Best Injustice Poems
where we are born is a coin toss
some are lucky some are not
here we live a sheltered life
ignorant of the injustices in other lands
we take our freedom for granted
and don’t give it a second thought
it’s inconceivable for us to imagine
that many know only oppression
poverty and injustice
we just cannot imagine
blessed are those who speak up
against suppression and abuse
persecution and tyranny
blessed are those who lend their voice
to fight for the rights of oppressed
no matter the cost
‘nothing is more perilous
than the truth in a world of lies’
quoting Nawal El Saadawi
and she would know
a brave woman
dedicating her life
to fight for human rights
1931-2021
Nawal El Saadawi
egyptian queen
rest in peace
you earned your wings
AP: 3rd place 2021
So many Americans think,
For us to truly succeed,
We must be an athlete.
With eyes on the black men,
They all assume we must,
Have good ball skills.
We have more abilities,
Than good sports agility.
We are not here to cause,
Problems and wreck the peace.
We just want our voices heard,
But instead they are ignored.
No matter where we are,
We just don’t belong.
We are always seen as,
Doing something wrong.
Whether walking on the street,
Or going to Starbucks to meet.
I hope there comes a day,
When we’re treated the same.
When we’re judged by actions,
Rather than as a distraction.
No matter what people say,
Discrimination has not gone away.
Verily verily you are not all alone
Unfairness has stayed with us history has shown
Injustice to anyone is injustice to me
I lament any injustice to those yet to be
Everyone is part of the universal soul
For whom the proverbial bell truly does toll
Across our globe intolerance moves listlessly
Through compassion we find Blessed Community
I mostly worry about what I cannot see
It is on us to secure our own destiny
In united lands of the indivisible
A strong siege rages over the individual
It takes but one wise being to add to us all
One defining link between our victory and fall
Once this epic battle has been finally won
Thereby it will certainly be all said and Donne
Tribute poem to John Donne with further reference
and accreditation to Martin Luther King, Jesus Christ
and Buddha
Their hands raise with ours and for a moment we are all standing in perfect unity, every set of fingers curled in anger and defiance - and then they throw the tear gas.
Which is rich,
Because how many women have wept,
Sliding down their walls to their bedroom floor,
To their kitchen tiles,
To the post office pavement?
How many women have sobbed,
Clutching their daughter's body,
Trying to collect all of the broken pieces back into one person again,
The mother's tears, all of the nation's tears, spilling and seeping into the cracks of her skin
- how many more need to cry?
How much deeper does the blood have to scar the inside of her thighs,
Embed itself in newspaper ink,
Puddle and clot in the streets,
For you to see how the country is drowning?
How the river laps at our feet, our knees, up to her bruised wrists
Do you see your own fingertips dripping,
Or how his teeth are stained pink,
The iron on his breath a blunt tool he uses to deepen the crevices long carved into her?
No, of course, you do.
So what do you do about it?
Do you try to press your hands to the wound?
Hand him a life-sentence?
Or do you hand him a baton?
A badge?
Perhaps a can of teargas?
So black lives matter now we say
their worth now seen anew
While ages past we saw the day
we recognized so few.
But white lives matter too they said
and brown and yellow too
Yet centuries of hidden bled
‘neith toes of masters’ shoes
Enslavement built our country strong
in goods and crops and funds
A wealthy nation moved along
on backs of murdered sons.
We benefitted, all us here
no matter when arrived
The trials, the deaths of lives held dear,
paid forth while some survived.
To teach, to know our history past
to claim what we have done
to own the wrongs we’ve amassed
and could never be undone
In knowledge learned we find our quest
to right the wrongs we’ve made
To drop our shields, our acts confessed
True history now conveyed,
Now streets so loud, with anger, fear,
drums beat resounding clatter
How long ‘till we erupt in cheers
that every black life matters.
Injustice has been nailed
To the cross
Poverty,the garbage-lines
Have to go
Suspects I pray you'll get to know
That Jesus loves you
And that He'll make your evil hearts
Brand new
Injustice is such a petty thing
But in the midst of joy
Only Christ can bring
Through Christ the injustice
That troublemakers starts
Can never set Christ and us apart
I pray violence will never
Sweep yall away
Instead that you'll hurry
And praise Christ
Who loves you
So you too can make it home to
Heaven some day
He prepares for a carefree day,
for jovial conversations,
for cheerful smiles and lively faces.
He’s a young boy. Just like me.
My mind swells with ceaseless terror.
I plead in my prayers
that our lives shall prolong further than this day.
I prepare for the grand attack.
He ambles through the village.
Laughter escapes the vivid frames
of him and his companions.
Not an ache in his limbs.
Not a burden in his heart.
I move anxiously ahead.
My feet without ease omit swarms of bodies.
Some still emit shallow breaths.
Inadequate sounds escape their mouths
and their eyes writhe.
For him, time passes swiftly
and a late train is the crisis of the day.
In that day, not a thought does he spare
for his fellow human beings.
For our sacrifice he doesn’t care.
As for me, time stays almost still.
I’m imprisoned in a time warp of pain.
My best friend clings off the un-cut wire
and blazing bullets glide through
the torn flesh of his chest.
He lies in his bed.
Wrapped around him a soft blanket,
under his head a warm pillow.
He’s a young boy. Just like me.
But only the moist earth serves me as a cushion,
and only the bodies of my lifeless friends
serve me as heat.
I lie in a shell-hole; I lie in my grave.
angels cannot interfere with injustices
they witness in the mortal realm
their tears we know as drops of rain
may one day drown all and dishelm
angels in show of compassion
do play the harp and throw a rope
hoping those who quieten their heart
will hear their notes of love and hope
AP: 3rd place 2021
Submitted on July 23, 2018 for contest FAVORITE POEM WRITTEN IN JUNE 2018 sponsored by DEAR HEART AKA BROKEN WINGS - RANKED 2ND
America has been GREAT, great for the last two centuries.
All right, America has been the greatest among all countries,
For a long time. MAGA is a cheap pleonasm, which just
Won the most contentious election in American history.
The problem, as widely reported, Trump is corrupt, unjust,
Sexist, racist, homophobic, xenophobic, vociferous, and nasty.
This is the first time that we have such a hyperactive loose cannon,
Who is despised by his own political party. He is an orchestra
Of unusual lyrics and melodies. The man is like an untamed lion.
As a reminder, money, strength and power are not everything.
Humility, wisdom, decency, and common sense, in America,
Are extremely crucial and important, to make the dogs sing.
A president should be a role model, a beacon for children;
A fighter, a problem solver, a savior for the entire electorate;
A leader, a giant not a bully, a diplomat for the world to emulate.
The jury will be deliberating; America does not need to be 'great again';
We need an improved economy, mutual respect, controlling the flow
Of immigration, money, illicit drugs, and put our ducks in a row,
To be a haven for all, regardless of race, color, gender and ethnicity.
America is the greatest, I am not lying; simply ask the Statue of Liberty.
Copyright © November 11,2016 Logerie Hébert, All Rights Reserved
Hebert Logerie is the author of several collections of poetry.
This weathering vessel that casts about
A barge adrift in the river of lies.
My crumbling ship, my hopes all cast in doubt
I navigate past cults of crying eyes.
This rusting old tanker betrays my flame
My boy joy driving fervent flaring glare.
I’m no match for terror by any name
Scant my Ali fist-words striking the air.
This floating worn casket my last cradle
I can’t go while hate burns from the sewers.
And Earth seethes and chokes fumes unnatural
But who breathes once guns fire from hate’s snipers?
I cruise this clumsy tub to open sea
And give my dwindling days to speak freely.
that look of innocence and expectation
that a future with promises awaits
their anticipation of clear blue skies
and hope that tomorrow will be brighter
that look of unadulterated naivete
on the eve of realizing what shape
we've left the world for future generations
problems of injustice and inequality worse than ever
that look that drills right through your soul
and asks what you, yes you,
what did you do to leave
this place a better world
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
I said "I was just trying to be heard."
but the grown-ups were scheduling the next meeting about meetings
and the stillness was louder than me.
I said "I saw the cracks before the walls fell."
but they called it anxiety
pressed a pill into my palm—a bitter bead to bolt the mouth—
traded my bike for a screen.
I said "I asked what happens when the warnings all come true."
but they gave me the word catastrophizing
and sent me to talk to someone who would teach me to cope.
I said "I need something—God, or anything bigger than this ungodly."
but they said they'd outgrown that
they said the universe runs on chaos
hope—a feathered fraud—
they said forgetting was the price of growing.
I said "I dreamed of a world that listened first."
but the world was scrolling
and the scroll had no bottom
and the bottom had no floor.
I am still trying to be heard
the grown-ups are still busy
the world is still scrolling.
and I am learning
that no one is coming
that rescue is a story, fantasy, myth
that survival is action, not a noun—
I teach myself
in the darklessness—where angels file complaints.
while the adults
argue the wording
of the warning
no one
will ever
read.
________________________________________
§ FINAL VOLTA
But even in the dawn
I feel the stillness shiver—
a warning
the world
still refuses to hear
an acorn
hits my head—
the forest still believes
in warning
even when we don't
I have known the hollow silence of empty hands,
once full of gold, now dust and fading strands.
I gave my heart in seasons bright and fair,
helping those in need, with love laid bare.
But when the coins ran out, the doors grew cold,
no pennies left to buy a dream or hold.
Help came shackled, wrapped in debt’s tight chain,
not just my money lost, but name and pain.
Hungry mouths like lightning split the sky,
casting shadows, where whispered rumors lie.
Their words—like thunder—crash without a sound,
shaking the fragile ground where hope is found.
Silent storms descend, louder than a scream,
devouring truth, unraveling the dream.
Penniless and weary, hunger gnaws more deep—
not just for bread, but respect we keep.
They drag me into fire’s scorching pit,
complicating all, refusing to quit.
Mockery’s cold rain falls without remorse,
lies like chains that bind with crushing force.
A world unfair, where power’s voice is bought,
where kindness falters, and freedom’s lost.
But in the ruins, a spark still burns bright—
the power of kindness, a guiding light.
Though empty now, my spirit sings clear,
pure as a river that knows no fear.
On paths ahead, I seek that gentle grace,
where smiles bloom soft in a warm embrace.
Today, I learned
of a family broken
by hands that should protect.
A man, cruel and bitter,
beat the mother for daughters
three, then four.
The baby cried,
and he told her not to touch her child.
Threats of poison, of bullets, of death
hung over the quiet of their home.
How could a life be measured
by the shape of its body,
the promise of its heart?
Being a daughter is no curse
no mistake.
It is a gift, a blessing
from God,
from the universe.
A mother does not choose
it is the father who determines,
yet the world still asks
her to bear the blame.
I hate his cruelty,
his misuse of power,
his betrayal of humanity.
But I do not hate boys,
I do not hate men.
I hate injustice.
I hate violence.
We must speak.
We must protect.
We must honor every life,
especially the girls,
the daughters,
the mothers,
who deserve love, care, respect.
Let kindness guide us.
Let empathy lead us.
Let justice hold us
to our highest human calling.
Note: This is a true story that happened just a week ago.
Words are thin and often crack under weight
They were never meant to be load bearing
A feeling rises…
Raw and electric
Too large for the venue of conversation
Joy bursts open like the sun you can’t look at
Yet we refer to it as happy
A word so pale it feels like an apology
Grief is worse
It floods the ribs and drowns breath
All everyday language offers us is the word sad
As if sadness were a puddle and not an ocean
Love
The word which betrays us the most
Forced into four letters unable to hold
Fire
Ache
And Impossible depth
We keep trying though
We stack syllables like shaky ladders
Climbing towards the truth
Knowing words will fall short
But we use words to reach anyway
Because sometimes the attempt is the closest thing to honesty we have