Poem Hunter
সংবাদ ও সাংবাদিকতা
FB ( / Mother Earth)

সংবাদ ও সাংবাদিকতা

Poem By Asit Kumar Sanyal

The editing of my heart is what you did
Catching errors with critiques, taking notes, ignoring me
You read me well like a manuscript
You knew I was weak from the start
But you didn’t want to fix the damages

How you sent my mind into malnutrition
Depriving me of your love
Killing my spirit quickly
Your angry words piercing my heart like ammunition
Gunning me down as I search for a sedate place in my mind
Gasping this unpolluted air that surround us
With this injustice slowly menstruating my heart
I will try to survive another injury
Try to survive another hour, another day

I already know you don’t care…
All you do is open your mouth, your weapon
Pulling the trigger again
Bursting out bullets leaving my body engulfed with tides of weariness and despair
I feel empty and drained

The bruises still throbbing, tingling down my breasts with tension in my spine

Down the stairs below I see the picture frame of us
I’m unable to take my eyes away from her

The one that was once your beautiful woman
She comes alive and she whispers to me
Her probing eyes, telling me to complete this journey
Stand up and clean my wounds
There is work to be done, kids to raise, laundry to do
Pensively I look at her with somber curiosity
Wondering if she could feel what I feel
Then again she’s a picture to rekindle old forgotten feelings
Feelings that was once gentle
Because of her face
Wobbling my way to the kitchen
Turn on the stove to cook our children dinner
But then I saw the kitchen knife as sharp as your tongue
I knew something had to be done to help me feel numb
I grabbed the shiny steel, body shaken with chills
I stabbed myself in the heart
No longer did I want to stand and feel
With your eyes you could see where I bleed
But you’re not there
I already know you don’t care
My only choice is to leave
Finally you could put your mind at ease
All I want to do now is sleep
(c) 10/05FaceButter

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Langston Hughes


Comments (3)

Such profusion, and verve. And you definitely have a gift for metaphor. Good metaphors are so difficult to create: e.g., 'the Zion of the waterbead, ' 'the awful daring of a moment's surrender, ' 'the audacity of her sleep, ' 'not even the rain has such small hands.' You are great a this, judging how readily you pile them on. I wonder, have you considered writing in a fix form? I'm curious to see if you can bring such power to, say, the sonnet form. Best, Martin
You are absolutely right Face Butter! The only choice and I am sure you did! Great read,10 from Tai
a narrative both beautiful and brutal the language and images sure true and flowing the emotions so clearly described hell made real the way out and there is always a way out perhaps sleep more importantly this brave poem like a banner bright and true proclaiming suffering and liberation