Building Walls, a poem

 

You assumed

I was not strong enough

You assumed

I laid bare my heart-

And found unworthy,

I’d slink my way

Into the shadows

Unseen

Unknown

Unheard of.

Yet the traces

Of my existence

That you found so

Bereft of meaning

Barely scraped the surface.

You knew not my tears,

Nor their circumstance

You could not bare

The pangs within my heart

The longing reach for meaning

The painful truths of uncertain beginnings

Nor the iron will to make a difference

No matter if anyone cared.

I will not relinquish my right to exist.

You continue to sneer the truths

Of your unfortunate stance

Shout names into the streets

Tear apart, with your own assumptions,

The very decency of the fabric of my heart

And though I should be angry,

I shall let all the rage fall within your lap

Refuse to give home to your aversion

And allow the labels to fall by the wayside

Unseen

Unknown

And unnoticed.

For I know,

No matter which eye you see me with,

It shall always be tainted

By your own disgust.

You underestimate

The breaths

Which give birth to kindness

The hand, held out,

Believing another worthy

The power

Of different stories

Interwoven into a new narrative

And the difference

We could make,

Were we only working together

Instead of building walls.

 

© Sumyanna 2018

 

Written for The Daily Post Prompt: assumption

Beautiful image courtesy of Pixabay.com

to counteract the silence

 

There are some

that lost mothers

there are some

who lost brothers

and there are some

who suffer

in the sadness

of their own minds.

It is not for me

to judge,

to place a

sliding scale

of tragedy,

to measure

their suffering.

Is it not enough

that they have wept?

that they have struggled?

that they are in pain?

And who,

of all of us

has not shed a tear?

Yet many

seek indignant tone

when hands are held forth

when tears are shed.

When tears…

are shed,

and the suffering

ask for humanity

to counteract the silence

to feed as they have been fed

and to weep in kinship

as they lay their dead to rest.

How well does it go

taking care of our own

polishing our own shoes

as others go barefoot

stuffing food in our full mouths

as others

salivate at the

thought of scraps,

(if they are lucky)

for some

may have had nary

a morsel on their tongue.

How can we remain

unchanged?

And when will the winds

of transformation blow

in their direction?

for if it were

up to us –

we would

chain the wind

to ensure its course

never left our own.

 

(c) Sumyanna 2017

 

Amazing image courtesy of Pixabay.com

 

When Freedom is Lost, a poem

 

 

Freedom slips

through open fingertips

like waving fields of grain.

We have learned

to disperse them

and set them out

upon the open sea.

While some,

we neglect

others befall our definition

through purse’d lips

and a furled brow

of seething anger

that no longer seems

to ever sleep.

How can we reach

for the essence

of freedom?

How can we desire

the nation

to rally behind our call

our hands outstretched

in longing

like loyal subjects

when we only define

our own desires as free

while the wants and needs of others

deserve not, equal expression.

This nation stands strong

on the freedoms

expressly given

for it flows within the veins

and though dissenting voice

may sometimes appear,

our strength comes

not in silencing the noise,

but ensuring every peaceful opinion

is given a chance to speak.

For when

the song of liberty

is no longer sung,

we, ourselves,

shall no longer be free.

 

© Sumyanna 2017

 

Written for The Daily Post Prompt: loyal

 

Beautiful image courtesy of Pixabay.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When the Mournful are Forgotten, a poem

 

 

I wait

in exasperation

for the catharsis

of uncaring hands

for the wanton lips

to be peeled back

and words,

hateful words

to be strewn

in the trashbin.

And when will

enough

be enough?

For words

posed to strike

are met with

words of

equal measure

and those on

the sidelines

cheer for

their affiliation

no matter the wounds

no matter the pain

no matter the destruction

borne from their anger.

When did we lose

our inborn instincts

to love

when did we lose

our own memories of suffering

were it all for naught?

I cry

when I see the tears

of suffering

I hear their voices

loud and clear,

yet they shall

never know.

Their torment

is not only

in their own sorrow

but to many,

they fear

they suffer alone

their voices

dying out

like the sun

slowly sinking

into the horizon

at dusk,

unseen

and forgotten.

 

© Sumyanna 2017

 

Beautiful image courtesy of Pixabay.com

 

 

 

 

 

You Don’t Decide the Definition, a poem

 

 

Sometimes,

the world speaks

in darkened tongues

of lingering discontent

the airways

full of longing

to pick apart each victim

piece by innocuous piece

while praising their exceptional

mastery of empathy.

Our marrow seeks

the kindness of strangers,

but we have fallen

into the abyss

forgotten the ways

that caring hands

once held our own

how we sought

the warmth

the strength

in numbers

over the divide.

Instead,

today –

a new voice speaks

while loud and

thundering voices

echo in reply.

Their disdain

of what has –

so long ago held us

together

they choose to divide.

It is the humanness

beneath our skin

that seeks shelter

in the rain

fearing the storm

the quiet before the storm

and the lingering aftertaste

of hate.

What we have

so long ago

fought for

strived for

bled for-

we shall never forget.

The yearning for

TRUE freedom

(an acquired taste

for the oppressed)

shall never be quenched,

no matter how long

their forged nationalistic song

desires to whitewash

what true freedom means.

You can live your own way,

but you don’t decide the definition.

 

(c) Sumyanna 2017

 

Written for The Daily Post Prompt: exceptional

Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

Praying for Change, a poem

My mind has just been there lately.  It’s not that I’ve had much time to write – things have been a bit busy on the homefront, but thoughts do often weigh heavy on my mind.  From natural disasters to those manmade, it has been a rough time lately.

 

I feel more relaxed and at peace since I have been given the opportunity to put my thoughts into words.  Sometimes they may not change a thing… but words give me hope.

 

 

Praying for Change

 

When you make an attempt

to tell the story of your life

you trip past memories

old and new –

remembering playing

outdoors in summer

until the streetlights flickered

signifying days end

the calls and shouts

of spectator sports

the smell of grass stained jeans

newly mowed lawns

and fir trees in the forests of childhood.

You age – you grow

and sometimes you forget

and yet at the same time

that things are forgotten,

things are held closer in view.

You wander

the lonely streets of your thoughts

consider permanence

impermanence

and you question the ways

that things have changed

Is it better?

Is it better?

and would we change things

if we only knew?

but silence creeps

between the stilted breaths

of answers

while questions play upon my lips

and I don’t know…

I just don’t know

but if wishes were

powerful enough

to change the world

I would wish

with all my heart

eyes closed,

on tiptoe

praying

that people

would change.

 

© Sumyanna 2017

 

Image courtesy of Pixabay.com