeing the evenings his sister would come crying.
Parents when you talk on equality & empowerment,
Let broad mind not hit the very ceiling of your house
Let rest mindset that proclaims gender roles,
The differential idea you set on them,
From who uses broom to who chooses groom.
If misogyny is permeated in the roots of society
Cleansing and changing begins in the family,
Before there in your minds, first.
May 16, 2017
May 16, 2017 at 12:39 AM UTC
The blue Arabian sea, the towering Western Ghats
This then is Kerala the most beautiful Indian state
Lush green hill stations, lowland paddy fields
All are in Kerala between the mountains and the sea
Fourty four rivers flow so water here for all
Exotic plants in abundance beside the waterfalls
Enchanting emerald back waters put here for your delight
The days are never long enough to view each wonderous site
Kerala is called gods own country, the reasons very clear
Wildlife abounds, exotic birds and sika deer
Here you will live longer than in any other state
Fresh food in abundance and low mortality rate
Why don't you come and visit this paradise on earth
And take away the memories that you will always cherish
Feb 20, 2014
Feb 20, 2014 at 3:22 PM UTC
What can I read her
What can I read her
on a Sunday Morning
What can I do that will
somehow reach her
on a Sunday Morning
I’ll read her the news of
The Indian Wars
Full of criss-cavalry, blood
& gore
Stories to tame & charm
& more
On a Sunday Morning
~~~
Some wild fires
Searchout
a dry quiet kiss on leaving
~~~
Like our ancestors
The Indians
We share a fear of ***
excessive lamentation for the dead
& an abiding interest in dreams & visions
12.3k
By now,the seed varieties of the world,
may have been attacked beyond recovery
by wars of pretense and relapses.
We are still learning
how to handle it properly.
We tend to say.
Some will talk and plan over dinner parties,
over TV or Radio. Most will leave
it behind like another corpse
of lessons thrown to the gutter,
like a dead *** on another Sunset Boulevard.
Iraq's seed banks
we blew up in the 2000s.
In various places in Asia
and the Middle East, places of life and cultured
varieties gone in an instant.
Echoing our imprisoned
ignorance and drives for more instant goods and services.
Indian farmers have committed mass suicides after
their god Hanuman was used by a chemical giant
to sell poison seeds and renewed
bondages of indebtedness.
One question a stranger asked a group of writers on tour
was not what their poetry or books were about,
nor why they wrote it, but how writing may and
may not be helping as we make decisions and solve problems now?
Once agricultural lands turn into new promises
of commercial buildings. Cities of inaccessible towers and
abandoned malls in America, Spain, China, and Russia
feeds us back our own echo.
Like converted uses of lands, our humanity
is converted into inanimate collections and status
symbols of some players or parties. As we face
our continuing struggle between
our oppressor-selves and our genuine roots.
Despite the perversions,
inside vicious habits of waste
where we glorify promises of war and efficiencies,
we continue to be entrusted with the ongoing lessons:
Rarely do surviving generations through famine, war and diseases,
throw away means to live, or destroy any kind of seed.
Every day we wake to the ruins and remains of
Our living poetry, word spaces, hours, exchanges,
gains and losses, stopping and going. This time,
not just for fires of anguish or unnecessary losses,
but for each other's midnight lamps.#
Sep 3, 2018
Sep 3, 2018 at 12:42 AM UTC
When it rains here once again
I remember the time we clenched hands that monsoon.
And we trailed down that railway track on a cloudy noon
We weren't alone did you know?
In a place unknown to fog and snow
The weather had lost its temper
The train had been blinded enough to lose track.
Who doesn't know it's all a knack!
Derailed, they say.
Before the next I wish they simply care
These are not mere accidents you bare,
But testimonies you claim on a paid fare.
Indian Railways or any other for that matter I say,
When they pass the word 'happy journey'
We simply wish it's not our last.
When it rains once again here,
I remember the time we clenched hands that monsoon.
And I wailed down the railway track on that tragic day,
I do not understand which side to stake.
Or wish for summer once again in my life
Or curse the rails, frames and journeys that shatter.
Shatter! Solely due to human hands that fell short,
short to value the lives that derail.
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 2:07 PM UTC
Here comes a fire burning, put it out with water and you'll save from drowning. Yes with all that indian pride, and ghostly tails beside. You're still just a wolf howling. Back at that mountain side, the gold down in the creek just waiting. Now it is the time!
Ideas just keep spinning, thoughts and feelings viewed like subliminal waves to the brain. the mythos enchanting, it all is believing. Now, taking up the arrows to steal a look at your master. Wishing harder. oh but your troubles are there, and your devotion unpared. So tell me, do you still want satisfaction? I could do without the bashing. Remember well the planet's storming cloud and know that you are found. The whisper you hear is showing, a dream of all your phoebos. The globe palmed and the stars your home.
Wait. Don't look anyfurther, all you need is laughter; fixing any disaster. They call it, silence. And it stole my brother. My friend, even the hot glow that once filled my soul. How could I not know that it mattered? Wait, do you hear that sound? It's louder than before! Am I normal? Of course not! I'm as unique as the space that falls between leaves! The universe is everything, Artemis hunting, Apollo flirting. Now do you see what I mean?
Your light is reflecting and I sink in the white moon. Oh Sirius the dog star of your master fallen. I know the pain of loving. Embodied with the essencee of apparent contradictions, I go on searching. The pack always watching. Life feeds on Life.
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 12:43 AM UTC
Hello friends & wishing you all a very
An auspicious & prosperous DIWALI.
"You aim always for a new glow for a whole year;
Hard work glows your day for the time
Likewise Light is a glowing nature
It is a hope, faith and light shine in your life,
A Candle glows for an hour;
Matchstick glows for a few seconds;
But a wish glows forever.
Here is my wish for a glowing Diwali and glowing year till next time....
..............HAPPY DIWALI...............
On this auspicious festival of Diwali
I wish & pray that, may everyone Life filled with a Sparking color of happiness & Light of Prosperity. May this world & people of this country live with a calmness & Fortune for love.
Diwali is one of my favorite festival & it is also the festival of light where houses are decorated with candles & many more things, making it a perfect festival, it is also one of the most beautiful festivals celebrated around the world through Indian culture, it seen a metaphor instincts for self-improvement and as well representing for a new beginnings. It involves a strong belief in giving to people in need, and performing every ritual by traditionally, a time for new clothes to be worn & Indian sweets is seen as a varieties of colours and flavours are eaten during the celebrations.
So wish you a happy diwali & May this writing platform of hellopoetry continues as the same mark of living, an originality of making a talent into a magic light.
Again, like every festival I use to mention to invite from my heart to all this cheerful people so I am inviting everyone to be a part of Indian festivals and culture... everyone is most welcome to India..
India is Country to experience different Tradition, with a beauty of joy, beauty of passion, beauty of love , beauty of art & beauty of everything that you have never experienced before...
reality is the real life.. ....
Thank-you..
-Chirayu!.
Oct 29, 2016
Oct 29, 2016 at 9:45 PM UTC
A melancholy ***** we came to adore
in mournful tone, finish the tale abruptly
and sob, uncontrollably;
"Memories of my melancholy ******
including "Love in the times of cholera"
are now part of our folklore, this land
of cashew groves and banana plantations
in Indian landscape, far far away from Latin American shores.
Her lascivious days are over
death visits the house of love, blood splattered
and a haunt of dark happenings, that begets children with tails,
shame, honor and secrets creep out of manuscripts.
Gabo is no more, no more"Living to tell the tale"
the Part Two, promised before.
Gabriel Garcia Marquez, after three false starts
goes to his final abode for rest, now.
A coded manuscript, written in
in classical Sanskrit,
(the language of all divine texts
of Indian sages of yore)
scripted by the mysterious gypsy,Melquiades
predicts the wipe out of Buendia clan
of five generations
Torrential rain and deluge engulf Macondo,
ends "One hundred years of solitude".
Gabo you point towards east
what is the answer to the conundrum of Buendias?
In Mexico city
they were preparing to take Gabo to his last ride
to the origin of all magical realism he'd return
In a land far away,
yet exactly the same landscape as Latin Americas
we grieve his death as that of one of our own
Gabo, in past thirty years, you mysteriously taught us
to discern the magical realism of cosmos
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 12:35 PM UTC
I wrote you a poem and all you said was “I love you!”
and I need a whole lot more than that
Did you know Marilyn Monroe was borderline too
and what did that leave her besides a suicidal mess I do not look up to?
But I guess she did **** JFK so there's that
Today is valentines day and I didn’t say anthing to you about it
because I know you hate February 14
because 2 years ago you had that major surgery
You didn’t talk to me until 4:20 today
and that was only to laugh about the timing
and it's really hard for me to not tell you that I wanted to **** myself today but instead I wrote 5 poems and drank too much coffee
and **** I would really **** for a cigarette right now that
I have to use my charm to get
because im only 17 but somehow
I always “forget” my ID and wear a low cut shirt
and flirt openly with the 40 year old indian guy across the counter
just so I can get my illegal nicotine
I wonder what my mother would say about that
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 10:55 PM UTC
Hey. I said I do to a sociopath.
No winey snivel.
No quibble.
No ****
BPD= Borderline personality disorder.=sweet insanity.= submerged insecurity = indian giver = lifelong victim=child manipulator.
Slick as snot running below the radar.
Now.
Dropping pretty baggage
Finding perspective.
WOW.
Amazing what can reside in a mid sized cranium.
Disneyland in cog neat O.
Frued would have missed
This one.
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 12:04 PM UTC
I walked into a church today,
One I wanted to visit for days,
I passed by it, saw the huge doors open
Inviting me in daily, but I just didn’t go in.
I’m a Hindu by religion,
Indian by birth,
I have an older sister,
My mom and my dad obviously.
Why am I telling you this?
Well because I’m everything but
Happy, calm and sorted,
Just angry, irritated and anxious.
They fight, my mom and dad,
They love each other, or maybe they don’t,
But they fight and argue,
They don’t hold back on concern either.
They talk a lot, my sister and him,
The guy she’s seeing but not dating,
The guy she’s serious about but hasn’t met,
She’s always on the phone, sharing every bit of her life.
I entered the church,
Felt nothing, felt the same as usual,
No excitement, disappointment, nothing,
Temples don’t help either.
I love my family, they love me back,
They care and support me, a lot!
I don’t want it most of the times,
It both keeps me alive and suffocates me.
They are always there,
Standing right by me,
If not in person, then by spirit,
Always a call away.
I talk to them every day, thrice,
Twice at least, message my whereabouts,
It’s a habit, a want, a need
To let them know everything about me.
They are fighting now,
I got an email this time,
Not a phone call, nor message,
Mom lied, that she’s got her migraine.
Dad’s left the family WhatsApp group,
Blamed it on the work stress,
But I know better, we all do,
I may be the youngest, but I’m 20.
My sister’s fed up with me,
Well she’s not the only one,
I shout, scream, screech rudely,
Loudly, with no sane reason.
I know I need help,
We all do, for anger,
To love and feel loved,
But it’s never going to happen.
I am a psychology student,
I want to let the world know,
With my research that depression and anxiety,
Can’t be beat with medicines nor by expressing.
My sister’s a Human Rights student,
Who wants to help people,
Support and care for them,
You can’t, nothing will end human suffering.
We are the sole cause of it,
Human suffering, the ones with fuel,
The ones with the extinguisher,
Yet, each time we choose poorly.
My family is broken, ******* up,
It’s surviving on a thin string,
But it won’t break, ever,
We’ll all just drift apart.
Sep 7, 2018
Sep 7, 2018 at 10:30 PM UTC