Tag: poems (page 1 of 1)

Jurgen Shpërdhea

Photo by Chris Mok || @cr.mok on Unsplash

Better off Without Me

I feel like the world is better
off without me,
Like my very birth was a
complete tragedy.

I feel like I live in a maze,
from which I cannot
And if they open my brain,
all they will find is pain.

And pity is a liquor that my
stomach cannot handle,
While I’m throwing up from
drinking one glass of

So have no mercy on my
soul, but roll my casket
And let my corpse just fall
on the dirt, for every word
I’ve spoken.

Please laugh until you can’t
because this fool is finally
Father, the world deserves
better, than your second
Mother should have
aborted me while I was still
in her stomach,
The very thought that I
made it this long, just
makes me want to vomit.

And sound the trumpets my
only love for your misery is
The one man that kept you
as a slave, just sung his
final song.

So smile on darling let me
see that beautiful face from
the hell where now I’m in.
You deserve only Heaven
and light, and not my dark
side that only fights like a

No tears to swallow, inside
I’m hallow,
And numb the rope
I’m watching.
The old stole beneath my
while I feel my throat is

In my final moments I think
of this,
Can’t call it legacy.
Because the great men are
saving the world, and are
not losers like me.

Take this letter, as my last
will, and while I’m dead,
don’t shout me.
It doesn’t matter if I lived,
now I’m going out by
myself proudly.

And let the people know, if I
had more time maybe I
would’ve amounted
But life is short, just like this
rope, and I think the world
is better off without me.

A Cry for Help

I feel a cry for help
gathering in my throat,
We die a second time,
when we tell ourselves no.

I’m finally numb in my mind,
and I’m blind,
My tears fall like the rain
from the sky, I am chained

The human is a tool in the
hands of this money
We get replaced like wool,
when we hit seniority.

Suppress the revolution,
And kill the attributions.
Climb on our necks,
And steal all the cash.

Become kings of the world,
The revolution can wait.
Father’s deceiving their
Inquisition in religion’s

The infants body for
The blood of soul for lunch,
Immortal and not ancient,
I’m not a poet, but I’m

Sad but true,
People working for a wage,
The revolution can wait,
Sell yourself for a spoon.

Slaves building cities,
Jewels for the richest,
Power is a toy for lords,
But it’s hell for the poor.

I’m not talking to Albanians
But to people made of flesh
and bone.
I’m talking about these
On top of every town.

Seven continents, five
In the hands of a few
Our planet, Earth the
In the hands of these

Rise oh man kind,
Rise oh European,
Grab stones oh Asian,
And March oh African

America come together,
Australia burn the weather,
Antarctica melt and rise the
water levels,
To send to hell these rulers.

These rapist gentlemen,
And whore ladies wearing
That spend all day in vain,
And take more each.

This world has two kinds of
A killer and a victim.
It’s survival of the fittest,
A millennium without

The revolution awaits no
And this is not a call for
It is a cry for help,
Cause our power they

Its a sobbing,
A fall on my knees
for good.
Its a begging, humbling,
To have mercy
for ourselves like we should.

Cause we’re suffering to
every extent,
And we still keep working
for them.
Then we participate in
Like we hate our damn

We must make a
In order for them to work
with us.
And to share in distribution,
Every bite for every mouth.

And I hope with all my
The whole world gets the
message I send.
Before my name getting old
to start, The cry for help to come to
an end.

Deborah Akubudike

Photo by Josh Hild on Unsplash


I’m isolated. Not thinking; not screaming… just lost in my own thoughts.
Am I a thorn amongst lilies? The “precious” thread I’ve held for so long
chokes me till I vanish.
A virus I caught while holding on; unto a thread I thought would save me
it just wanted a taste of my pain.
Leaving me isolated alongside other convicts.
For I’m imprisoned in space for the choice that I made. I’m hospitalized
and as I stare at the doctors, they shake their heads slowly and sadly,
whispering gently, “There’s no cure… I’m sorry”.
Their voices sound faint, or is it my thought that’s fading?
Was it wrong that I touched one infected with love but now
I’m completely insane?
Is it fair that I hungered for passion and now I’m fed with anxiety and

For the doctors have no cure, yet my thoughts remain impure; and I
use the thread I grasped so tightly, to hang myself till I’m free; till I’m
reassured… ’till my pain is no more.

Is this me?
I know not really who is the next in line.
Who is willing to hold on to the thread… that thread – my dread.
Who is ready to be choked, till he can’t breathe, by love’s vines;
and be thrown down into hell’s busy quarantine.

I won’t consider it again… smirks.
‘Tis good to be finally free; ‘tis good to be me.

Photo by T on Unsplash

Let the Sleeping Dogs Lie

The whiskey eyes I drowned in, is where I died.

The feelings I masked so well resurrected, like a nightmare that felt so good; that

always kept me screaming your name till I couldn’t feel me.

There’s a shadow beside my bed and as I stare intently, passionately, I find myself

kissing pictures…. I’ve gone crazy.

And when I wipe the glass mirrors at work, I see you staring at my lips… I look away.

This is just torture.

I take my hand so I can’t let go; I’m just craving champagne – every red wine now looks

like the blood you took from me. And like a twig, you broke that connection.

That electricity that gave me life, you kissed it away.

Now I’m like a dead battery.

Walking dead.

With the memories that I fed on in my hand, I walk to the graveyard – the place I found you, and I place the memories gently beside you.

It’s time to let the sleeping dogs lie.

So I let you lie – dead in my mind.