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.

poem by Naveed Akram
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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