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What would you do...

What would you do…
If your mother turns you away.
What would you do…
If your family doesn't trust you.
What would you do…
If no one needed you.
What would you do…
If you family forgot you.

What would you do…
If your friends weren't there to lean on.
What would you do…
If your friends no longer cared.
What would you do…
If you lied to your closest friend.
What would you do…
If your friends ditched you.

What would you do…
If you tried to be someone you're not.

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poem by Tiana Webb
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Mother; it was all a white lie

How do I look? ’ says mother just before she goes out
I reply ‘wow amazing’ mother smiles
But if only she knew it was a white lie
I would hurt her deep inside

Mother says ‘which dress looks better’
I chose red, although I didn’t like neither
Mother reply’s ‘I’m glad you like it ‘, I reply ‘like it? I love it! ’ Yes I lied I genuinely disliked it!
Mother giggles but what she doesn’t realise it’s apart of my game just not as obvious as a riddle.

Mother is on a diet and works so hard to stick to it
Mother asks me ‘have I reduced weight a little bit? ’
I reply ‘a little bit? ’ you’ve lost so much that you’re starting to look like a stick!
Mother giggles and cuddles me; see this is why I lie because I make her feel so valuable and happy!

When mother was pregnant she looked big as ever! Mother asks’ ‘do I look big? ’ I reply look big? Never! Yes I lied to make her feel better!
I wanted her to feel cool about herself just like the breeze in the Lebanese weather
Although she was awfully big, I made her feel light as a feather!

Father is home late; mother is worried, she asks me if I think he’s ok

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poem by Anna Fawaz
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Under The Banner of Reformation

A don’t know
What I’m happy
Or suffering
Every time
When last night
I had dreamed about you
When my wife
Had been fast asleep
After watch the last film on TV
Where all children were lied on the floor
While the vane of fan rotary
Along night
Ah, hot wheatear
In draught

I have been waiting for along time
Your desirable hair coil
On the old rattan chair
My hand to and fro open
The old magazine

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poem by Prasetya Utama
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In The Deep Museum

My God, my God, what queer corner am I in?
Didn't I die, blood running down the post,
lungs gagging for air, die there for the sin
of anyone, my sour mouth giving up the ghost?
Surely my body is done? Surely I died?
And yet, I know, I'm here. What place is this?
Cold and queer, I sting with life. I lied.
Yes, I lied. Or else in some damned cowardice
my body would not give me up. I touch
fine cloth with my hand and my cheeks are cold.
If this is hell, then hell could not be much,
neither as special or as ugly as I was told.
What's that I hear, snuffling and pawing its way
toward me? Its tongue knocks a pebble out of place
as it slides in, a sovereign. How can I pray>
It is panting; it is an odor with a face
like the skin of a donkey. It laps my sores.
It is hurt, I think, as a I touch its little head.
It bleeds. I have forgiven murderers and whores
and now must wait like old Jonah, not dead

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poem by Anne Sexton
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Cell Sitters

None of them know a thing about themselves.
Other than what has been for them created.
Other than what has been to them fed, lied and gossiped.

I wonder how many of the more than two million incarcerated,
Believed they were raised...
To do well in school and to get good grades?
I wonder how many were cussed and ridiculed,
By ignorant guardians?
Who themselves thought they were blessed to be fools?
So many of them do.

These cell sitters,
Kept locked and confined...
To be rehabilitated!
And losing trust in a system caring less about their fates.
Mothers and fathers of children right now...
Who are being prepared,
For jail bait!

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Unexpected

I was talking to you on the phone for very long on, which makes me happy because
It been two years since I heard your voice
It's not same without you here
You are living in Orlando to go college
I can't wait to see you soon when you come done for Thanksgiving break
Unexpected
I change to a bad girl by sneaking out of house after you text that you want to see me
I have so much mixed emotions, and I don't know how I feel right now
As I was walking down the street in the middle of the night, you call me and my heart start beating fast
You stop your car right in front of me, so you can come out to hug me and it all feels so right
You sitting in your car, holding my hand, smiling way you do, and looking me in my eyes as we talk
I forget how mad I was
When we talk and catch up about our life, it makes me realized how much you have change
I feel like nothing could go wrong
Then we drove around to have time of our life
I rather be there with you and no one else
We did crazy things in the car and act like no one else is around
We finally park somewhere quiet and ten minutes later we have fight about stupid stuff
That made me walks away from you in the first place
You drove me home and few words were spoken

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poem by Christina Phan
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Rebecca

Past loves you always remember
and Rebecca I’ve never forgot.
It was in May when we first met,
and the days were unusually hot.

We were both sixteen and innocent,
and love’s spark grew into a flame.
Desire and passion overwhelmed us,
and our deepest love was to blame.

Early evenings we spent together
and most of our weekend days.
We made love wherever we could,
and in so many different ways.

At eighteen she wanted to marry,
but I said we were too young.
She of course didn’t agree
and of course I was wrong.

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poem by Orlando Belo
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I thought our song was this..

A picture frame Hangs on a wall And I'm surprised I even noticed it at all The years have warped the frame A crack runs through the paint It’s begun to fade But the pictures still the same If you look close enough you’ll know

Sing me your song I’ll sing my song You had to go You know you’re my hero Time keeps marching on This is our song

Now I stare At an empty room But memories Give my soul a different view Of all the lives you touched You taught me so much Now angles lift you up To a place you loved so much And you’ll be welcome there
I know

Sing me your song I’ll sing my song You had to go You know you’re my hero Time keeps marching on This is our song

This is our sad goodbye (this is our sad goodbye) But it’s not a bad goodbye

Well I don’t know What I believe All I knowsoul a different view Of all the lives you touched You taught me so much Now angles lift you up To a place you loved so much And you’ll be welcome there
I know

Sing me your song I’ll sing my song You had to go You know you’re my hero Time keeps marching on This is our song

This is our sad goodbye (this is our sad goodbye) But it’s not a bad goodbye

Well I don’t know What I believe All I know Is that there more to it than me Its time for you to go To say goodbye I know I cross my T’s real slow I close my eyes If you look close enough you’ll know

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poem by Alex Ginger
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The Unhappy One

“HE is false to the heart!' she said, stern-lipped; 'he is all untruth;
He promises fair as a tree in blossom, and then
The fruit is rotten ere ripe. Tears, prayers and youth,
All withered and wasted! and still—I love this falsest of men!'

Comfort? There is no comfort when the soul sees pain like a sun:
It is better to stare at the blinding truth: if it blind, one woe is done.
We cling to a coward hope, when hope has the seed of the pain:
If we tear out the roots of the grief, it will never torment again.
Ay, even if part of our life is lost, and the deep-laid nerves
That carry all joy to the heart are wounded or killed by the knife;
When a gangrene sinks to the bone, it is only half-death that serves;
And a life with a cureless pain is only half a life.

But why unhealed must the spirit endure? There are drugs for the body's dole;
Have we wholly lived for the lower life? Is there never a balm for the soul?
O Night, cry out for the healer of woe, for the priest-physician cry,
With the pouring oil for the bleeding grief, for the life that may not die!
'He is false to the heart!' she moaned; 'and I love him and cannot hate!'
Then bitterly, fiercely —'What have I done, my God, for such a fate?'

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poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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The Priests of Ireland

YOU have waited, Priests of Ireland, until the hour was late:
You have stood with folded arms until 'twas asked—Why do they wait?
By the fever and the famine you have seen your flocks grow thin,
Till the whisper hissed through Ireland that your silence was a sin.
You have looked with tearless eyes on fleets of exile-laden ships,
And the hands that stretched toward Ireland brought no tremor to your lips;
In the sacred cause of freedom you have seen your people band,
And they looked to you for sympathy: you never stirred a hand;
But you stood upon the altar, with their blood within your veins,
And you bade the pale-faced people to be patient in their chains!
Ah, you told them—it was cruel—but you said they were not true
To the holy faith of Patrick, if they were not ruled by yon;
Yes, you told them from the altar—they, the vanguard of the Faith—
With your eyes like flint against them—that their banding was a death—
Was a death to something holy: till the heart-wrung people cried
That their priests had turned against them—that they bad no more a guide—
That the English gold had bought you—yes, they said it— but they lied!

Yea, they lied, they sinned, not knowing you—they had not gauged your love:
Heaven bless you, Priests of Ireland, for the wisdom from above,

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poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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