Oil

The oil came deep,
from underneath.
the earth could bleed,
her blood was black.
But men knew not___
they pierced her skin.
It all seemed fair,
but deep within.
She cried aloud,
and gasped for air.
They took her oil,
and left her there…
a lifeless, wounded, fragile heart.
Who greedy men had ripped apart.
They closed her wound with her own soil,
but she kept still, and acted proud.
While greedy men took all she had,
without her blood, her soul would rot.
She’d never get her heartbeat back.
How sad she felt…
when her own seed,
had caused her soul to suffocate.
She could not breathe
If she could not bleed.
She stayed so long, so celibate.
They were not pleased,
with gold, nor land…
They needed more,
they needed more;
went within their mother’s core.
They took her oil and had it sold.

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Damiam Vincent Henry

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A man told me how he and his friends who made fun of a pastor who spoke about faith; he quickly changed his topic to 'Hope' and it was like he managed to get their attention. Everything became silent and they started to really listen. When the pastor had finished the bible lesson. He walked up to them, and spoke with such a love that they started weeping.Soon that very same boy spoke to me as a pastor, about life .But I didn't care how important it was, I didn't truly understand the power of words. I lacked to understand but felt his passion. Everything he said, felt personally meant for me. I could not stop myself from listening.I was not a mistake, and later realized that there were people who cared. It only took one man to make me realize I was searching for hope in all the wrong places. I was fully convinced that my purpose was to do what he did. But he surprised me once again.At that last moment, he stared directly into my soul and said, "Don't ever try to be like me or any other human on this earth. You'll only find disappointment. I'm just a man. We all have a purpose and along the way you'll be judged by the world. But never stop!" "Free yourself by opening your heart and mind to the truth. That when you speak, always be happy."
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David Bokolo
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She is a kind hearted old wag, otherwise, she would have polluted the whole world with her dark soulless being left to rot in the dark recluse of the earth. This is a very nice poem, Damiam. Thanks for sharing.

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Oil On Canvas

Oil On Canvas short poem

The dead moon’s framed portrait Hung from the prussian blue sky, Staring downwards into the Lighted lonely city – With a well practiced air Of indifference. The pond with green waters And a cemented bank, Where local kids wash their