Unjustness poems on Hello Poetry

Agatha Prideaux Apr 2020

Dried-out sweat, tired-out eyes
Placards coated in reds and blacks
Hair strands wet, vermillion skies
Whiteout sneakers underneath slacks

Chipping bricks adorned with dusk's glow
Soft thuds drown in bustling sidewalks
Concrete walls enrobed in guised woes
Like calls of Cincinnati clocks

Down the path's lead, an alley lies
Only known by a few handful
An easy shortcut for the wise
A definite route for the fool

Empty blocks pampered in ruins
Grow dahlia shrubs in feeble soil
Yet cherished by passing humans
As they perceive in gleeful toil

Click, clack. Tip, tap.
Echoing the narrow pathway
Click, clack. Tip, tap. Click, clack. Tip, tap.
Reverberating the walkway

Gush of summer coldness trickles
Playing with thin skin's hair to stand
Along evening's hazy drizzles
Until lips' beam's closed by a hand

Frozen. Motionless. Absolute.
Pulsating ears, vibrating fears
I, the troubled, straightaway mute
Searching for comfort in fresh tears

Frigid, sharp blade graze flesh through clothes
Algid, rough palms tightened their grip
With trembling mouth, whimpers in lows
Time's ticking, closer to the tip

"How dare you go against!?" he yells
His voice falling on deaf pavements
Alike encaging prison cells
Beneath wretched, worn-out basements

Writhed free from his desperate hold
Unclasped myself, away I go
Yet burly hands grab my shirt's fold
On my side, planting the grand blow

The night weakens, the knife deepens
Meeting downcast eyes as I stare
Remorseless, the demon wakens
No plans—this petty soul—to spare

Deafening shrieks still ring my ears
The masses' cries of unjustness
Voices crystal clear amid tears
Demur of headstrong robustness

Earlier's protest fresh in mind
Echoing as I reminisced
Realized the shrills' suit unfeigned
Are screams from my own throat's abyss

Away from the hustling streetscape
For anyone to hear my plea
In desperate crawls to escape
He lifts the wood in counts of three

Bashed head meet placards to shatter
Jagged splinters abrade my face
Entwined with rain's pitter-patter
To finish me off, just in case

Each and every breath nears to none
Boulevard of dreams come broken
The mist douse this limp body done
I take my last, eyes wide open

Dried-out life, tired-out cries
Pebbles coated in reds and blacks
****** palms rife, obsidian skies
Lone witnessed—mum dahlias on cracks.

Day 5 of #NaPoWriMo 2020. This woke me up all night, and definitely not regretting. Yes, I love dahlias.

#napowrimo #napowrimo2020 #dahlia #alley #suspense #sad #activism #****** #death #traditional

Stephanie Cynthia Sep 2016

The Stranger

In the sea of voices she remained silent;
Among the whining tunes, the screaming sounds.
She had always had a quiet soul;
She wept in the absence of anybody else;
Manned of her own will;
Laughed in her own freedom;
Loved in her silent heart.
She had faith in her own thoughts.
There were people she had not met for years,
There were those who had forgotten her,
There were those whom she had forgotten.
They brought this noise she had not comprehended;
The noise that had perforated her thoughts;
Punctured her vision;
Pricked her confidence;
Drugged her with poison.
She had never longed to look back;
This village had always been her nightmare
yet she had been compelled to return.
She had always preferred quiet time;
Her solitude, that she would feel free;
A seclusion, a noiselessness, a silence.
Surrounded by unsung melodies,
With her love for unwritten lines;
She would write poignant poems,
Dance to lively rhythms,
Live among scattered paint, and
be basked in her peripheral visions;
Her hearts touching the sweet roots of poetry
Swimming in the green arts they could not see.
Her arts were her honour, her triumph
As her fingers touched archaic poems;
But she found unjustness, danger in noise
That she had longed to go;
Not wanting to hear their smug voice.
She would run away, she knew
and as she stayed, in the pouring seconds
Some talked to her, while some
Remained silent;
Some wept at her feet,
Some cursed her with hate,
Some pierced her ears with noise.
She remained silent still.
Now and ever.

John Edward Smallshaw Apr 2018

The walk in centre

It was when you said you loved me
that the morning stood aside,
you said,
you'd stay with me forever
but
we both know that you lied
and
then I died

the roses in the garden played their
songs but out of tune
the minstrels with their sadness
and their tears that left no room
for
the darkness had descended
and the sound all
disappeared
something coming closer
was the closeness that I feared
and then I died.

I lit up one more cigarette
watched the smoke fade
into nothingness
saw my life close out
the happiness as
the door opened on loneliness
and
then I died.

In the depths of that place somewhere
when there's nowhere left to go
we could stand and fight unjustness
or we could just decide to go
into the
desert walking barefoot
in search of mirages and water
finding scorpions and sand and
holding hands with the creator
walking to some promised land
and
the cigarette had burnt down
leaving scorch marks on my skin
so I shuffled out another one to
begin again
to die again
to win and to lose again.

Traveler Oct 2020

Existential Insomnia

Overwhelming devils
Demons of disillusions
Tossed in with regrets
Churning in term oil
Echoes of retribution
Prodding and poking
Stabbing uncertainties
Spasms of unjustness
And here I lay

Rest well my child
Waste no time in beliefs
Global visions of dignity
Wars that suddenly cease

Think not nor contemplate
The moment of our demise
All the things that bother
Old folks in the night

Sleep tight!

Traveler Tim

#traveler #existential #insomnia

Khai Jan 2020

To My Forlorn Romance

Had our tale been adequate?
Whereas life's unjustness clung onto our tails?
We reckoned life as a good hitcher on our side,
Howbeit betrayed us when we're too far gone to halt.

We danced among the sparks, amid the magic of desires.
A perfect illusion, we seemed like the fairest match;
'Thou were my honey bees as I was thy flowers.'
Yet weren't wings and petals distinct to each other?

I bled nectars and you weren't born with veins,
Though that was a matter I couldn't care less.
Yet you have queens to please,
albeit it must be for my lack of wings.
Still how long shall a heart suffer and understand things?

As truth woke us from our flawless fantasies.
I started to wither; too ugly to merit your visit,
So one day, you found no flowers nor vase on the terrace.
And not a single farewell slipped to rinse the dirtied surface.

Resent me It's alright, I would take the blame.
I now understood the imprudence of my deed,
For which I thought a favor I bestowed upon thee.
I by no means wished to be pardoned very soon,
For I was still the flower which roots kept it from flying.

Shall we abhor this boulder upon our shoulders?
Or beckon reality to befriend our sullen hearts?
Be that as it may, we shall see the hidden art:
Pollination arose after the piercing was done.

A bitter process beyond doubt, wasn't it?
Yet don't we have the sweetest honey out of it?
As someday at some land where my roots have never been,
Some flowers of mine will carelessly blossom and bloom splendidly.

So had our tale been adequate? Perhaps at some point, it had--
Perhaps if fate let us win, our paths might cross again,
And if it does, might the wind guide us onto a lovely mountain,
Where we could make our tale beyond adequate.

— The End —