Bullies
Unrestrained, belligerent bullies abound
In schools, institutions, and in businesses,
Who create ruckuses that serve no purpose
But to show passionless feelings of meanness,
Filled with vindictiveness, jealousy, and spite,
In schools, institutions, and in businesses.
Indifferent to others, they harass and fight,
Irresponsible for the scars they impart
Through their vindictiveness, jealousy, and spite,
Employing words and actions to poison hearts
And disrupt the flow of cordial interactions,
Irresponsible for the hurt they impart.
Temper-tantrum clods using intimidation
Who are conceited, narcissistic, and deranged,
Disrupting the flow of cordial interactions.
From the cradle to the grave, they seldom change;
Unrestrained, belligerent bullies abound,
Conceited, narcissistic, vain, and deranged,
And create ruckuses that serve no purpose.
Ruckuses uproars and turmoil
But that was not all
That our ears perceived
Bloodshed carnage and bloodbath
Of our own bloods
That was what our eyes lived with.
Our bodies were tripped over, tied up, tasered
Spanked, flogged, scourged and savored
By the inhuman communities.
With blood leaking out
From swelled veins
And with lesions and cicatrices
Getting deeper with every perforations
While we sat fragile, worn
Looped lassoed and shackled in silence
Watching shadows and scenes
of assaults, electrocutions, bashing
Decollation and alive burns
Beckoning to deaths
And we are some of the bondage survivors
From a world without peace and enslaved.
~Nayanika Dey
The undertaker prepped him voguishly
Like there was a party six feet below
The earth where anosmic maggots
Were tamed by steep fragrance
He is dead, he is dead
Of what use is a tinseling treasure
To the naively rich sands?
The gold plated casket glitters
In the mourner's eyes
How classy is death in its house?
A gang of aggrieved groupies
Hallowed to a one time
Shylock-baron unleashes its ruckuses
At the swanky funeral
They teemed tiny shell
At the casket and in a tick
The casket transmuted into
A gold plated basket
He is dead, he is dead
The bullets ran its errands
Through and through
But death was poker faced
The deceased wife face streamed
Down tears...The triumphant groupies
Prod the remains for mockery
Until wee in the day
When the police came for a sweep
The shylock-baron was in a feast-
Romance with the houseflies...
Until the groupies dispersed
He is dead, he is dead
He who dies once is lucky
But he who dies again has lost his soul
And would be damned
What was his crime?
That he was having
More than he needs.
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