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Violence Education Poems | Violence Poems About Education

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

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Details | I do not know? |

All Lives Matter

Fear is what they clothe them in.
Fear of losing their life because of one mistake.
Fear of losing their life because an officer is having 
a bad day.

Some say it's not racism;
"It's police brutality."
Whatever you call it, I can't 
help but ask "where is humanity?"

Mothers weeping because they're losing their sons.
Teaching them to fight back with silence
but that is no weapon compared to a gun.

Six feet under, leaving families to fight for justice
over their lives.
Societies getting tired of it all-
starting riots and constructing strikes.

How many more time will history repeat itself?
Or are we still writing [his]tory , using coverups
as help?

All lives matter despite of their race.
All lives matter despite their mistakes.

In times such as these justice will demand to be served.
No matter how chaotic, crazy, or obscured.

Life is a gift, one that we should all treasure.
Because all lives matter and we need to protect them;
no matter the measure.

Copyright © Amber Binford | Year Posted 2014

Details | Rhyme |

Xenophobia II: We Are Africans

History has formed us into one braid
to stay strong and never surrender to any blade
standing side by side to be each others shade.
Why then do we classify one another into grades?
So that some cut others off just b’cos they are made?

There’s still hope, this togetherness will not fade
whatever it is, we have collectively paid
let’s stop hate from this unprecedented raid
so that unity will eventually get love laid.
We are Africans! Enough has been said.

Copyright © Funom Makama | Year Posted 2015

Details | Narrative |

Over The Years

Childhood is the best part of everyone’s life! You might think so, but there are people who’ve never experienced the beauty of this utopia. Sometimes parents often unknowingly destroy or neglect the childhood of their kids, without them even realizing it. This may have terrible consequences later in the life of these kids.
A poem on a terrorist's lost childhood..

As a kid, he cried for a pack of crayons.

But all he got was, some fat books on Maths, Science and Freons.

He grew up amidst the stench of his suffocating passion.

Tinting his mind in a rational and scientific fashion.

He went on, emphatically learning new things.

Just like the bird, flying without his own wings.

He strived and thrived to be the best.

Strangling his dreams, he laid them to rest.

Over the years, his soul was infiltrated with hatred and anger.

Piercing his heart, like an acute dagger.

And, today he creates weapons of mass destruction.

Using all his knowledge, wrecking innocent lives has become his addiction.

Who knows? It might not be his fault.

As he’s a man with his wounds on salt.

Brainwashed, seeking revenge of his mercilessly destroyed childhood.

His rational cognizance failed to discern between the bad and the good.

Copyright © Neeraj Chavan | Year Posted 2015

Details | Rhyme |

Ideological War of the Worlds

 The coming times can unfold,
far accross to all lands,
the casting shadow has fallen,
with it's far reaching hands,
accross our four cornered world,,
 Humanity progressed to progressive sufferage,
that comes with many names,
the ideology won without a shot,
convinced populations into guilted shame,
lost are voices of courage,,
 The warring world will arise,
between makers and takers,
parasitic ideology's green eyed mind,
re-writing regulations by progressive thinkers,
big brother's utopian great enterprise,,
 Dependent we all become, parasitically,
even forced fed into submission,
by governmental state so enlarged,
numbered you are by institution,
nothing owned, only redistributed cynically,,
 Paupers suffer under progressive fortitude,
soulless programs of living propaganda,
your worth, what you produce,
socialized into this living agenda,
living taxed products of servitude,
           , and then...
 The rise will come independent,
carrying courage and freedom proudly,
with wisdoms weapon in hand,
knowledge in the other soundly,
honor reclaimed by the sentient,,
 Independent declarations germinating from seed,
feared by any progressive regime,
warriors in freedom stand tall,
threatened is the progressive dream,
renewing freedoms that will breed,,
 The liberty that spawned revolution, 
alive from all moral conceptions,
viewed as evil that's progressive,
feared are soulless seeking redemption,
the light of liberty's salvation,,
 Beating freedoms of sentient heart,
the salvation of fighting worth,
a force greater than any darkness,
warriors of liberty step forth,
champions of honor that impart,,
     , next, the final chapter of...
 Ideological war of the worlds,
eye to eye never seen,
the hatred between clearly drawn,
problems with peace to intervene,
the conflict as it unfolds,,
 Coming as thieves of night,
armys on both sides  comes,
fortifying and building societial walls,
truth and lies propaganda welcomes,
armored suited masses to fight,,
 Emerges the lights of honor,
the independent class called defenders,
private elites of character gold,
the shadows behind all pretenders,
opperatives that's far more superior,,
 Defenders are warriors of light,
core beliefs that's solely independent,
religiously organized they never follow,
thorns in a crowned tyrant,
independent wills of great might,,
 They are why freedom thrives,
true leaders leading into tomorrow,
that govern by liberty's will
that invites everyone to follow,
founding fathers of our lives..  

Copyright © S.K. Y. | Year Posted 2013

Details | Sonnet |

Under Stars

With weapons in his room he cannot much stay 
Alone with his decision to blow up an Embassy:
He was desperate for a last blues of the new day;
Recently known on net, a girl from Tennessee 
Wrote him how politicians body floats dead in the river:
Obsessive thought and hate was ready for risky tomorrow, 
Love and Tennessee whisky were ready to be delivered;
Drawing mustaches and glasses, Pravda News might grow:
Come from Damascus, they don`t know the text better than us;
Her smile and his last cigar could start the new world war:
Under stars, they move in the night of their own choice, thus
The last Czar would meet a Tennessee girl somewhere, far: 

Suddenly, tenderly she entered that Embassy: I am Miss Hope…
Her peaceful eyes would keep him like tied with a magical rope.

Copyright © Ovidiu Bocsa | Year Posted 2016

Details | Imagism |

Family violence part 1

My Mother was a really cruel, and very soon you will see,
the way that she raised us all, was extremely mean,
She ruled us with a iron hands, and weapons by her side,
I'll describe to you one of the hidings I got, because I stole and lied.


I was no more than 10 years of old,  I had stolen some money from somewhere,
I'd been seen at the shop by her friend, spending up large with out a care.
when I got home and saw her friend, I knew what was coming next,
she asked, “where I had got the money”, I said I found it, or something like that.

She spun me around while screaming at me,
"Hold the tea towel rail".
She ripped my pants down to the floor, screaming again,
"I teach you to steal no more",

In that split second I could feel the fear raised, for I knew what was coming,
I started to buckle at the knee, feeling sorry for myself No please.
Trying to relax myself cause it would hurt a lot more, if I tensed at the wrong time,
sure enough I heard that whip in the air, as the jug cord flew for the first blow.

I screamed so loud I thought my voice would break, as I dropped to the floor,
Really stupid thing to do, screaming, it was just an invitation for more.
She picked me up by my hair, feet dangling in the air,
made me stand and hold the rail, again she whipped me with the jug cord.

Repeatedly she done this, repeatedly I fell
while yelling and screaming the lesson she was tying to tell,
I closed my eyes so tight, my head was in a daze
It was really really hard, to block out the pain.

Finally she screamed, “GET OUT OF MY FACE”, but I couldn't move fast enough,
So she starting bashed my face. 
defending myself was the wrong thing to do, 
it only made her more angry, she would beat me till I was blue.

Up by my hair again, just dangling about,
she ripped my head back and started to shout,
Threw me into the hallway, laying on the floor I wept.

Then I heard her footstep getting closer.

M.Mahauariki © 2012

Copyright © Murray Mahauariki | Year Posted 2012

Details | Rhyme |

Crimes Past

To whit to be caught between two brothers
and become the sport of many others
She kept her heart from loving true
but not from the damage passing through
Oh twice spent the beauties coin
did deliberate vengence to purloin
thought knowingly did enter door
in spite she cast them to the floor
Though twas for couple it's own collusion
the device and trap it's own illusion
the crimes waylaid doth carry to the grave
to curse ones soul as fearful and not brave
Twas the story carried in her mind
her face to others she wished were blind
and with ones sight to look upon her heart
to know in violence was her start
She thought those sins would ever last
or to shake the paths of her past
in her fears her heart down cast
she did not know to forgiveness ask
Unable to differentiate between love and need
or if womans desire was only greed
If man looks upon her with his smile
is he looking for love or just another trial
She asks those questions to this day
must there be violence to graveyard pay
for many men have forced their way
in their behavior did have no say
COPYRIGHT © 2009 C Michael Miller
via Duboff Law Group LLC

Copyright © Poetryof Providence | Year Posted 2012

Details | Imagism |

Family violence part 2

Then I heard her footstep getting closer.


This time she picked me up by my throat and pined me up the wall,
screaming at me, finger in my face while smashing my head on the wall.
Bashing my head in the air screaming "PUT YOUR BLOODY HANDS DOWN!",
again I was air borne, but this time I went flying into the lounge.

Curled up in a ball with my hands covering my head, I was crying hysterically,
she pulled one of my arms and grabbed me by my ear, and up again I was.

As I lowered my hands she started whacking my head screaming, "STOP CRYING"
over and over again.
Trying to summon the strength to hold it all in,
almost impossible, like trying to swallow soccer balls in my throat.

I managed to control it to like that hiccup kind,
Shaking and trebling hoping that I wouldn’t cry,
bearing in mind that I was still a child, 
my emotions I still, couldn't keep under control.

So much pain, My butt stung, my hair felt like it had been ripped out,
all dizzy and daze, my head throbbed, and there was a burn in my eyes.
but I finally did lowered my hands and I look her straight in the eyes,
WHACK I few again.

This time my face was on fire my ear rung so bad,
a high pitch screech inside my head, I rolled over and over in pain.
This time when she said get out of my face, 
I moved so fast I slide in the carpet and hit my face on the door frame.

Up stairs I ran, dived on top of my bed,
covered my face with my pillow, so my whimpers couldn't be heard.
trying not to cry, begging in my mind for it stop,
then I heard that sound….(Pacing) ….. my body shook.

I knew it wouldn't be long, before she worked herself up,
Pacing back and forth talking to herself,
justifying the reason’s I need more.
I just wait for the stomping to get closer to my door.
True to form it happened.

The poem I have just told is a true story, cause it did happen to me,
this was only one time,  I'd had hundreds more before I hit my teens.
Back in my day family violence was never talked about,
It was happening everywhere, just about every house. 

Family violence is wrong and it needs to be stopped,
but this will never happen, if you voice doesn’t shout out.
Don't be like me, riddled with fear and shame,
someone out there cares, just tell them about your pain.

M.Mahauariki © 2012

Copyright © Murray Mahauariki | Year Posted 2012

Details | Villanelle |

Domestic Violence

We need to seriously talk about living in a dangerous predicament 
Where everything in your life is awry.
You won't win an argument.
It's no accident 
When a person receives a black eye.
We need to seriously talk about living in a dangerous predicament.
He wants to make you subservient.
For you to feel motified and by his hands you could
Even possibly die.
You won't win an argument 
These attacks will be come more frequent.
Believe me! I can testify.
We need to seriously talk about living in a dangerous predicament. 
The man is virulent as well as violent. 
Please! Don't deny.
You won't win an argument.
It's amazing how you do things that are inconvenient to
His grandiloquent 
Way of life which just goes to signify 
We need to seriously talk about living in a dangerous predicament.
You won't win an argument.

Copyright © Bette Bavington | Year Posted 2017

Details | Political Verse |

Sinking Expectations

I remember when
we asked about the quality of schools
before buying a house.

Now we know,
whether house shopping or not,
the educational outcomes will not be good
however better some than most,
yet now we need to ask about the quality of the local police department
before selecting a house
where they might prefer battering rams to open doors
over a more civil knock,
might prefer shooting to asking questions.

I remember when
we asked how liberating from wars
and violence
and oppression
our political candidates could imagine
and rhetorically explicate,
hope to promise.

Now we too seldom hope
for such vision of lofty and deeply rich heights,
and we need to ask the Government Economic Analysts
how many more will lose basic health and safety care-receiving,
because we cannot choose to care for all
in the latest version
of the virulently fascist anti-health bill.

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2017