Collective Unrest

 

Bleeding Out

April 10, 2019

This is how the rich abandon the poor

we forget them because we can, over and

over again

          Don’t you see?

This is how the poor stay voiceless

common slaves to our dictates, they cannot

hold us to account

          Do you see?

This is how the poor die young

victims of the impunity that pays

cops for their blood

          Have you seen?

The blood, blood

on the street

it cries out

          Even if you don’t

 

 

Ann van Wijgerden is an Englishwoman married to a Dutchman – hence her ongoing battle to pronounce her own name – and lives in Manila, the Philippines. Ann works at an NGO which tries to ensure children living in some of the worst slum areas of the city are able to complete their education, from preschool to university; www.youngfocus.org. While teaching English is her passion, and speaking is her joy, writing keeps Ann reasonably sane. Blogs at: https://medium.com/@annvanwijgerden and https://crackedceiling.blog/blog/

Please follow and like us:
Newer Post

Obituary for the Mundane

I am searching for a way to die that does not make use of fire or water That does not make headline of my country ablaze or my children in sinking boats My people's blood is famous for its quiet…
Read
Older Post

you don't want to remember

TW for sexual assault    you know by now you know character traits and character acting like a fool in love with yourself you sit alone lonely grayed voices call clear and you comeback why and ask why when by now…
Read
Random Post

AM I STILL HERE?

Everyday my Aunt Catherine, who outlived the rest of the family, would wake up and say “Am I still here?” Disappointed, she made tea, fed her bird, and let the light in. I thought man, she is a downer. Why…
Read
Random Post

survivor

TW for sexual assault I never thought of myself as a survivor / just in the wrong place at the wrong time / don’t get in an elevator with someone who makes you uncomfortable, just take the stairs his first…
Read
Random Post

The Spirit of A War Sleeps Beneath My Skull

(For Biafra) Separated by a wall of forty-nine years, I had no true feel of the war. No memory of what could have been disassembled into tiny visions, of planes flying & grazing the country’s landscape with fire, sealing the…
Read
Random Post

The River's Story

One step more, the river floor constituted of pebbles below me, slips between my toes. They are tortoiseshell, black, slick with fur and the few ivory stones pocked with beige blemishes.   The canopy a spectrum of greens shielded us…
Read