Tag Archives: poem

Education

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Everything I have grown up believeing in summed up pretty well by the artist. Children aren’t blank slates you can fill your desires in, they can colour themselves… strokes of red and magenta, faces smiling and faces in thought.

I was always hell bent on finding my way and I think I am still painting the mural that is me. Let everyone have that freedom. The poem below yearns for this freedom: Do not tell me what to be, tell me how I can be best at what I want to be.

My fate is not engraved

On the stone of life

 

Why do others decide?

How do they have the right?

 

I write my own story

As I grow

 

I build myself each moment,

With each fact I encounter, each person I know

 

Stronger than the stone

Who tried to decide what I should be

 

I stand here today,

Self-written, independent and free

 

Let the bounds that hold you break.

Let the shell you are in degrade,

 

Forget the engravement and you’ll clearly see

Who you really wish to be.

Speak up: Our Inabilities II

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Speak up: Our Inabilities II

The plant on the side of the street

is dying, but it can’t cry.

A sheet of dust covers the green.


A woman slams the door

and buries herself in a coffin,

that her husband calls a bed.


An innocent prisoner reads

his story in the newspaper,

and confesses to the crime.


The rooftop leaks

in the old man’s house

stealing his sleep, sinking his mind.


A lover weeps

Near his wife’s body

but she can’t hear him anymore.


She asked him yesterday

how many sugars he wants with his tea,

“Two,” he wanted to say.

But, she doesn’t hear him anymore.


A mute weeps – he wants a voice

You & I snivel

for our inability to speak

has become our handicap.

Lone Bodies

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Lone bodies

 

Lone light in my eyes

from the end of the mud path

Lone sound of my shoe

drowning in a brown puddle.

Lone dance on a stage

from a practised mind

Lone dance without a stage

from an euphoric heart.

Lone clicking of the tongue

to kill the violent silence

Lone blinking of the eyelids

we are only slaves of our bodies.

Lone stretching arms

protesting the routine

Lone book flung on the floor

same letters, same lines, same spaces.

A lone pen writes

no one notices,

A lone person cries

Still no one notices.

No one hears

the lone wolf crying,

no one identifies it

as the cry from their own throats.