persecution
Learn more about other poetry terms
Savior of oppressed people,
Maintainer of tranquility and peace;
A country’s epitome of power,
Justice, justice, justice!
“O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave”
How much of that can we say remains?
Everyone scared of scaring the people that need to be saved.
Look, what do you see?
Do you think I judge you
Like you do me?
There are things I wish I could do
But feel helpless when I'm around
Young children play in the street
Encompassed in the daily love they meet
And that goes on until they decide
Realizing that they must take off the disguise
Slowly coming out of the closet from which they hide
Here is to the women who hurt.
How their pain never told
though their stories ever sold,
intuitively resistant and bold.
"What did we do to you?" the chief asks in his head
His people's feet are bloody from the miles they'd tread
I can still hear the crunch of the potato chips resounding in my ears like the crushing of my dreams to fit into that dress,
The men are being slaughtered
The women being tortured
Oh God, My God, where are you?
To save them from this fate?
The 'N' marks the houses
Of those who praise your name.
I, the student, seized on a night of cold,
Booked and found guilty, for reasons unknown.
Immediately, my freedom was sold,
Despite my friends' pleas, I was all alone.
Later, while I was brutally tested,
(poems go here) The wind it sits, highly enthroned,
Its voice a commanding power,
Pulling over trees into prostrate positions, mocking humility.
The wind, when edged voice speaks,
Stridently spoken, bold-hemmed terms,
What if the harmony of saints and sinners /
Broke in moments o’er passing of bread? /
Temporal and shallow, this generation envisage /
Martyrdom, not white but red /
