My Distress Poem by Naveed Akram

My Distress



My rate of distress is a question of hate,
For the ends of the world do not dent the steel.
Punishment is a reception of pain,
Punish those in power and might, the leaders.

Quiet as a religion, the putting of balls is widespread,
Lit by the wands of musicality, the real poison.
Quick and quiet is the needle, of course my friend,
In a sense the fall of the needle is a break with disease.

Rails are climbed now, and forever,
Fevers reach dignity and proud feelings.
My rate of rainfall in this sky engulfs my family,
To the letters and laws of the land of religion.

COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Kevin Patrick 26 October 2011

The chaos that exsists in this world really can wear the mind, but at the same time it manifests artistic expression for great work, which incidently this is.

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Naveed Akram

Naveed Akram

London, England
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