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Literature Text
It is Sunday, and a girl is dying.
You must have seen her, with cracked hands
And cheeks as hollow as her eyes, staring defiantly
At every person that passes her without a glance.
She thinks they must be able to smell it on her:
The bitter tang of metals and grit in her water
And the faint but penetrating scent of sickness.
She sells candies and paper flowers from a cart,
And stands up straight with her dress hanging
Like a sack, though it was a lovely yellow once.
Every so often as she passes her wares to a buyer,
She thinks that the petals and colorful wrappers
Look like wishes should; but she cannot have them.
She must always return to the same cramped room
And dream fitfully of fresh food, health, and comfort
While life pales from her face, like the waxing moon.
One cannot live on bread alone,
But that would be a start.
You must have seen her, with cracked hands
And cheeks as hollow as her eyes, staring defiantly
At every person that passes her without a glance.
She thinks they must be able to smell it on her:
The bitter tang of metals and grit in her water
And the faint but penetrating scent of sickness.
She sells candies and paper flowers from a cart,
And stands up straight with her dress hanging
Like a sack, though it was a lovely yellow once.
Every so often as she passes her wares to a buyer,
She thinks that the petals and colorful wrappers
Look like wishes should; but she cannot have them.
She must always return to the same cramped room
And dream fitfully of fresh food, health, and comfort
While life pales from her face, like the waxing moon.
One cannot live on bread alone,
But that would be a start.
Literature
I was There
You came home with your fake smile;
Ran upstairs so no one would know.
But I knew.
You'd cry into your pillow so no
One could hear your sobs.
But I heard.
When every one was asleep
You secretly scarred yourself.
But I saw.
On days you couldn't bare it
You held me close and cried,
Saying no one cared,
No one was there,
No one loved you.
I wish you heard,
I wish you saw,
I wish you knew.
Fast asleep you'd be
And I would come to
Wipe away your tears.
I'd sleep next to you,
And comfort you when
You woke up crying.
One day you said I
Was your world, your
reason to live.
So what happened?
Please tell me why?
Please...
Literature
The story of a life
Yesterday, I sent a letter in the mail that told the story of a life and all of its loose threads. I wrote on plain white paper of my new house that overlooks the Atlantic ocean. I described its pale blue shutters, the abundance of pleasant wildflowers in the backyard, and the sparrows that perch on the telephone wires. I wrote on paper with no lines of my new lover who keeps a guitar, an amplifier, and old Wall Street Journals in the back of his station wagon. I told how his brilliant red hair looks at that time in late afternoon when everything's golden. I wrote on the paper's slightly rugged surface of the city's progressive decline. I ret
Literature
tuesday afternoons
and the wind chills my bones and every time i look at my watch i remember all the times when we sat on the grass laughing, watching the afternoon sun arcing across the sky like a shooting star.
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I read recently that Mohandas Ghandi's son was a leading member of a political movement that made sterilization mandatory for part of India's poorest population. Very few people protested this - and why would they? How could they stand to bring children into the world, only to watch die from the same things they were dying from?
This poem is for those people, and for all the people who suffer from lack of resources that others refuse to share.
This poem is for those people, and for all the people who suffer from lack of resources that others refuse to share.
© 2009 - 2024 Shamziel
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