ByNabs - Hello Poetry

He write in bread crumbs, trails of clues that will not be found because the birds have eaten them. Fleeting, unremarkable, but it feeds and feeds and fills empty stomach. Unfulfilling but full. ( Most of the days that is so much better than being hollow) Over the years, the forest grows. Grasses mold it self into canopies, rooftops that shields him from the light. A darkness that blinds but pulsing with warmth. Branches twisting towards each other, entangled in each other stories. 'write better' they whispers. Flowers will not blooms but the sweet smell of honeycombs wafts through the air like hunger. ( we are hungry and hungry and lonely tell us stories, tell us more more more more please moremoreore-) So the path to home become unrecognizable. Intangible, flickering as if it wanted to be real. He feels kin ship down to his bones and whimpers fall out from his mouth, quivers but does not fold. He curled but life would not, will not let him bend. What should a man do if he cannot curve, cannot bow and break? They all said that to achieve greatness, he have to taste 'broken' on his tongue. Ripe to the point of decaying, fingers sticky with black honey. He let his teeth chatters, secrets flew out of his mouth like love letters. Carved into him self are the promises made by breakers and yet, honesty is what he sounds like. A forest is an illusion, they say. Wrap your perception until everything look the same and there is only doubt in your self. ( After all everything have to protect their heart) Peeling barks, bleeds. He bit his lip, wounds are his lovers but everyone knows that love is treacherous. There is a little boy and a man. There is Him, the one who only grows and feeds but never fulfills. 'Isn't that enough?',he asked. This was what you sow into me, you make me grow into a man but not a human. So he becomes, forest isn't the only thing that can burn. ( How do you escape your self?) This is a mirror house, a forest where every trees are your thoughts, their roots are your beliefs, and their seeds are your doing. (most of the times, it become your own undoings) You reap what you sow, but what if you are the one who was sowed. -nabs

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Oct 18, 2017

Oct 18, 2017 at 11:58 PM UTC

tuesday

He write in bread crumbs, trails of clues that will not be found because the birds have eaten them. Fleeting, unremarkable, but it feeds and feeds and fills empty stomach. Unfulfilling but full. ( Most of the days that is so much better than being hollow) Over the years, the forest grows. Grasses mold it self into canopies, rooftops that shields him from the light. A darkness that blinds but pulsing with warmth. Branches twisting towards each other, entangled in each other stories. 'write better' they whispers. Flowers will not blooms but the sweet smell of honeycombs wafts through the air like hunger. ( we are hungry and hungry and lonely tell us stories, tell us more more more more please moremoreore-) So the path to home become unrecognizable. Intangible, flickering as if it wanted to be real. He feels kin ship down to his bones and whimpers fall out from his mouth, quivers but does not fold. He curled but life would not, will not let him bend. What should a man do if he cannot curve, cannot bow and break? They all said that to achieve greatness, he have to taste 'broken' on his tongue. Ripe to the point of decaying, fingers sticky with black honey. He let his teeth chatters, secrets flew out of his mouth like love letters. Carved into him self are the promises made by breakers and yet, honesty is what he sounds like. A forest is an illusion, they say. Wrap your perception until everything look the same and there is only doubt in your self. ( After all everything have to protect their heart) Peeling barks, bleeds. He bit his lip, wounds are his lovers but everyone knows that love is treacherous. There is a little boy and a man. There is Him, the one who only grows and feeds but never fulfills. 'Isn't that enough?',he asked. This was what you sow into me, you make me grow into a man but not a human. So he becomes, forest isn't the only thing that can burn. ( How do you escape your self?) This is a mirror house, a forest where every trees are your thoughts, their roots are your beliefs, and their seeds are your doing. (most of the times, it become your own undoings) You reap what you sow, but what if you are the one who was sowed. -nabs

21

She is not pretty. Her face is an average face; normal, common, ordinary. She have too big eyes, a nose that is a little bit too small, and slightly crooked teeth. She is not pretty, and she does not mind. Her heart isn't kind. Isn't caring nor warm, but it is not bitter. It is a heart. Beating strong and pulsing with life. It is too tight, sometimes. Hurting her when she wanted to breathe. Most of the time she lives with the feeling of death but her heart is alive and so is she. People asked her if she is capable of love. They never get their answer because it is not their business what her heart can or cannot do. She loves, barely and hesitantly. A child walking for the first time, falling down and keeps getting up. She loves like she is dying. Kindness isn't inherent in her, but the autumn and pumpkin latte taste bright on her tongue, scalding and burning. She tried crying one night, but the mold would not broke (or it's already broken and she does have enough to care). People whispers about her, she does not care. Labels are pinned unto her back and she walks like life isn't just boxes with tags slapped on it. She walks like life is life and nothing more. They are scared of her, murmuring about her normal skin; how she can walk like she is deaf to the world. They are afraid because she held the secret that they want so bad to devour. "what is your deal?" "Why won't you smile?" "Are you even human?" (howcanyouloveyourselfwhenyouarentspecialprettywhenyouarejustcommonandaveragehowhowhowhowho-) She does not stand out, standing out means to fit in. She knows that to fit in means dying. And she is in love with life to let go, too in love to care that she is nothing and not special because she isn't. How can she be more than what she is when life is miraculous and a wonder and so so so much more than she could ever be in a lifetime. She is not pretty, and she is okay with that. Because she knows that there is so much more in life than beauty. -nabs

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Oct 17, 2017

Oct 17, 2017 at 9:02 PM UTC

monday

She is not pretty. Her face is an average face; normal, common, ordinary. She have too big eyes, a nose that is a little bit too small, and slightly crooked teeth. She is not pretty, and she does not mind. Her heart isn't kind. Isn't caring nor warm, but it is not bitter. It is a heart. Beating strong and pulsing with life. It is too tight, sometimes. Hurting her when she wanted to breathe. Most of the time she lives with the feeling of death but her heart is alive and so is she. People asked her if she is capable of love. They never get their answer because it is not their business what her heart can or cannot do. She loves, barely and hesitantly. A child walking for the first time, falling down and keeps getting up. She loves like she is dying. Kindness isn't inherent in her, but the autumn and pumpkin latte taste bright on her tongue, scalding and burning. She tried crying one night, but the mold would not broke (or it's already broken and she does have enough to care). People whispers about her, she does not care. Labels are pinned unto her back and she walks like life isn't just boxes with tags slapped on it. She walks like life is life and nothing more. They are scared of her, murmuring about her normal skin; how she can walk like she is deaf to the world. They are afraid because she held the secret that they want so bad to devour. "what is your deal?" "Why won't you smile?" "Are you even human?" (howcanyouloveyourselfwhenyouarentspecialprettywhenyouarejustcommonandaveragehowhowhowhowho-) She does not stand out, standing out means to fit in. She knows that to fit in means dying. And she is in love with life to let go, too in love to care that she is nothing and not special because she isn't. How can she be more than what she is when life is miraculous and a wonder and so so so much more than she could ever be in a lifetime. She is not pretty, and she is okay with that. Because she knows that there is so much more in life than beauty. -nabs

20

you tipped my world into your axis-- gravity and such things that do not bind if we do not let them. weaved--time and affection into a wreath that wound up around my neck. (the wreath is pretty but breathing is getting harder and harder to do) i didn't master patience until i fell head first into your orbit. I haven't still--but when you understand something it'll become easier. i want to untold what i said--to swallow them back, hide them in between the crease of a smile; to cradle them--instead of giving them to you. but i did and there's no regret to linger on. (i have given everything--and myself still think it wouldn't be enough.) take your time, i would rather bleed out than be a cage. and i'll wait until you leave--until you asked; cause the ball is in your court. (know this, i have made my choice when i dreamed being with you that night; warm lights--and smiling, in between your arms.) "love isn't painful. what keeps you apart from it, is the one that's painful"

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Oct 16, 2017

Oct 16, 2017 at 10:15 PM UTC

If it's meant to be it's meant to be

you tipped my world into your axis-- gravity and such things that do not bind if we do not let them. weaved--time and affection into a wreath that wound up around my neck. (the wreath is pretty but breathing is getting harder and harder to do) i didn't master patience until i fell head first into your orbit. I haven't still--but when you understand something it'll become easier. i want to untold what i said--to swallow them back, hide them in between the crease of a smile; to cradle them--instead of giving them to you. but i did and there's no regret to linger on. (i have given everything--and myself still think it wouldn't be enough.) take your time, i would rather bleed out than be a cage. and i'll wait until you leave--until you asked; cause the ball is in your court. (know this, i have made my choice when i dreamed being with you that night; warm lights--and smiling, in between your arms.) "love isn't painful. what keeps you apart from it, is the one that's painful"

11

you went like rockets that day up and up and up until you drifted in outerspace waiting for a star to burst apart dust by dust, light by light oblivion by oblivion waiting, for them to unravel like you unr a v e l e d tracing the outer rim of your asteroids, you wandered into every constellation in this existence, take them by their hand left them wanting and scorched craters littered your heart, filled with asteroids belt burying the starlight, rings a shade of sorrow you made your moon black, and you said you deserved it Once, a little planet said to you that you have supernovas behind your eyes only to see it die, after you told me, in between light years, that you are nothing but a comet dying at the heart with nothing left to lose but you forgot, a comet is beautiful because it falls while burning fighting to live, still even when it knows it's dying

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Oct 30, 2016

Oct 30, 2016 at 1:59 PM UTC

A Study of A Dying Sun

you went like rockets that day up and up and up until you drifted in outerspace waiting for a star to burst apart dust by dust, light by light oblivion by oblivion waiting, for them to unravel like you unr a v e l e d tracing the outer rim of your asteroids, you wandered into every constellation in this existence, take them by their hand left them wanting and scorched craters littered your heart, filled with asteroids belt burying the starlight, rings a shade of sorrow you made your moon black, and you said you deserved it Once, a little planet said to you that you have supernovas behind your eyes only to see it die, after you told me, in between light years, that you are nothing but a comet dying at the heart with nothing left to lose but you forgot, a comet is beautiful because it falls while burning fighting to live, still even when it knows it's dying

43

tonight we sip our sorrow, bitter to the point of sweetness nursing bruised lips, bruised heart-- painful in the way that it burns you alive, swaying in our stool, teetering to the edges and wonder what it's like to fall, to fall and never come back, they ask if we are only halves, only broken pieces glued into hollowed body, but to feel is to exists, and we're too sad to be anything other than whole.

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Oct 5, 2016

Oct 5, 2016 at 7:02 AM UTC

amongst the rubble

tonight we sip our sorrow, bitter to the point of sweetness nursing bruised lips, bruised heart-- painful in the way that it burns you alive, swaying in our stool, teetering to the edges and wonder what it's like to fall, to fall and never come back, they ask if we are only halves, only broken pieces glued into hollowed body, but to feel is to exists, and we're too sad to be anything other than whole.

16

chant chant chant knife blooming in someone heart sharp, they said the earth thrives on blood false saints those fallen from grace who sins and suffers dancing with bleeding feet while the ground trembles virtues, they said as a head was offered branches of jasmine peeking out, from the hollowed socket the children are playing, blood on their thin bony fingers and hungry yearning mouth they sing a song, old and lost as death came for the festival

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Sep 25, 2016

Sep 25, 2016 at 12:26 PM UTC

Moor or Morte

chant chant chant knife blooming in someone heart sharp, they said the earth thrives on blood false saints those fallen from grace who sins and suffers dancing with bleeding feet while the ground trembles virtues, they said as a head was offered branches of jasmine peeking out, from the hollowed socket the children are playing, blood on their thin bony fingers and hungry yearning mouth they sing a song, old and lost as death came for the festival

20

Run, even when the jeers are too loud your legs feels like they will fall off, and pain stabbing with every footsteps that land on the ground. Keep going, leave marks unseen or careless you are the one who will bite your own fruit of labour. (don't think about the flavor. if it tasted too much like your blood, swallow) the dogs, rabid and feral they will chase you but they will cower when you show them your gleaming teeth all animals know to fear beasts, especially the caged ones. Let the wind, shake you up bring a noose made of what ifs and the trials that you endures undulating coils filled with every rejection that sneak itself into your ribs. There are cracks on your sole, some runs through your back dividing your temple and circling your neck bending down to your lips, dangles like the consequences of reality oozing colors but never spirit. Run, keep running until you burn up, burned up and there is nothing left but footmarks on hard stone. (Water is patience that you drink, but Fire is what we all breathe)

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Sep 21, 2016

Sep 21, 2016 at 11:18 AM UTC

Cracked Sunrises

Run, even when the jeers are too loud your legs feels like they will fall off, and pain stabbing with every footsteps that land on the ground. Keep going, leave marks unseen or careless you are the one who will bite your own fruit of labour. (don't think about the flavor. if it tasted too much like your blood, swallow) the dogs, rabid and feral they will chase you but they will cower when you show them your gleaming teeth all animals know to fear beasts, especially the caged ones. Let the wind, shake you up bring a noose made of what ifs and the trials that you endures undulating coils filled with every rejection that sneak itself into your ribs. There are cracks on your sole, some runs through your back dividing your temple and circling your neck bending down to your lips, dangles like the consequences of reality oozing colors but never spirit. Run, keep running until you burn up, burned up and there is nothing left but footmarks on hard stone. (Water is patience that you drink, but Fire is what we all breathe)

33

make me a wish snowflakes in the dark, the tangle of our body heat warmth that is never there war was painted on your face tasting like your father whiskey bottle broken and nothing everything push and pull, the tides that swallows your screams and your prayers bend me down, you whispered but the shore have drowned a long time ago vanishing smile that cries like your cracked mother's china begging and begging and begging nothing (everything) you told me that love is dark let the candles melt and wax burned our tounge hell hath no fury for lovers scorned spilled wine on the table cloth, nothing and everything will fix us like a nice cold champange made of confessions of our sins

0

Aug 14, 2016

Aug 14, 2016 at 7:23 AM UTC

Come home

make me a wish snowflakes in the dark, the tangle of our body heat warmth that is never there war was painted on your face tasting like your father whiskey bottle broken and nothing everything push and pull, the tides that swallows your screams and your prayers bend me down, you whispered but the shore have drowned a long time ago vanishing smile that cries like your cracked mother's china begging and begging and begging nothing (everything) you told me that love is dark let the candles melt and wax burned our tounge hell hath no fury for lovers scorned spilled wine on the table cloth, nothing and everything will fix us like a nice cold champange made of confessions of our sins

27

there's a butterfly dying in my pocket with torn wings and the ache to fly pressed close to my left chest as if wanting to share a heartbeat an old man saw me cradling a fleeting life in my hand, he said "It's dying." "Why?," I asked because a life this short shouldn't have to end "It's time," he walked past and glass was growing in my throat there was bile and words wasn't this how we first met? I cupped the butterfly in my hands trying to save it, thinking of honey water and second chances a fantasy for a girl who wished for better things a life this short shouldn't have to end but the butterfly is dying, wings stopped fluttering and tears were pouring like rain there is no second chances, honey water is only selfishness that we pretend was love "would you rather have me cry in your arms or laugh with another?" a life this short shouldn't have to end but it does. -nabs

0

Aug 7, 2016

Aug 7, 2016 at 10:22 AM UTC

M O R T E M

there's a butterfly dying in my pocket with torn wings and the ache to fly pressed close to my left chest as if wanting to share a heartbeat an old man saw me cradling a fleeting life in my hand, he said "It's dying." "Why?," I asked because a life this short shouldn't have to end "It's time," he walked past and glass was growing in my throat there was bile and words wasn't this how we first met? I cupped the butterfly in my hands trying to save it, thinking of honey water and second chances a fantasy for a girl who wished for better things a life this short shouldn't have to end but the butterfly is dying, wings stopped fluttering and tears were pouring like rain there is no second chances, honey water is only selfishness that we pretend was love "would you rather have me cry in your arms or laugh with another?" a life this short shouldn't have to end but it does. -nabs

33

put your mask on, let's play pretend. no smiles--no language. only the glide of our hand, trembling-- like the way your mother body shakes when you have been gone away too long from home. whispers are allowed, but only secrets and morse and the sweet after taste that you always tried to chase. let us disappear into this play, immerse and submerge--titanic hitting an iceberg and sinking. unstoppable, unredeemable. a tragedy. but you and your soft lips and the slight rasp in your voice, the misery and the life and everything in between, made a storm that saves life. so the theater applauds at the happy ending, love that saves the day. completely ignoring, that the day only wants to end.

0

Aug 4, 2016

Aug 4, 2016 at 7:29 AM UTC

barnacles

put your mask on, let's play pretend. no smiles--no language. only the glide of our hand, trembling-- like the way your mother body shakes when you have been gone away too long from home. whispers are allowed, but only secrets and morse and the sweet after taste that you always tried to chase. let us disappear into this play, immerse and submerge--titanic hitting an iceberg and sinking. unstoppable, unredeemable. a tragedy. but you and your soft lips and the slight rasp in your voice, the misery and the life and everything in between, made a storm that saves life. so the theater applauds at the happy ending, love that saves the day. completely ignoring, that the day only wants to end.

12