My Pen - By Jerá

Fountain pen, ball point, felt tipped

I can't choose, my first choice I'm tight lipped
My pen is my weakness, my primary vice
I'll pick a Parker any day over Vodka and ice
My pen is my needle in the arm, my powder on the nose
The poison of my choice, for my poetry and prose
My slim Staedler is my mistress, for better or for worse
Till death do us part, will never let her go till I ride in a hearse
My pen is alive she bleeds on my pad
Possessive too, she marks her territory on every page I ever had
My ballpoint is an exorcist, battling with my demons
Often times, my physiotherapist - my crutch I can lean on
The pen is mightier than the sword, that's a little cliché
Swords are obsolete but pens will remain, even past doomsday
They'll read this when I'm food for worms, so my pen is immortality
Let me print that to make certain of its clarity
My pencil is my therapist, my low budget shrink
I write when I'm troubled, when I'm on the brink
Even when I'm at the limit, my tearless eyes never cry
So my pen weeps on paper till my pen runs dry
My pen carries me when I'm running mental laps
She is only human, exhausted, my pen is capped

Road to Damascus by Mbizo Chirasha

Image - bostonglobe.com

Granite faith exfoliated by superguns and sanctions whirls,
on this earth succumbing into dry spell of peace,
War-crats and confidantes skinning freedom from its people
Kofi drinking coffee with revolutionaries and revolutionaries in 
Aleppo cafe on his way to Damascus

Daughters eating NGOs, GMOs, condoms and twitter
Bullet scorching the feet of super diplomats and mediators
Wiki leaks castrating the reputation of this state

Opportunists and oppositionists eating asparagus and liver in candle light dinners
Selfish pseudo prophets calculating political matrixes, salmonella laced sugar tongued 
Democrats cooking autocratic beetroot and propaganda pizza for media rituals and puppets initiation.

Not Another Breath! She Fought Back by Cee-Lo

Image - http://pfimbiyangu.wordpress.com/

I couldn't walk in your shoes.
They were too tight.
I couldn't retell your story,
It was too sad.
I couldn't wear your skin,
I would have finished off the rag,

torn into un shameful-hurtful patches
Of sores and scratches,
Of year's poised toil.
Spoiled like soil
A still longing in your sagged face,
like craving lost love-pace
Stretch marked like feeding breasts,
engulfed in life's revealing beasts
Exposing your fragile chest.
Like dark nipples devoured by a determined mouth.
Seen in its paused breath
Its frail hands clinging expressively on the soft empty tissues.
Like mane paws and jaws
Dug in wealth-ly deeply
On the feeble animal's breath tissues
I saw your maimed soul.
Hands and arms hung heavily on your bones,
Your chiselled head hurriedly went well ahead
Dragging along your structure,
Shoulders rose up behind your head.
Life's toil stooped your back,
And tucked in the loose strands of your belly and behind.
"You're sorry you're alive"
You seemed to say
Life never voiced back,
A slap slashed the innocent air,
your tragic end
-SIGH-!
"Not another breath-!!"
You fought back.

Army Wife's Last Letter by Heather Dube

Image - hoidenatwork.wordpress.com

Hey darling
Do you know how beautiful the sun is when it rises in the morning
kissing my cheeks with its warm glow.
Do you know how cold the dew on the grass is in the morning
chilling my toes as they vanish with the sun's glow
Do you know how sweet the sound of the chirping birds is in the morning
singing a beautiful melody bringing the world
to an early wake
Darling do you know?
Do you know I wake up every morning
to stand next to the letterbox
waiting for the postman in blue uniform,
riding a red bicycle
to bring my scented love letter from you.
Only to discover the beauty of the morn
bearing bad news
...I am to mourn...
Darling, you have died at war
but still I stand by the letterbox waiting.

Born To Breed Terror by Amy Huffman

I kneel to almost anything.

Blind obedience

is my calling.

And my favourite pastime.

It gets me through

night after night

of disgusting enactments.

Life.

Played out.

Like a joke.

But my back is tired.

My knees are sore.

And my hands are so bloody.

They no longer care

what the sacrifice

is for.