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Violence School Poems | Violence Poems About School

These Violence School poems are examples of Violence poems about School. These are the best examples of Violence School poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Lyric | |

Stand Up

Put down the guns, lay down the knives
We are losing too many of our young lives,
The violence that you’re watching on TV
That is what’s happening, it’s our reality.

The death count’s rising, what are we going to do?
The Police need your help if they are to help you;
Are we going to wait until it comes to our door?
Or are we going to stand up and say “no more!”

We’re living like prisoners locked behind bars
A false sense of security as we run to our cars,
This is not the way for our people to live
Something must be done, something’s got to give.

All day long a mother sits and moans
Another senseless killing hits too close to home,
Johnny’s in school you’d think he would be safe
But this too has become just another violent place.

Our justice system has failed us once again
A murderer is on the street, a family’s in pain,
Another clever lawyer has earned his pay day
The children are now afraid to go out and play.

We run the risk of losing an entire generation
While damning the future of this great nation,
We must all be ready to stand up and fight
Because what is happening is just not right.

© 2016 Donovan T. Turnquest

Copyright © Donovan Turnquest | Year Posted 2016

Details | Marsiya | |

Peshawar Massacre by Terrorists killing 134 school children

In English

What sort of a mother am I
Who cannot even count 
the innumerable bullet wounds 
spread all over the delicate body
of her beloved child
However, day and night 
I keep   counting 
the myriad of  marks 
left by the terrorists'  bullets
on his school bag;
I will also keep counting 
the innumerable shot wounds 
that spread all over 
his blood-stained books and uniform as well
provided I have the luck 
to live until then.
(translation by mazHur Butt)

In Pushto

STA PA BADAN K DA GOLO NAKHO TA,
CHA HADO PRE NAKHODAM
CHE MA SHMARALLY KHO WAY
STA PA BASTA K DA GOLO NAKHY HUM KHEY DERY WAY
ZEH TOLA WRAZ YE SHMARAM
STA KITABUNO AU KAPO K NAKHY
HAGHA BA HUM SHMARAMA
KHO K JWANDAI PATY SHOM
( Pa 16,December da yo shaheed bachi da Mor sanda)
16 December ko shahadat pany waly aik Bachy ki Maan ka Nooha..

 ....HumayunHuma

In URDU 
Mein kesi maa'n hoo'n 
ke jissay 
goliyoan ke nishaan
jism nazuk per tere 
ay meri aankh ke taaray
gin-nay ka izn 
mila hee nahi 
haan magar shumaar karti hoon
subh o roz 
tere bastay pe lage 
golion ke ghaO  beshumaar 
tere kaproan aur kitaboan per bhi jo hein
zaalimoan kee golion ke beshumaar nishaan
tere pak khoon se labraiz
mein unhein bhi gin-na chahti hoon
aur gin hee loon gee unhein 
agar zindagi ne wafa kee.
Mein Ik maa'n hoon,

(translation by mazhar butt)

Copyright © mazhar butt | Year Posted 2015

Details | Narrative | |

Last Thoughts

With beads of sweat on my forehead,
And my arms and legs cramped.
I concealed in a little locker
Away from the horrid mayhem.

Damp and worn; fear and torn
I seldom gasped for breath,
And even tried reciting
Othello, Macbeth and Hamlet.

Alas, all in vain!
Aware with each passing minute,
That I would face the same brutal end
As my tutors and friends.

I heard them moving closer,
I say a silent prayer.
With final memories of my beloved -
I await those crazy monsters.

"Bang, Bang!" I hear them shoot.
But it now sounds so afar.
I drift into a deep slumber,
When the door goes ajar.

Copyright © Radhika Bhangolai | Year Posted 2015

Details | Blank verse | |

Noise

In Chibok,
An IED finds it way 
Into the mind of a savage sect
And made good use of the emptiness.

In helplessness,
Some school girls are bundled up
From their school compound; 
Taken for a noisy ride into Sambisa;
From where they will forget 
Their mothers’ voices.

On the tube,
There is a very loud lady 
Anathematising the “sharing” of blood 
In Borno.

When she is done,
The media is awash with the sound of
‘Na only you waka come?’ 

As if it is a joke 
To snatch young Nigerian girls 
From the four walls of their classroom
Into the coldness of the wilderness
To dwell amongst wild beasts.
To learn new lessons; 
Weird lessons.

In bed at night,
My wife talks of
Church bombings; 
Internally displaced persons; 
Slaughtering of citizens 
And the role of government in all of these 
And the security of our country 
And I pulled at the hairs 
From around her second mouth
To make her change the topic
And she falls for it and changes the topic.

The white bearded Mallam
On the rickety bus to Yola
Fixes his eyes on me 
Like some foreigner 
And I feel the fire 
All through the trip 
And I burn and burn and burn 
Like the victims of Nyanya motor park blast 
It feels good though to know 
What it takes to 
Be burned into countless degrees. 

But after three weeks 
I am back to normal again 
I can feel again 
My senses are back again 
Working optimally 
And I can hear again 
As the presidential pit-bull 
And the black parrot 
The one that used to be 
In the fourth estate of the realm 
Begin to met and dole out 
Slippery speeches, speeches you can’t hold 
That comes upon our ears 
To push out every substance 
From our heads 
Everything except this load of hopelessness 
This bitter bite in our mouth
This unwanted fetus
That no one would claim 

And then the hash tags;
The media craze; 
The count down 
The women in red 
And the men that joined 
The bring back our girls 
The Michelle Obama
The celebrities from across
The noise, the sweat, the blood 
The bloody thighs of those girls 
Their torn underwear 
Their wails, their sobs, their pains 
To say the least 
The echo, the deafening echo
And how we wave them all aside 
And look the other way. 
Like it did not happen at all 
Like it was just a movie 
Directed by a director 
That must be a sadist  
We sweep it under the carpet 
Like our other numerous
National issues

But I won’t write another story on betrayal 
I won’t write another poem 
On how a nation 
Could forsake her innocent children 
Instead I would write of a country 
Stealing, stealing, growing 
Growing resilient to emotion; 
Becoming many times dead
To any feeling 
Tearing its tissues to pieces 
And building new ones 
That will be senseless 
Lifeless 
Bloodless.

And the noise 
And the noise 
And the noise.

Copyright © Divine Friday Idiong | Year Posted 2016