I sit, I relate
I try to connect
Something's wrong
LOVE can't affect
Everything's present
It seems in tact
But sorrow and grief
Makes anger react
That's misaligned
My finger can't land
Where's the space
For hearts to understand
No accountability
For wronging others
No responsibility
For hurting sisters and brothers
Presence of growth
Looks exactly like a weed
Where fruit should exist
There's constant need
Yes, there is absence
The place where capacity should be
Is caked and filled
With the care never received
...now, NO...is finally known
Written by Trudy Schrader on 06-17-2026
Oh my lord I am sorry for wronging you
I know there is nothing I can offer you
so when I wrong myself i distance myself from you
seperate myself from your abundance
you are ever forgiving, ever merciful, and ever loving
you see what i cannot see within myself
you remind me of the beauty of the world when i forget how to see through veil
the blinds that restrict my vision
force me to my knees and submit to guilt and shame
committing treason against my own soul
I know there is only refuge with you
and you will guide whom you will
so i ask o’ lord will you extend your arms to me?
do i have a place with you?
is it alright if i return home?
the world has rejected me and i myself
i know the only One capable of accepting me is the One who created me
You shouldn't know the colour of falling light
As it descends into the abyss of passion.
When limbs intertwine in sweet complete delight
And the thin skin wraps the fiery flesh
In the soothing caress of the conductor's hand
Cris crossing and cutting the air afresh
With his smooth effervescent and pulsating baton.
You shouldn't know the colour of his seduction,
His ragged jagged downward pointing chin,
The tangled mangled wilderness of his beard,
The forceful resourcefulness of his kisses,
The colours of that fascinating rude tattoo.
The feeling of injection and quick retraction,
You shouldn't know the colour of his flame,
Or the sound of his intoxicating and secret name
You must somehow savour with hungry lust.
Eyes rolling back as you inevitably fall
It is all some God almighty magnetic rich taboo.
His name, his eyes, the things you will recall
In the lonely moments of night time longing,
When you know it was all a dreadful act of wronging
That must be forever pushed aside, inside, denied,
Far away from the colour of the falling light.
© Allen Ansell 2025
My head’s reeling it’s all too surreal
My heart questions just what is real
My mind couldn’t describe how I feel,
O spirits, awaken my conscience.
An overwhelming feeling of longing
Hopes and fears together thronging
I wonder why it’s me fate is wronging,
Oh, I long for self-transcendence.
The essence of mind is life
The essence of heart is love
The essence of soul is consciousness,
Oh, I long for the integral alignment.
~03/15/21
~Contest: Inner Alignment
~Host: Unseeking Seeker
Belligerent angel hear my prayer.
You've farked with us for what is fair.
Now hear me say you're one of us.
Corruptly wronging all of us.
My head’s reeling it’s all too surreal
My heart questions just what is real
My mind couldn’t describe how I feel,
O spirits awaken my conscience.
An overwhelming feeling of longing
Hopes and fears together thronging
I wonder why it’s me fate is wronging,
Oh, I long for self-transcendence.
~A Brian Strand contest
Sometimes i sit back and wonder if death is another natural thing or simply ultimate price which every human must pay for wronging The Almighty God and all the gods.. Many times i wonder if heaven actually has an idea of the depth of pain which we deal with each time another loved one dies. Like, why let us come here, go through so much sufferings, hustles and pains, build so many sweet memories here and then cut off just like that?? Do we actually deserve another punishment after the painful exit?
Why do we even come here in the first place?
Why do we go to after having it short and hard here? God remember us in your favour in our last day.
.
May the souls of all the faithful departed through the mercy of God Rest in peace. Amen.
If I could write a poem I would
but I doubt if it would be much good.
I can’t wax lyrical and shout
of virtues I feel nowt about.
I need to have something to say
regarding love,
or in some way
on need and longing
or want and wronging.
Things about a heart’s complaint
and there ain’t
a lot of rhymes
for sorry.
ITS BORN OF LOVE
That empty soul feeling of longing
when you know you have to part
ways with one held in your heart
ever and always so dear
That anticipative feeling of anxiety
when you don't know as to whether
the one you hold so dear to your heart
is ever coming back again
That feeling of wronging and hurt
when the one you love so dearly
repulses your advances carelessly
that feeling is born of love
LEWIS NYAGA
26/01/2014
Hollering my pain
Swallow me, blackness, swallow!
Rid me of wronging!
That I do tonight
My lone witness a guitar
Watch me weep the sea
Just a dark stool I'see
Now not even me to bear
As steps sound my leave
Upon the midnight hour, you were there to be drawn.
Bitter breath sauntered beside evil beyond the night.
Sweetness swept by me as I walked within the mist.
Upon the brink, beyond forever she brought the light.
Through the midnight hour, time cascades so still.
Your eyes trapped my soul bewildering my heart.
Kisses upon my neck; drove me to the end.
What was the next minute’s affinity for a meal?
Choices, I had no chance, for destiny chose me.
No evil within, only the hunger of the midnight hour,
I am not damned, sweet love took my life away.
My eyes widely opened, so unholy strong, I see.
Truth about the class of the un-human creature now,
I will tell the depth of my wronging, before that hour.
Bitten as the flooding of un-life drove me wild,
I saw the future that has become my complete power.
I have no pity for myself, though I shall create none.
My hunger I will flounder and deprive myself so.
Hunting of the humankind, I shall never persuade one.
I shall forever feed upon the soulless creatures of Earth.
Transaltor
A Dialect Poem
The Transaltor is here again Sahib he has something to say to thee. Jobor is
speaking.
Transaltor is speaking: Sahib eye must travel many moons to visit the aged yew
it must be hard to understand the English of this madman he is typo mad he
makes eye the I the pronoun and the ewe his wife she must be happy to have
him oh wait no we cannot judge a poet it must be style to bring a smile to every
poets faces
Sahib speaks now: just tell me he sent me message and disturbed my aged
wisdom in my places that eye visit are we still friends
Jobor speaks again:
Yes Sahib he would not answer thus without a reason.
Narrator speaks to crowd: What devotion if his servant is thus happy with this
poet than he must have a very good reason to speak so off the wall and seem so
badly wronging them
Transaltor says YES it seems so he says he is very sorry he called yew the back
end of a camel can we still be friends my friend
Sahib says YES
The flower of the soil, not curse but I
am same, not cutting ~ beings lie
The flower of my eye, seems only thy
contention only seeding in reply!
What grows in longing symbolizes try,
befit with wronging, nurtures less imply.
Some grace befits an answer, asking why
love seeds it's error firstly, but to die!
As all man contemplative risk deny
am I thus overstated, nay, but nay!
This truth congratulaltive feels no wry
the heart left but to ponder, finds it's sky ~
still deep inside its hurting . . . frees its cry!
since i been on mudda earth,the lurid left felt me a jerk.but never been,next to
him,bill clinton,than when,he said,and i quote,the show,the hurricane
katrina,thats a bling arena,a minority show off,learn to use the rope.so i dope
along,miking my song and wonging,deling,wronging.swimming lessons
included.
My own intent, transfused with some regret,
adventures teaming forth, conditions set
still rally hope, a virtuous trial's inept,
so faith in love begins a journey's kept!
Almost consigned to destiny, so swept
with innuendo's challenging's accept.
I gather strength to tally not those left,
the footpath winding onward steers my depth!
And I am overdrawn with feeling's cleft,
the music of my longing seems my debt.
Exaggerated thronging riles to wept,
a loneliness, a wronging, yet but yet ~
Thy love, my love at losing, Soul's concept
filled nought to grieving's choosing . . . as to death!
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