"sufferers" poems
there must be a place where broken words go
the ones without a limb
not fully formed
not spoken right
not heard
there must be a place where broken words go
the sentences left uncompleted
the trailing words that never left the lips
the "but" and the "and"
that were always left hanging
somewhere between silence and speech
there must be a place where broken words go
full of stutters and writers block sufferers
somewhere between the "i love"
and the "you" that never followed
or the "wait"
that was whispered into the air
the "please come back"
that made peace with dying
on the corners of a turning mouth
there must be a place where broken words go
the words spoken but never heard
the letters written but never posted
the train of thought that crashed into the clouds
the words in the bottle that traveled the sea
but sunk to the bottom before it could ever reach
there must be a place where my broken words go
the stains on my diary that didn't come from a pen
and the letters on my thighs that don't make sense
the things i could never say
and the things i said that came out all wrong
all the broken alphabets in my song
that cry for salvation
for one more chance
there must be a place where broken words go
there must be a place i can call home.
Oct 28, 2016
Oct 28, 2016 at 9:37 AM UTC
Left myself behind for Thy sake
Modify me through soul's remake
O' Lord! can't be more of a betrayer
Still though, I yearn for a divine remake
My heart is in Makkah
My heart is in Makkah!
Eyes can't bear watching, but none bothers
I ask for protection, for me and my brothers
Extreme suffering, such a cruel massacre
I ask for Jannah, for me and my brothers
Over our heads have we turned ******* n waste
I ask for purification, for me and my brothers
None cares for the sufferers as though not human
I ask Thy attention, for me and my brothers
My heart is in Palestine
My heart is in Palestine!
I plea to be bathed in the divine henna
In the home of the Prophet, madina madina
In the land of peace, make me offer a prayer
For me, my fellows, in the heart of madina
Revive once again the brotherhood amongst us
Like them ansaris and muhajirs of madina
Can't wait but for a chance or an opportunity
Offering myself forth, take me to madina
My heart is in Madina
My heart is in Madina!
Nov 1, 2017
Nov 1, 2017 at 8:45 AM UTC
ah, enslave without compassion
bound ancestors you must impale
go seek and show no mercy
let those who escape carry the tale
all the sufferers bearing witness
to their ministers spilling their blood
staggered screeches from bleak recesses
regicide plotters bend to the dust
with unmitigated conquest and **********
trample them under your tyranny
slimy enshrinement brings into question
what's divinely lamented for
scatter populations with ruthlessness
let them choose sycophancy or sword
reappoint difficult commanders
for instigation unbroken awaits
kept in frenzy, they whisper confusion
never quite sure of their fate
with unmitigated conquest and **********
trample them under your tyranny
let the cowardly unlock the gates for you
to heroically claim what's inside
crowds you abhor kneeling in wonder
all the world is your ****** bride
punctuate the roads with tollgates
***** monuments to broadcast your name
all your banquet's guests are your enemies
entertain them with one another's shame
with unmitigated conquest and **********
trample them under your tyranny
with unmitigated conquest and **********
trample them under your tyranny
under your tyranny
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 2:32 AM UTC
Friends with modesty, honesty and quality
Friends with novelty, loyalty and equality,
Is What all desire,
And
Friends with disability, social inequality and religiosity,
Friends with 'weird' human ecology, and 'discriminating' ideology...
None wants to acquire..
Some traits of these,
Are undesirable for sure,
But not even a single person of them,
Need to be ignore(d)...
We all are humans, we all are friends,
We all are lovers of humanity,
We all are creators of humanity and
We all are sufferers of humanity...
We all are friends, we all are a family,
We all are a human colony..
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 4:47 AM UTC
Cruel times, cruel hearts of fighters
Going to death under the orders of the fathers,
For the blood that binds them,
Both the brothers who fell and friends still alive,
Brutal century, cruel eyes of the war,
Staring with soulless of Satan on the human world,
Yeah heard journalists huskiness news,
Yes does not relieve a state of alarm of the soldiers ' mothers,
What are waiting for years for news of the children.
Is it possible the war to stop?
All sufferers to give a lot?
Blow out fires, bridges to restore?
But the smell of blood strong for the sharks,
Give no rest, so sweet it is.
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015 at 9:00 PM UTC
Depression is not a phase
This is a point i want to raise
Sufferers, do not seek attention
As the stigma likes to mention
Its a mental condition
Just as harmful as an addiction
Listen
And take it serious
Depression is not a phase
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 4:54 AM UTC
Dedicated to combat veterans and PTSD sufferers, wherever they may be...thank you for your service...
An Enemy That Haunts My Mind...
In the middle of the night I lie in bed,
Fighting an enemy that’s in my head.
An enemy that’s always there,
An enemy that won’t play fair.
An enemy that haunts my mind,
An enemy that is not kind.
The price paid for doing good,
Of doing like I’m told I should.
Serving my country in time of war,
Who could ever ask for more?
And now even in my deepest dreams,
All I hear is the sound of screams.
Why was I the one to survive?
Why was I the one left alive?
I ask myself every night,
As I relive every fight.
God, please call me home,
Don’t leave me here all alone.
For when I thought the fight was won,
I’m finding the battle’s just begun.
A soldier who was trained to ****
Finds a battle that’s harder still.
Fighting an enemy I cannot see,
And finding out the enemy is me.
An enemy that haunts my mind,
An enemy that is not kind.
07-11-11.
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 1:41 AM UTC
Please don't tell me its all in my mind,
That would mean i'm going crazy.
But what if everything that was in my mind,
Was written on me like a tattoo.
But what if it was so easy to tell,
The crazy from the average girl.
And what if i wore a badge,
Or maybe i do.
I wear these scars,
As a battle with my mind that i seem to have won.
But because the scars have not multiplied,
Does not mean that the battle has subsided.
The shots are still heard,
The blood is still spilled,
The screams are still shouted,
And the loss of feeling is still just as great.
At least in my mind.
In the mind of the one's who are crazy,
But do not wear the badge of guilt.
The scars i have acquired,
That are all too familiar.
Do not haunt the silent sufferers.
But scream my insanity to each passing opportunity,
That i am too afraid to take.
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 10:39 PM UTC
Dear Depression,
I see you. We all see you. You're not very avoidable. Those slivers of light you try to enamor us with. How death seems so delicate when we talk of flowers and restful slumber- for all eternity. What the lights do not show; a grotesque, scaled abomination with a gluttonous appetite for happiness and life. I can't let you gnaw on anymore souls to leave nothing, but sunken eyes and bones. They do not belong to you nor were they yours to take. You're not welcome in the mind's of my friend's and family. Life is welcome in their heart's where joy can still be found. Don't find yourself slithering down our throat's anymore, in the empty stomachs or scars we have. The thoughts we think when you entice us are dangerous. You stole her. You stole him. You stole me. I can't recognize the stoic, numbed faces I gaze upon. You undo any progress ever done.
It's been so long since, I've heard them laugh or flashed a smile I meant. Still, your might looms over as you admire the damage you've caused. Next, feeling the audacity to sneer when we weep. Depression, you're a monster who causes nothing, but suffering. Those tears are not your's to season hopelessness with. You make the covers seem like the most comfortable coffin, you make our skin look as if we've fought thousands of wars. The sun an inconvenience with the days in reverse. We've tried to compromise, you are no friend. Just a foe.
Depression, there are so many things I want to do to you. You break my heart when all your captors don't believe they are worthy of love, but they are the ones I love most. I will break you like, you've broken us. My bare hands would reach into your chest, ripping the lungs out; stomp on them to preventing future sufferers. I would crush your heart in the palms of my hand's- praying for the sickness and terror to end. These innocent people you've robbed of life, love, happiness, opportunity and a soul. Will have their revenge. Your blood covers our skin and we bathe in the warmth of redemption as our thought's belong to us once more. We let the pain held inside escape our sutured lips, begging your soul to ascend back into the abyss never to return. Your bones are mine to assemble a castle for the broken to heal. Your skull resembles a crown honoring those who had given into the temptations of surrendering. We honor them.
Oct 21, 2017
Oct 21, 2017 at 9:29 AM UTC
Those who are held back by depression are often viewed as 'miserable' or 'negative', but people really do not understand the fragile nature that these sufferers must face. It is an unconditionally delicate misconception, one of which that encourages society to hold such a stereotypical perception it can ultimately tip the scales and cause unfaltering chaos on the body, the mind and the soul. We are left to pick up the pieces of ourselves from the stone-like words that people throw at us, the icy glances when they see that we're trying to hold back stale tears that we were unable to release the night before and instead faced a daunting and relentless course of insomnia, the cold shoulder when we are desperate to breathe and release the demons that cloud our heads and our judgements in order to feel free again. It is unnerving to think that we must wander through life as shadows whilst others dance in the carefree sunlight of their ignorance. They are blinded by the sun rays of misunderstanding or lack of interest, they are educated but do not put their knowledge and understanding to the test and instead flee when the school bell of fear and commitment resonates through the hallowed halls of our hearts, our arteries, veins, capillaries, blood cells.
It is a tragic and petrifying truth, one of which breaks me a little more inside as each day passes.
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 3:14 PM UTC
love
to sufferers of
scarcity
consider it
embodied in
a soul-mate
one for
one
whole split
yet aggregate
two
halves per
simplistic
two-dimensional
singular
somehow minded
to be
complete?
stretch out
blinded horizons
for everything
to see
is actually
a
part of
an infinitely
dimensional
infinite
part of
me
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 11:24 PM UTC
Children of Louisiana,
Swept away and drowned,
In the river’s flood
And the ocean surge.
Never have recovered
Fully from the rain falling down,
And of a city that was purged.
Ignored by the government
And its fellow man,
Follow in a long line of sufferers
Since the melting, ice age glaciers
And even a tsunami in the North Sea
That wiped out Doggerland.
Dark Ages got darker as people ran
And Britain’s white cliffs were sheared.
Times got better and then got worse,
But the people carried on.
Now, the floods are a weekly thing,
A blip on a newscast,
As lost as the victims in a mess
Of other disasters,
Of wildfires, droughts and don’t
Even mention the quaking earth
Or volcanoes! We can’t take credit
For causing those!
Rich men in their castles,
Feasting and clapping each other
On their fatty backs,
Rolling in the spoils and spills
Of oil, on the flaming water of
The American plains.
Sheikhs in old Mesopotamia
Whine about oil pipelines,
Promised to them by President Cheney,
While the people starve.
Bloated oligarchs spread destruction
All over the world, from
The Congo to Chernobyl,
Melting icecaps and raising the sea,
Sinking islands where they don’t live,
Vacationing in the Maldives,
On special rates before those go under.
They won’t fix Miami, but let it sink,
But not before they plunder
The empty towers built on foolish dreams.
Of course, they’ll be the last to go,
Crammed into mansions up in the Alps,
Fighting with the European nobles
Over who gets a crumbling palace
Now sitting on the last ice floe.
A few American cousins round each other up
To catch the Dixie Flyer down to New Orleans,
Trying to hide from the polar vortex,
A dazzling case of ignorance and greed,
Only to find the tracks buried in the sea…
Down in the mud of the deep, brown sea.
Mar 10, 2021
Mar 10, 2021 at 4:26 PM UTC
I've always dreamt of being a hero,
like all sufferers do.
Saving myself and yourself and all of their selves,
and maybe even the villain too.
Shining silver armor and a sword like gold,
a moral compass to never be lead astray.
Living in the name of a cause and the good of all-
Except those at the tip of the blade.
But what of the villain?
Their hopes, their loves, their moral grey.
Cut down at the finish line
by the self-righteous who cannot be stayed.
Your morals are absurd
and your means just as well,
It's not the angels that punish and save,
but those that trod in hell.
What angel knows of love,
or the suffering of a mortal soul?
The ache of a spurned affection
or the terror of growing old?
I didn't fall from heaven,
I happily stepped down.
No god or hero of any land,
could force my heart or hand bound.
My morals are nonexistant
and my armor riddled with dents.
And when they try me as a villain ******
I'll say none of my misdeeds were well-meant.
Jun 6, 2015
Jun 6, 2015 at 10:17 AM UTC
A battered head,
a bleeding brow,
washed in silence.
This is a prayer
for the victims
of ignorant violence.
You don't know when it started,
you began feeling half-hearted.
The peace within is broken,
you want speak but your choking.
And you can't let it go,
never be unspoken.
Often you're left in stitches,
yet your soul is worth untold riches.
A dusty street,
where the children meet
that have no alliance.
This is a prayer
for the sufferers
of ignorant violence.
One day they're safe, then they're not,
wars are not what we sought.
Explosions only leave what you believe,
while the helpless mothers grieve,
crying for help from God.
The angels aren't coming,
their sounds are leading to nothing.
This is a prayer
for the shattered vagabonds.
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 4:59 AM UTC
Kissed the heatwave goodbye at last,
All waving as she left,
While armies of black clouds amassed across the pinkish sky,
Manipulated by light tricks in the heavy glow,
Diminutive raindrops thickened as we danced,
Worshiping the shower of cooling joy,
We danced in celebration, in appeasment of Thor,
The world becoming more content,
The blazing fireball came and went,
Bedecked with paste of glory breeze,
Kissing all around,
The rain came dousing baking souls,
Chased heat into submission with electric fireballs,
Dots and dashes,
Nova flashes,
Thunder roared as lions purr,
Bodies relieved to breathe again,
Headache of oppressed airs' hatred,
Dissipated at last,
Sleep weighed heavily on the eyes of the sufferers,
'Til now at last with cooler skies and night wishes,
With rest they're truly blessed!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Jul 25, 2013
Jul 25, 2013 at 1:26 PM UTC
It's not the docile who are the most peaceful
It's not the quiet who make the best mothers
And it's not the pilgrims who make the finest believers
For, the blade is not the only part of the sword
Only part of the sword, ooh hoo....
It's not the poets who pose the deepest questions
It's not the enemy that you have to fear
And it's not enough people who live in cleanest conscience
For, the string is not the only part of guitar.
Only part of guitar, ooh hoo....
Refrain:
Beware even the blunt side of the sword
Beware even the blunt side of the sword!
Oh, you know, the blade is not the only part of the sword.
Only part of the sword, ooh hoo....
It's not the animals who are the uncivilised ones
And it's not in the light that you get to know yourself
And it's not up to you to decide the life that I live
For the heart is not the only part of me.
Only part of me......
It's not the well-spoken who speak the most wise words
It's not the sufferers alone who feel the pain and anguish
And it's not the have-it-alls who really have it all
And the Eiffel Tower's not the only thing in Paree.
Only thing in Paree.....
And you know, the blade is not the only part of the sword....
Oh, you know, the blade is not the only part of the sword.
Star Toucher, Feb 2013
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 4:24 PM UTC
Every three seconds someone in the world is diagnosed with dementia, that works out as 9.9 million new cases of dementia world wide each and every year. In 2017 the number of sufferers was said to be just under 50 million, this number is set to almost double every 20 years.
I am walking for a world where people do not have to live in fear of losing themselves before they lose their lives. Where the only wandering that takes place is not up and down corridors, in streets, or in care homes but is that wonder of what life was like for those that suffered. Where the only reason that questions are asked is because people don't have to experience what it's like to have to lose a loved one to this disease. Where hands can feed their own mouths, where brains don't shut down, where people recognise the sound of their own voice, their reflection, where mirrors don't scream rejection.
I am walking for a time when people have a sense of time, of the date, of the year, where they don't live in fear of a diagnosis that stamps them with an expiration date, that defines and underlines the heavy hearted fate they are yet to await.
Where the only memories lost are the memory loss of what these symptoms and statistics sound like.
Where the only thing misplaced is the difficulties faced, because no one has to endure this illness anymore.
I am walking for a world without dementia.
Any and all donations welcome.
Thank you.
https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/mw266787
Aug 24, 2017
Aug 24, 2017 at 5:28 PM UTC
Please bury me in this sadness
Bones aching of all the madness
Not sure of happiness
No rest for the sufferers
I long for my brother
his pain screams louder than mine
But i am barely breathing
gasping for clarity
in a cloud of monoxide
Not glimmer of hope in my eyes
Too dry from all the tears I've cried.
I swear I never lied
if not to save my life.
Burdened of my mothers strife
a ragged bladed knife
Repeatedly stabbing my heart
ripping my world apart
Where must I go when I feel so alone?
18 years old without a home.
Sep 19, 2014
Sep 19, 2014 at 12:17 AM UTC
~for Marion~
all poets are junkyard scavenger connoisseurs
who wear suits to Manhattan faculty afternoon tea parties,
broken-in jeans to Brooklyn midnite poetry slams,
regalers, tall tale storytellers, subway words pickpockets
of the extra-ordinary,
claiming innovations but from all saints stolen,
insights inside other's waste,
refusing to acknowledge the true owner's title
by fusing other's refuse.
the original recyclers,
junkyard dog liars,
willful sufferers of the plague of overhearing,
exceptional excerpters of the gems of coal dust noise,
*"Connoisseur of old thoughts
Bound in new gilt bindings"*
them's me.
~
12:37am may eighth
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 12:42 AM UTC
To see action through your Artillery,
your standing eyes betrays other emotions.
Longing to touch you
yet to see your through body,
form and no substance makes a stray bed of rest.
Craters of realisation launch the chime.
What left have I, having teased the lesion.
A crawling victim stands direction less, and having learnt,
I will disarm your vague distractions.
According to lessons I call on regret and treasure its tears.
Surely past sufferers will empathise.
Mud and clay will wrap itself into an ointment
Then we can be reborn.
Jan 3, 2013
Jan 3, 2013 at 6:10 PM UTC
I tell you, you gloomy ones,
that life is beautiful.
Life is beautiful
in all its depths of
suffering and misery and pain
in all its depths of
striving and joy and pleasure.
I tell you, you nihilists,
one draws breath only once,
passes into and fades out of life only once.
Yet you are to tell us it is worthless,
this gift given to us all by chance?
I tell you, you Christians,
and all your compatriots
who hate the flesh and the earth,
who promise more life through
sons of virgins and husbands of children,
that nothing awaits after death.
"Memento mori!”
Why must you always
chime this in our ears?
Why must you fill
men with such anxious fears?
Many a man rules his life to this,
dreads and gasps and despairs to this,
prays that he may never come to this,
but you delude him on,
promising life after life.
I tell you, that
when we die, we cease ourselves to be.
Our senses stop their feeling,
our hearts stop their beating,
our brains stop their thinking,
and without those functions,
there ends a man.
So there are no souls
to greet gods in heavens,
nor any demons
to meet in hells,
only the ground we stand on,
and the caskets underneath.
Is this frightening?
Maddening, to think we must one day
cease to be and become nothing?
But death is not nothing;
Death is only a new dance of atoms.
When one thing tumbles,
it returns to the earth,
through one step or another,
to waltz and dissemble and collide
to make new things and again asunder.
With death, one only
plays one's part
on the grand stage of things.
Do not be afraid then,
of death;
do not let it frighten you,
that you will be
pointless, forgotten, or condemned.
Do not let it terrify you
into leaving your life unlived.
And so I tell you,
you gloomy ones,
you Christians, you nihilists, you sufferers,
remember that you must live.
Embrace life,
this shortness of time,
love every moment of your being,
in all its depths of
suffering and misery and pain,
in all its depths of
striving and joy and pleasure.
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 6:25 PM UTC
Chicken wires under my feet,
I can hardly stand but there is no retreat,
I'm caged,
I'm haunted by the ghosts before me,
I'm voiceless and hopeless,
I have no feathers to keep me warm,
I have only a cage,
To this cage I am sworn.
I will never meet my children that I lay at my feet,
They will be something for these creatures to eat.
I have no identity, only others like me I can see,
I hide and shiver with other sufferers for company,
I have no comparison to any other life,
Is this what it is? Life?
Am I complaining about nothing?
Does everyone feel such pain?
I sit here, I wonder... If this is the case
Who are these creatures that take my babies away,
They have no cage, unlike me I'm forced to stay.
Feb 18, 2013
Feb 18, 2013 at 3:14 PM UTC
Sufferers and survivors;
what's the difference between them?
No one can tell me
'cause it's the same air that we're breathing,
the same dimension and distance,
the same space that gives us freedom.
Feb 21, 2011
Feb 21, 2011 at 7:11 AM UTC
With heads ducked low and hoods pulled high
The Quiet walk through life
With their eyes shut
And their ears wide enough
To hear the softest of hearts
That beat in the chests of the Loud.
The Quiet is made of eerie spirits
Of happy and sad and empty human shells.
They watch as others lively live their days away
And only dream of one day whispering
To the life of the party
When the party comes alive.
They’ll say:
‘Why are you pretending?’
The Life of the Party,
So high on euphoric relationships
Will drink away the question
Like they hid away their sorrow.
And only at dawn when the alcohol fades
Will they panic at the question’s exposure.
The Quiet is made of strong shattered souls
That watch the Loud lie to themselves.
As the partygoers pretend to be painless,
The Quiet bathe in their hollow pasts
Until the cold waters become soothing enough
For the Quiet to gain the courage to speak.
They’ll say:
‘There is a Quiet within us all.’
With their soft voices and youthful wisdom
The Quiet live invisibly amongst the Loud.
And as they watch the world ignore its own misery
They’ll listen to the soft hearts of the sufferers
To convince the Loud that one day they’ll be strong enough
To suffer in silence.
Feb 21, 2017
Feb 21, 2017 at 11:25 PM UTC