meyousings - Hello Poetry

We've been in several sleeping places. Hotel rooms, apartelles, condotels, cheap, dilapidated motels. Would often wonder who were the last occupants before we came. Were they a couple? A paid ********** and her customer? (or maybe it's the other pronoun) Two friends, lonely and sexually craving for a warm body, any familiar body? (at the risk of being strangers the morning after) Some rooms we've been in reeked of loneliness and secrecy. Some had crisp, clean sheets, all traces of body fluids laundered and bleached. Ready to absorb our own. I look at the walls. Plastered white. Crumbling green. Peeling beige. How many moans of pleasure (faked or authentic) tried to seep into them against the solid cement towards another room? Were they all moans, those sounds? What if some were howling, of force, of "first-time" pains, of lost virginities? The creaking of bed posts is the musical score of a three-hour narrative. could be longer, could be shorter. Only they can tell. There could be cuddling (if they are lucky) or turned backs (if they are ****** Worse, one could be sobbing. Soundless, inconspicuous sobs even the body beside her cannot hear.

0

Mar 19, 2017

Mar 19, 2017 at 3:18 AM UTC

Bedtime Stories

We've been in several sleeping places. Hotel rooms, apartelles, condotels, cheap, dilapidated motels. Would often wonder who were the last occupants before we came. Were they a couple? A paid ********** and her customer? (or maybe it's the other pronoun) Two friends, lonely and sexually craving for a warm body, any familiar body? (at the risk of being strangers the morning after) Some rooms we've been in reeked of loneliness and secrecy. Some had crisp, clean sheets, all traces of body fluids laundered and bleached. Ready to absorb our own. I look at the walls. Plastered white. Crumbling green. Peeling beige. How many moans of pleasure (faked or authentic) tried to seep into them against the solid cement towards another room? Were they all moans, those sounds? What if some were howling, of force, of "first-time" pains, of lost virginities? The creaking of bed posts is the musical score of a three-hour narrative. could be longer, could be shorter. Only they can tell. There could be cuddling (if they are lucky) or turned backs (if they are ****** Worse, one could be sobbing. Soundless, inconspicuous sobs even the body beside her cannot hear.

39

"I'm happy you're sleepy. Instead of falling in love or falling apart, why not fall asleep instead and get your exhausted mind some much needed slumber and silence." "Instead of falling in love or falling asleep, why don't you fall apart instead? Then pick yourself up and maybe ask us to help you if there are any missing pieces." "Thanks. That's thoughtful. It's just that falling in love feels like life and falling asleep feels like death but falling apart feels like dying." n.v.

0

Sep 5, 2016

Sep 5, 2016 at 12:00 AM UTC

Late Night Conversations

"I'm happy you're sleepy. Instead of falling in love or falling apart, why not fall asleep instead and get your exhausted mind some much needed slumber and silence." "Instead of falling in love or falling asleep, why don't you fall apart instead? Then pick yourself up and maybe ask us to help you if there are any missing pieces." "Thanks. That's thoughtful. It's just that falling in love feels like life and falling asleep feels like death but falling apart feels like dying." n.v.

6

She had blue skin, And so did he. He kept it hid And so did she. They searched for blue Their whole life through. Then passed right by– And never knew She had blue skin, And so did he. He kept it hid And so did she. They searched for blue Their whole life through. Then passed right by– And never knew. -Shel Silverstein

0

Aug 2, 2016

Aug 2, 2016 at 9:51 PM UTC

Masks

She had blue skin, And so did he. He kept it hid And so did she. They searched for blue Their whole life through. Then passed right by– And never knew She had blue skin, And so did he. He kept it hid And so did she. They searched for blue Their whole life through. Then passed right by– And never knew. -Shel Silverstein

17

Masikip at maliit madilim at mainit mga pang-uring aking naiisip sa tuwing naalala ang mumunti nating silid. Masikip at maliit madilim at mainit ngunit sa loob ng apat na sulok dito tayo'y malayang mangarap matapang sumubok. Masikip at maliit madilim at mainit lumagi sa loob ng isang taon, maraming buwan, sa wakas, atin na rin, akin na ring tinuring na tahanan.

0

Jul 20, 2016

Jul 20, 2016 at 3:25 AM UTC

Espasyo

Masikip at maliit madilim at mainit mga pang-uring aking naiisip sa tuwing naalala ang mumunti nating silid. Masikip at maliit madilim at mainit ngunit sa loob ng apat na sulok dito tayo'y malayang mangarap matapang sumubok. Masikip at maliit madilim at mainit lumagi sa loob ng isang taon, maraming buwan, sa wakas, atin na rin, akin na ring tinuring na tahanan.

14

Sinalungguhitan

0

Jul 7, 2016

Jul 7, 2016 at 12:26 AM UTC

I have a confession. Only your skin makes me alive now. Only the crook in your neck gives me warmth, and thaws the winter in my heart. Only your eyes light this seemingly tunnel of darkness I am crawling in. I let your lips trace my body, Only because I need to know I am not yet formless, only to feel the touch because I need to know I am not a ghost yet. I open my mouth for your mouth, and taste you, and you breathe life into me. You do not know this. No, not yet.

0

Dec 26, 2015

Dec 26, 2015 at 7:26 AM UTC

Skin

I have a confession. Only your skin makes me alive now. Only the crook in your neck gives me warmth, and thaws the winter in my heart. Only your eyes light this seemingly tunnel of darkness I am crawling in. I let your lips trace my body, Only because I need to know I am not yet formless, only to feel the touch because I need to know I am not a ghost yet. I open my mouth for your mouth, and taste you, and you breathe life into me. You do not know this. No, not yet.

14

Gusto ko na rin umuwi, humimbing, manahan, sa tugtog niya, sa tinig niya, sa tahanan kong siya. Ilang araw na ring nagpigil umaming masyadong malayo ang dito sa diyan. Madalas, minsan, malimit magulo ang isip sa tuwing gabi'y tahimik. Binibilang ang mga araw, nadadagdagan ang pananabik hanggang umapaw na at naging luha walang tigil umagos.

0

May 9, 2015

May 9, 2015 at 5:48 AM UTC

Untitled

Gusto ko na rin umuwi, humimbing, manahan, sa tugtog niya, sa tinig niya, sa tahanan kong siya. Ilang araw na ring nagpigil umaming masyadong malayo ang dito sa diyan. Madalas, minsan, malimit magulo ang isip sa tuwing gabi'y tahimik. Binibilang ang mga araw, nadadagdagan ang pananabik hanggang umapaw na at naging luha walang tigil umagos.

12

Atras, abante ang mga along natotorpe. Atras. Natakot, nahiya baka raw mabasa Ang mga paa ng mayuming dalaga. Abante. Sinisante na ang kimi, alon ay nagbaka-sakali. Kaya't dalaga ay nakiliti nang ang tubig ay dumampi sa kanyang mga daliri.

0

Apr 17, 2015

Apr 17, 2015 at 11:18 AM UTC

Para kay B*

Atras, abante ang mga along natotorpe. Atras. Natakot, nahiya baka raw mabasa Ang mga paa ng mayuming dalaga. Abante. Sinisante na ang kimi, alon ay nagbaka-sakali. Kaya't dalaga ay nakiliti nang ang tubig ay dumampi sa kanyang mga daliri.

13

Penelope must have felt this way. Weaving in the morning, unweaving at night. This threadwork of colors forming, unforming rolling, unrolling running stitches, leaving holes, loose, loose tiny holes. I begin our story, stop midway. Wasting ink. Wasting paper. Killing trees. Hanging my right hand in the air. Creaking the door is. Only it is the wind. Holding out until your homecoming.

0

Mar 1, 2015

Mar 1, 2015 at 9:14 PM UTC

Being Penelope

Penelope must have felt this way. Weaving in the morning, unweaving at night. This threadwork of colors forming, unforming rolling, unrolling running stitches, leaving holes, loose, loose tiny holes. I begin our story, stop midway. Wasting ink. Wasting paper. Killing trees. Hanging my right hand in the air. Creaking the door is. Only it is the wind. Holding out until your homecoming.

17

you are tired he thinks and he was right you are tired because within you is a jar of words unspoken the letters have become jumbled. it has been weeks since the night you attempted to remember the correct patterns. did you mean 'here' or a letter more? 'there'. it sounds more correct but sadder.

0

Nov 17, 2014

Nov 17, 2014 at 3:56 AM UTC

ee cummings was right

you are tired he thinks and he was right you are tired because within you is a jar of words unspoken the letters have become jumbled. it has been weeks since the night you attempted to remember the correct patterns. did you mean 'here' or a letter more? 'there'. it sounds more correct but sadder.

20