Poetry: R2BsL | Struggle

To keep my neck away from a break
my heart sheaths of its shell
the pain risen in the veins.
I am an embodiment of broken
a tied end of trouble,
my feet do well to rub the ground
when it’s running away from me.
I find it hard to believe in Saturday,
I find it weird to believe in April’s
A callous wind can never pass my roof,
it has to be carrying something away.
I am an addiction
in the stream of my alcohol.
My purpose dwindle in a tipsy boat,
when I write to my future self some notes.
Weight upon weight
Chains bounding chains.
Sundays do not heal
they’re only the same sun on a different day.
What is not to be told or heard?
The ferocity of my words against swords,
the sharp edge of ears standing tall before eyes,
A weakening mother
burying her unborn secrets in the stomach.
I have swallowed a capsule of wait,
Wait till the moon becomes the sun.
No one sees the roof on fire,
they have no idea I’m wooden – so can burn.
The ground may house us all
but who lives in it forever?
Even bones ash to become trees,
and later leaves and fall,
and later the wind brings fire,
so ashes become a story
and return back to the ground
then home exist in my ribs
in my eyes and nose
in the struggle that lived my heart.
I become a man after this poem
but what sort of man becomes himself
when his heart does not feel the fire.

Ruddapoet

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No one stays above water when it’s raining
The depth of his footprints showed his legs were indecisive.
The mark was before him
His heart was behind.
If his eyes had agreed, his head would have gone blind.
The walls were already tearing down
The windows embraced the fog.
This pain would refuse a place under the rug
His name was unfamiliar.
His fingers were agitated
Daybreak never comes earlier
Unless the night is irritated
His eyes agreed to open
Tension built its nest on her face
Almost the size of the conflict of a thousand nations.
Her tongue had cut the chord of friendship
Her fingers rewrote his past aggression
298 days of weight
Equal to be being burnt…
Then the quiet returned
Her little baby came bearing gifts
She looked towards him
The first cry of a baby…
The beginning of a mother’s struggle.

Leon

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The ant strolling with her babies in search of food
Can’t stand the face of the hunger printed on them
For today on my kids, this poster I must erase.

As the chicken and her chicks are sent on an errand by hunger
It is always an uncomfortable moment with hunger around
With these ants I will wipe this hunger away.

But eyes of the hawk won’t stay away from
the beauty of these chicks
With or without recession, I will decorate my tummy with those chicks
I will humble myself and bow before the chicken

But the hunter cannot go back home without an evidence to put a smile on the face of his family
For the freedom of the hawk is an invitation of hunger
Today the hunter’s family must smile.

Bangwan.