Suffering poems that are original and profound. Explore a brilliant collection of suffering poetry that you can’t stop reading. These poems on suffering are published by poets from all over the world and are sure to keep you High On Poems!
Bleed,let the world bleed, In the mind of a dehumanizer, Terminating the evil of evils, Thoughts gone wrong. The carrier of bread and morsel, The Devil looks down on him, Kalashnikovs,Panzerfausts and what not, Leaving behind the corpses of the
“A Noseless Woman” Once I saw a wretched woman, She was badly mistreated by a demon. She was an unfortunate wife, Her husband cut her nose with a knife. For her there was no place to hide, She sold glass
Didn’t realize when the heart swelled, a tear rolled down, then, another…. …and so on……….. What a charming guy with blue twinkling eyes! Santa spreading laughter and cheer; giving away endless memories and smiles! Immense pain wears the garb of
Our cries are a whimper only the winds can hear it Like our toils unrewarded and our souls unsoothed We the children of god as they may appease Still tight are our clutches and our lives choked Our minds raced
It is said, that suffering shows the truth. Only the sufferer discovers light of Being. Light contains seven colors. Yet I didn’t manage to catch the Rainbow. It is said, that suffering is, what is True. I know! I know!
Will it rain tonight? And clean the gaping blisters? Wash away the dirt and slimy froths? Soften the scales and scabies? And will it make me pure again? Ah, let it rain tonight. Bro said, with icy looks, “Damn you,
O you men, The monsters, You were sent for protection, For God’s beautiful creation, You were sent to safeguard, The chastity and honour, You were sent to love, The beauty and perfection, Of Eves’ daughter, But, The adrenaline which provided
Since I have seen you, I have been infected With tormented love to you, and I have been Tortured by mysterious executioner. He is invisible, only felt. At every evening, Before sleep, he whips a dagger into my heart, And
Grief is a house, where the chairs have forgotten how to hold us. the mirrors how to reflect us, the walls how to contain us. Grief is a house that disappears, each time someone knocks at the door or rings
Devil’s blunt fingers icy slick palm every morning in my stomach waking to a cold tide no cell, no sentence just another day’s time to do head down avoid the warders visiting day comes familiar faces look ugly in a
Corpses floating in the river A child slowing dying at the roadside Watching men unload massive sacks of rice She pleaded and cried Gunshots heard in the night Screams for mercy unheard The smell of death filled the air Lifeless
With all the affliction I lie here with my eyes closed And tears rolling down cheeks. My head throbbing with atrocious heeds and my heart burning with hatred for her. I want to forget all the pain she had left
Etched on my mind is a maudlin Of the times when sky was blue And the sun was bright, high noon. Shadows were weird and creepy but Shades held the wayfarer’s blues. Water meadows were wide spread And herds fill
We are in Hell. We make the best of it, but, make no mistake, we are all in hell. Trapped on an orb surround by endlessness. No hope of escape. Look around. Hate, violence, suffering, mayhem, destruction, cancer, disease, pain,
The king made a fun of our poverty. Marble faced girls always thought, wearing black scarves – sweeping the floor of white mausoleum. You made a death a loving eternity. We die daily in the face of old shine. Who
You know that sickening stench that comes from a corpse girdled to a steel gurney as, slowly the morbid form degrades and still waits for that last living cell to give in, to wear out or may be just dissected
The way rapists minds have taken shape- A girl is to blame for her own rape, To these animals so lecherous What are we girls-strictly diurnal creatures? Rapists say,“Girls can’t step out at night, A girl attacked should quietly allow
Dear Pain, Thank You……………….. For holding me in your soft hands when the mundane world ditched me, For caressing my untouched soul when the crooked world shot poison leaded arrows at me, For standing with me and facing the brunt
Becalmed, all the world’s a pond everything set to stagnate and stink flesh cooks slowly at the equator sours like a mild temperament more than shade or food the horizon is become a god delivering, withholding shadows hide beneath a
Let’s paint these walls red, With the blood of our dead. Of the lost and wounded, the sad and depressed. Let’s paint that chair green, With the leaves of the trees. The trees cut down, every day, week, month, year.