Poetry is a weapon that we use in both war and peace. When we want to tell somebody something, poetry is the best way to convince them. - Hadraawi
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Let the Angel of death come tonight
Editor's note: I know. I know how we Somalis always like to live in denial and divert from the path of truth, if that truth is something that will break our families. Child molestation is not something that just happens in "gaalo" families in "gaalo" nations. As much as we hate to talk about it, we must admit some of our girls do suffer this horrible experience at the hand of their own family members or outsiders. Do not get me wrong, I am not criticizing ALL things that stand for Somalia or Somalis, but rather simply the sad truth that we do not listen to the voices of our children. Ever thought how can a 5, 6, 7, or even 10 year old girl can vividly paint a picture of such horrible acts! Child molesters do not know any dagan mise deen.
May the hands of those who touch children inappropriately burn in hell! Ameen
Death what a sweet wish to have
it could be the happy ending of my misery
and as much as I know it’s wrong
I can’t handle it I can’t move on
depression has became my best friend
after laying alone I don’t know what’s going on in my head
my fear of where I would go next.
Tasting the bitter tears of my lips,
seeing and remembering many heart
aching clips in my life the past
and how I might end up in the present
after another I take the seeds that should take me away
far from where I am
Having to remember all the scars on my skin and in my head
no one has no idea what it feels to be me
he knows who he is
I felt him clawing on my skin feeling such disgust I feel sick.
oh how I feel the shame.
Allah can you hear me cry
and the pray that I carry my sorrow tears in my hands
Allah you see all and you’re the only one that knows my true horrible secret
my thoughts are only heard by you and the angles.
although my thoughts aren’t understood at all but they are known by the devil.
having scars lined up in a row across my arm, a sign of someone stuck inside of a place that can’t get out, and with a fake smile I have to carry but when I drift of I only wonder how I got into this place
and while I breath heavily seeing that everything is blurry
feeling the fast beat of my heart
smelling death and I know it could be it the sweet death
that I’ve been waiting for.
Again I cry in secret because a secret that shouldn’t be told
a secret that would spread hatred.
So there’s nothing more that I can do but only let my soul to rot and die
closing the door I long to fall a few minutes away from the world
putting the sickness out of me, taking out of me
the pain that’s glued to me, bleeding in me
I just wish Allah can cruse his soul for making me feel like this
a fire of remembering would burn inside off me
leaving everything would follow me.
Idil Ahmed Mahamed
Posted by Nation of Poets at 7:10 AM
Labels: Idil Ahmed Mahamed
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