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I Hate

I hate my life,
There were many times I wish I could die.
I at times really feel like dying,
But I only end up crying.

I hate my life,
And every thing (almost everything) in it.
Sometimes I just want to end it.
To forget all my miseries and sorrows,
Don't even bother about seeing another tomorrow.

At times I want to cut myself,
It's hard to do but it's like that's only thing that would help.
I know I am talking out of vexation.
I don't care.
I want to hurt the people who hurt me so bad,
Make them cry and feel real sad.

I feel so fed up,
People from outside would say 'Shut Up! ! '

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poem by Anita Khelawan
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Distant Is My Salvation

Distant Is My Salvation
Written by: Wilfred Mellers, Tuesday, March 20,2012 @ 1: 44 PM

Cares turn to despairs as the rain falls
Weltering eyes cries as aspirations dies
Future fingers they slips through for nothing is do
Nothing comes for it is done before it all begun

So blessed yet cursed what could be worse?
Sorrows for tomorrow comes silently creeps
Desperation turns to vexation yet I yearn
Vigilantly standing here for I am not where I belong

Destiny I missed her lips tenderly kissed
Fragrance of her hair so wishing I was still there
Hope smiles but just for a while
Anxiously desiring love's embrace for you again my finest friend

Dreams come true but not for you

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poem by Wilfred Mellers
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Whose Praise Do We Give?

barnes in the toilsome world,
transporting the unknown
ascentral traits,
with a phrase vacillating,
flabbagastion within their minds,

a regard encrypted,
biologically innate their genes,
with a faltering comprehension
whether it emanates from their partenal
either maternal edge,

incessantly and constantly,
in the quiteness of their cogitation,
a question hollows within their minds; 'who am I? '
with a vain and vague respond,
but an euology of laconic words arises
with failure of reciting their birth's descent praise,

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poem by William Ndweisile Somenze
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The Countryside

Frowning in vexation,
attributable to the
demised plaudits,
He slithered the window
when the bus secured mobility,
longing for ecstasy
and to dart away
the sombre spirit.

In the countryside,
Gazing outside;
Unblinkingly he saw,
Cattle feeding themselves,
among their own intimate chums.

It retreated.

His angst dwindled,
Amidst the verdant lea,
straight vegetation

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poem by Atul Mishra
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Mystic Journey: Earth 2

spring is pure potential. there's no
calculating how tall a tree will be,
how far its branches will stretch, how
each fork will unfold, how many

healthy leaves we will see. but
by summer we can measure the result.
pure potential has become actual.
contours of the trunk well-defined,

strength of the root system is visible.
through time the roots are intertwined
with other systems, and from then on
there's no dividing it from other trees.

the forest is a single, inseparable web.
but autumn will split two families.
despite the intermingling of their sap
one will become a shrivelled skeleton

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poem by Doug Bentley
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The Wiley Wildebeest

I'm just a young wildebeest, and to say the very least,
Not all that appealing to the eye,
See 'round these plains, between crocs and manes,
By the grace of God, go I.

Now it's fair to think, I'm a food-chain link,
But that's not what irks me the most,
More the continual strife, of the migratory life,
The tough slog from pillar to post.

Incredulously, we do this annually,
Because we're genetically predisposed,
Whoever got it in their brain, to follow the rain,
To me that name must be disclosed.

See we're a million strong, and our tumultuous throng,
Trek for kilometres in countless degrees,
Our way's riddled with foes, but it's me that they've chose,
And so I must the crocodiles appease.

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poem by Greg Costello
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The Sparrow And The Hen

A sparrow, when sparrows like parrots could speak,
Addressed an old hen who could talk like a jay:
Said he, 'It's unjust that we sparrows must seek
Our food, when your family's fed every day.

'Were you like the peacock, that elegant bird,
The sight of whose plumage her master may please,
I then should not wonder that you are preferred
To the yard, where in affluence you live at your ease.

'I affect no great style, am not costly in feathers,
A good honest brown I find most to my liking,
It always looks neat, and is fit for all weathers,
But I think your grey mixture is not very striking.

'We know that the bird from the isles of Canary
Is fed, foreign airs to sing in a fine cage;
But your note from a cackle so seldom does vary,
The fancy of man it cannot much engage.

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poem by Charles Lamb
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The Dance

Take the name of the swain, a forlorn witless elf
Who was chang'd to a flow'r for admiring himself.
A part deem'd essential in each lady's dress
With what maidens cry when they wish to say yes.
A lullabye carriage, soft, cozy and light
With the name of the Poet who sang on the night.

The queen of Cairo, all lovely and winning
Whose blandishments ever kept Antony grinning.
The flow'r whose odors unremittingly please:
With the glory of forests, the king of the trees.
To the prince of the fairies, a jealous old knave,
Put the name of the tree that undid Mother Eve.
To finish the whole, add that period of day
When the linnet and thrush to repose hie away.

The initials of these, if adjusted with care.
Will show you the fairest where thousands are fair.
The sweet, pretty graces still hover about her
And Cupid would die with vexation without her.

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poem by Major Henry Livingston Jr.
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The Maids of the Mountains

In the wild Weddin Mountains there live two young dames
Kate O'Meally, Bet Mayhew are their pretty names;
These maids of the mountains are bonny bush belles,
They ride out on horseback, togged out like young swells.

They dressed themselves up in their brothers' best clothes,
And looked very rakish as you may suppose,
In the joy of their hearts they chuckled with glee -
What fun if for robbers they taken should be .

Just then the policemen by day and by night,
Were seeking Frank Gardiner, the bushranger sprite;
Bold Constable Clark wore a terrible frown,
And thought how Sir Freddy by Frank was done brown.

They sought for the 'ranger, but of course found him not,
When suddenly Katy and Betsy they spot;
'By Pott!' shouted Clark, 'that is Gardiner I see!
The wretch must be taken - come boys, follow me.'

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poem by Anonymous Oceania
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Caught in a politics of culture

caught in a politics of culture
designed for the indifferent
they are brought to nothing
because a web
that brought them to their knees
knitted in poverty's trap
now they have nothing
sorry, life, prayer
and God
who appears distant
with everyone saying
be strong, God will
will what the family beckons

caught in a politics of culture
designed for the indifferent
the head man cries
cries like a child in need of change
his lamentation brought the
family to tear

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poem by Paul Andrew Bourne
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