Hit me back
Maybe it will let you stay on track
Violently aggressive with kindness
Bashing and cursing
Bruises braised by openness
Let’s tie all broke ties
Wishing anther didn’t die
Lay in this bed
With sweet longing lingering sound of love making
Let’s bore poetry and not another soul to the dead. Hypermind
Repulsive display of menace
Indigenous disputes, at times religious
Obviously something we can do without
To err is human. To forgive, divine
Stop the madness, let’s make love. – Hybrid
Home welcoming. – Rachel Charles
They gather around tables
Eat stories about feasting
Levy on fables
Send words to multiply their gifting
The harlot is their drinking cup
Stripped to crown the hand of lust
The valets are the jars to fill her up
For empty she chokes under her dust.
The slaves are ‘medalled’ to spot the win
The louder the cheer, the closer the death
Favour they earn in the thighs of a virgin
Her sweat, their shame, her broken breath.
With papers and names and claims they attain
They itch to share and tear again
With more than wild and more as gain
The tables and fables and medals remain. – Leon
At the end of the road
I see the dust rise
With a vengeful voice
Loose ropes hanging
Too far to reach
I hear the drums sounding.
‘Run for your life!’ it preached
Madness in high gauge
Some looting a hobbie
Chaos as birth is breeched
I see the breathing knife
Steel stealing life
Apocalypse unleashed. – Vera
They speared down bodies
Torched down huts
Toiling for birth rights we sold
Who convinced them we needed bravery?
They attacked with the unknown
As their spirits became the,
Smoke illuminating the sky
Relief was announced
The weaponless sons restored ease…-Omolola
Shooting asteroids on wings of fire!
Oceans of fear!
Let us dance, breathe!
Welcome to Life! -OracLe
At the bottom of the sea
lies her guarded walls in its ruins.
She use to wail to the flow
as her body is part of the aquarium.
The wars she held their stories in her dust.
And where she used to live is used to leave
moving houses on waters from the eyes.
On the tip of the grass
is hope for a tree to grow
so it talks to the sky about having lunch
with the sun.
Deep down her bosom are stories of death
oozing from her lips, brown colors of red.
There use to be salty waters moving hearts from the eyes.
On these pages written
are stories mistaken.
About the laughter, love and pain
covering it now they call it history.
Flipping the icon of the moon
some hearts still remember too soon,
whether it was the sound of the gun
or when the sun came to watch evil have fun. – Rudolph
The bowl of patience is filled up
The brim spewing more than the belly of the collecting cup
Causing the spillage of discontent and anger
Dressing men, women and children in danger
The wheels of disarray are starting to churn
The sun will have a few backs and clothes to burn.
When opinions collide a few homes will mourn
On the queue of celebration it is Chaos’s turn.
When the table has defied the compass’s direction to a new path
When hearts choose cold over warmth
Left is choosing between devil’s offering
All options with their own accompanying sting
“Easy does it” they say
But sometimes crazy does it better”. Tee2emm