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Souvenirs | Kashiana Singh

left behind in broken bits
her scattered essence
jolted from my trance
into the gory sights
of shadows that fill
the eerie crevices
haunted with souvenirs
of your violated presence
haunted with souvenirs
henna’ed palm stains
that scratched the walls
ankle bell trinkets
lay scattered in shock
rusty red patches
of flesh that dripped
into his stale breath
and rotten curses
accomplice to pushing evil
viciously breeding lust
until your reluctant breath
was consumed, parched
haunted with souvenirs
walking around
on creaking floor boards
I collect souvenirs
yet another effort
to wash away for you
the remnants of
his sickly toxins
and knot a bundle
of bells, anklets, eardrops
palpable with tears
salty anguished cries
haunted with souvenirs
I stumble over another
before walking out
into the sighs of
a starless sky

More at https://kashiana.wordpress.com.

Rape | Arnab Kumar Roy

August 29, 2023 / Best Poetry / contemporary poets, modern poets, rape poems, violation poems, violence poems / Leave a Comment

Walk,
Road ahead,
The leering hyenas waiting
To taste a piece of meat,
They are thirsty,
Rolling tongues,
I can see.
A nasty stare
At my body,
I feel so dirty.
Taking a step,
I walk back,
Are they coming for me?
Fear
Strikes my heart,
Run, run,
All I hear.
I try my best
To run away,
But those weak legs
Give way,
I fall down.
I lost my sense,
They have conquered me,
They throw water at my face,
I open my eyes,
To see their faces,
Are they humans or a pack of wolves?
I ask myself.
Celebrations have begun,
I am lying on the ground,
Nowhere to run,
I plea,
To let me go,
I scream,
However,
To no avail,
They take off my shirt,
Naked I Lie,
At their hands,
They taste my flesh,
Taking turns,
Again and again,
While I lie,
Tasting my tears’ salty taste,
Drops of blood,
Oozing out from my flesh,
They take a bloodbath
At my expense,
Just before,
I close my eyes,
I see the moon shining bright,
While the stars call me from behind.

A Poor Man’s Daughter | Narinder Bhangu

May 4, 2023 / Best Poetry / abuse of power poems, contemporary poetry, modern poetry, poetry website, rape poems / Leave a Comment

The door cracked open
of a high house,
scattered cries of,
“Help, help, help!”
But no one came,
for these cries were
from a high house.
She was stripped
garment by garment,
her last drape snatched,
debased.
She was helpless
craven and lifeless.
Her youthfulness
was dead,
merely a pile of soot.
This was the honor of
a poor man’s daughter.
She was dead,
merely a pile of soot,
no longer able to raise a voice.
This was the honor, the chastity,
of a poor man’s daughter.
The high flames
of her pyre
became a vampire
to suck the blood
of her looters.