The heart of a writer is a battle ground,
they break for the sake of breaking
because even despair has its calms.
The hands of a writer are tar black,
patched up with band aids and
agonizing pain. The eyes of a writer
is a clear ocean view, mixed with
madness and sadness and a soul
somewhere there too. The mind of a
writer is a garden of flowers,
embracing pretty words and seeking
simple wonders. The soles of a writer
are on their own, they take them to
places they have  never been before,
then trip and fall, creating their next
                                                story line.
-Ka.Me.// @herbrokenpoetri on IG

In an age of emptiness
in the ways of nonsense
the meaning of life
has become meaningless

If we stand
do we each alone ?
Single thoughts under
single days and nights

"The fertile fallow furrow
fleeting under flurries of
freshly fallen snow "

. . . . . . for sure . . . . . . .

And we are the huskless stalks
shivering in the wind
row upon row
thousands upon thousands
going no where
and no where to go

You are vile, cruel to women and callous,
This is not my country...this is not my home.


Your men fight battles over themselves
Cowards who wag tails for authority
and are not ashamed to beat up the weak
This is not my country...this is not my home

You who have silenced so many
On the topic of ****, ****** harassment and other crimes

You who have given me no choice as a woman
but to cleave my way through your vile judgments

Your insolence is all I can see, and I don't wish to return

I don't wish to be loyal to one who cannot hold any respect


For me or my fellow women


this is not my country.


this is not my home.

My left hand has poerrty
My right hand doesn’t know about.