insipid discourse about suffering
is dangerous
all unprepared heads must be spared
those being the best for war
it will not be safe to expose
the rich to doubt
or the poor to conviction
horrible is the death grin
they escape in fight not laughs and curses
and the things of life
and we in other news
have voted to suffer
they who believe
in the sun too long
are ash
A god-shaped hole
filled with suffering.
Go ahead,
wear it around your neck
as if you’re entitled
to the gleam of others’ tears,
as if your own
microscopic irritations
could so entomb the light.
Tell yourself the oysters
sleep easy in their beds,
that no pea could keep
such plebians from
a sound sleep,
& that it’s absurd
to see a world of pain
sipping your beer
torture with violence
while im here
suffering in silence
They don't want to cry,
they want it to stop.
They don't want to cut,
they want it to stop.
so why haven't they stopped it?
they don't want to die,
they just want it to stop.
you poor thing
let me hold you as you cry
let me soothe you as you die
you infinitely awful
infinitely suffering
thing
i am still waiting for the day
when my sorry will stop sounding like
the whoosh of air before her sharp slap
the choked cry of my siblings
the shattering of glass
and my pleas for mercy.
i am tired of being a victim
but it's all i've ever known.
No, surely I have no problems.
I am no beggar, I do not starve;
I am no criminal, nor would I need to be;
I am no vagrant, and look not for support.
Yes, it could be worse.
No, surely my problems mean nothing.
I could be ailing of disease,
I could be beyond repair,
I could be on the brink of destruction.
Yes, it could be worse.
No, surely there's always someone
more worse off than I,
and I could not compare;
shame on me for complaining.
Yes, it could be worse.
No, surely I want for nothing
Agitation climbs the rungs of my spine
My legs twisted in all angles
Knees and elbows bend over time
Dig my nails in the ground
As I mourn what was mine
Blood rushing my ears
As I don't make a sound
I want to stop waking up early everyday
I want to sleep forever
I want to forget
I don't want to suffer anymore
I show you my poems, not for praise, but help.
These verses are pleas on paper.
You say 'beautiful',
I scream mercy.
Is it not clear enough?
Are my sufferings my fault?
I guess now,
if you decide to help after reading this,
you'll have to go to my grave.
Those poor, heartbroken wretches, doomed
To hear at night the clocks' hard tones;
They have no beds to warm their limbs,
But with those limbs must warm cold stones;
Those poor weak men, whose coughs and ailings
Force them to tear at iron railings.
Those helpless men that starve, my pity;
Whose waking day is never done;
Who, save for their own shadows, are
Doomed night and day to walk alone:
They know no bright face but the sun's,
So cold and dark are human ones.