Quotes about bruised, page 3
Giving Up On Status
Giving up on status felt once automatic.
And representing 'bling' people use to own...
With a flaunting about and publicly shown.
The days,
Of impressing others are over.
And addressing one's needs are now priorities.
As symbols of status have taken backseats.
Those days oppressing now more shoulder.
And the ones on bruised knees,
Have no egos to please.
Feeling as they do about necessities.
The days,
Of impressing others are over.
And addressing one's needs are now priorities.
As symbols of status have taken backseats.
Giving up on status felt once automatic.
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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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An Abused Child
' Please don't hit me anymore daddy, I love you, I'll stay in my bed'
He screamed back ' I'll make you wish you were dead'
But the belts weren't enough, he began to hit her with his fist
They both beat her for reasons they had put on that list
Crying and red welts covering her body so small
Her face bruised and bleeding, where he beat her into the wall
He jerked her up and tied her and tied her hands behind her back
Then he tied her feet together, really tight leaving no slack
He filled the tub with water as she lay bleeding on the floor
He then took her and put her in the water holding her head under like before
Her whole life was filled with pain and strife, so many fears
She thought everyone lived this way, all those years
People can't understand why she is so sad alot these days
Planted deep inside so much pain from the past, not a faze
She gets so sad her to hear about another child murdered or abused
Thrown away as everyday trash, broken, abandoned and bruised
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poem by Donna Nimmo
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I was Looking A Long While
for too long i have been bruised
seeing democracy a wondrous diamond
crushed - by whatever means they could -
dented, and if they could, bend to their whims
under their heavy cloak of religion
plundering, killing, raping, in the name of an open world
the rights of which they draw their own lines
for too long i have been bruised
seeing democracy a wondrous first rate horse
kicked, beaten, cut out to serve the greediest of despots
for too long democracy has become
the most convenient way to lay abuse
when you have a country, power, greed
and a legion of devils who die to share your cake
democracy automatically becomes a dirty word
I was Looking A Long While
I WAS looking a long while for a clue to the history of the past for
myself, and for these chants-and now I have found it;
It is not in those paged fables in the libraries, (them I neither
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poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Go Work in My Vineyard
Go work in my vineyard, said the Lord,
And gather the bruised grain;
But the reapers had left the stubble bare,
And I trod the soil in pain.
The fields of my Lord are wide and broad,
He has pastures fair and green,
And vineyards that drink the golden light
Which flows from the sun's bright sheen.
I heard the joy of the reapers' song,
As they gathered golden grain;
Then wearily turned unto my task,
With a lonely sense of pain.
Sadly I turned from the sun's fierce glare,
And sought the quiet shade,
And over my dim and weary eyes
Sleep's peaceful fingers strayed.
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poem by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper
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Zeroing In
"I am a landscape," he said.
"a landscape and a person walking in that landscape.
There are daunting cliffs there,
And plains glad in their way
of brown monotony. But especially
there are sinkholes, places
of sudden terror, of small circumference
and malevolent depths."
"I know," she said. "When I set forth
to walk in myself, as it might be
on a fine afternoon, forgetting,
sooner or later I come to where sedge
and clumps of white flowers, rue perhaps,
mark the bogland, and I know
there are quagmires there that can pull you
down, and sink you in bubbling mud."
"We had an old dog," he told her, "when I was a boy,
a good dog, friendly. But there was an injured spot
on his head, if you happened
just to touch it he'd jump up yelping
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poem by Denise Levertov
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Alas, A Bard’s a Bruised Reed!
They make me mad- some people, known/ unknown;
They make me sad- their wiliness / ego;
They’re after money’s comfort on this earth!
Sense/ common-sense are things that’re a dearth.
They know how poets have suffered in life!
They know how poets land in utter strife!
They stay unmoved/ inert- husband or wife:
They wound my heart with words akin a knife.
Oh how I wish I should be, never me!
Oh how I wish I were akin to them;
Yet, I can’t simply change: I’m thus destined;
To Poesy must Bards always well bind.
Poetry isn’t something that pays at once;
It isn’t something that gives plenty returns;
A Poet seeks the truth without/ within;
And Truth is God: God abhors only sin!
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poem by John Celes
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Mothers Recognition
as a teen of 19 sits on her bed
trying yet again to not to believe that her older lover wasn't drinking again
but the bruises and cuts that lay on her body say other wise
razor blade in one hand
while praying to God to take away the loneliness
take away the emptiness she has felt for so long
she doesn't want to end it like this but she will if it comes down to it
tears roll down her face
but she doesn't see any reason to keep caring on with this life of hers
nothing to live for
nothing important enough to stay in the miserable thing we all call life
the tears are clouding her judgment making her think that nothing matters any more
she takes another hit of the pot to take away the pain
because her bruised and broken body feels like huge stakes are being driven into it
and someone is beating around them with a club
but on the other hand she can still feel his fists shooting into her broken and bruised body
that makes her twinge at the thought of that same morning
tears fall onto her up turned wrist as she places the razor blade and starts to cut into her wrist the door opened as a young boy about the age of 3 with dark brown hair with light brown eyes comes in and says 'Mommy what are you doing? '
her eyes start to uncloud as soon as his eyes met hers
they reached into her soul and replaced a piece of her heart
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poem by Mrs. Cynosure
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The Cemetery of Hearts
It was a Cemetery of Hearts
laid out in neat rectangular squares
tombstone engravings of individual stories;
of loves lost and betrayed,
tear-ravaged love trysts.
love cuts, severed
or grief-laden,
all buried in Innocent's Ground
from whence they came.
I peered at the writing on first tombstone and then some others:
'He led me on and then made love to my mother
all this to me unknown.' one said
'I died in childbirth alone after having been exiled
from my home to a nunnery.'
'She plotted against me with my best friend.'
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poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Sadness
1
Dear ghosts, dear presences, O my dear parents,
Why were you so sad on porches, whispering?
What great melancholies were loosed among our swings!
As before a storm one hears the leaves whispering
And marks each small change in the atmosphere,
So was it then to overhear and to fear.
2
But all things then were oracle and secret.
Remember the night when, lost, returning, we turned back
Confused, and our headlights singled out the fox?
Our thoughts went with it then, turning and turning back
With the same terror, into the deep thicket
Beside the highway, at home in the dark thicket.
3
I say the wood within is the dark wood,
Or wound no torn shirt can entirely bandage,
But the sad hand returns to it in secret
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poem by Donald Justice
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La Beauté (Beauty)
Je suis belle, ô mortels! comme un rêve de pierre,
Et mon sein, où chacun s'est meurtri tour à tour,
Est fait pour inspirer au poète un amour
Eternel et muet ainsi que la matière.
Je trône dans l'azur comme un sphinx incompris;
J'unis un coeur de neige à la blancheur des cygnes;
Je hais le mouvement qui déplace les lignes,
Et jamais je ne pleure et jamais je ne ris.
Les poètes, devant mes grandes attitudes,
Que j'ai l'air d'emprunter aux plus fiers monuments,
Consumeront leurs jours en d'austères études;
Car j'ai, pour fasciner ces dociles amants,
De purs miroirs qui font toutes choses plus belles:
Mes yeux, mes larges yeux aux clartés éternelles!
Beauty
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poem by Charles Baudelaire
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