saul_bae - Hello Poetry

A pile of mud moving, re-animated: you watch a trail of stink —striking everyone's senses— I'm leaving behind. A man of mud walks toward you, sliding smooth on the façade of a greasy pavement coming at you longing, to solicit your pity —my body crumbles at each step I ****** towards you while watching myself being torn apart. I stretch my arm, and then my stiff fingers, each soaked in tears, to grab whatever I can out of you. I disintegrate into emptiness at every attempt I make —all futile, meaningless. My muddied lips set apart to plead, but only a screeching noise comes out, squeaking, like that of a mouse. You, the one with a shovel —sharp is the blade— scream at me, whacking my clay-man body with your murderous tool you hold so tight —this sight of Mudman must be hideous indeed to those pupils of innocence, burning brightly with consuming hatred. Lying on the floor flattened, unaccepted, the muddied lips that survived the shattering blow are squirming still. You grind them under your heel merciless.

0

Aug 28, 2021

Aug 28, 2021 at 8:19 PM UTC

saul_bae

Mudman

A pile of mud moving, re-animated: you watch a trail of stink —striking everyone's senses— I'm leaving behind. A man of mud walks toward you, sliding smooth on the façade of a greasy pavement coming at you longing, to solicit your pity —my body crumbles at each step I ****** towards you while watching myself being torn apart. I stretch my arm, and then my stiff fingers, each soaked in tears, to grab whatever I can out of you. I disintegrate into emptiness at every attempt I make —all futile, meaningless. My muddied lips set apart to plead, but only a screeching noise comes out, squeaking, like that of a mouse. You, the one with a shovel —sharp is the blade— scream at me, whacking my clay-man body with your murderous tool you hold so tight —this sight of Mudman must be hideous indeed to those pupils of innocence, burning brightly with consuming hatred. Lying on the floor flattened, unaccepted, the muddied lips that survived the shattering blow are squirming still. You grind them under your heel merciless.

45

Call me a medicine man, and yeah, I'll be there for you sure, dedicated to you only, to help the one without a cure. Once I step inside your heart you'll begin to doze off, and those shaky hands will be soothed while letting your head rock to and fro; can't be helped. You'd be my tiny little sleepyhead holding that little dose in your palm and you'll soon wander off deep into the neverland of your own version, forgetful of human senses: the striking smell, the taste to savour, the sound the music that is ever whimsical, the bright light and the dim dark. And I reckon you already like it all surrounded by the forgetfulness —the numbing sensations nullifying your will to rise, and the pleasure finds shelter within you. Then in your dream you start to want me more, not knowing the impending consequences of forgetting all about yourself, of drowning further into the river that we all call the sorrow, and of falling faster and farther until you know nowhere to return. I call out "Wakey-wakey," then, prying open your eyes and every doors that'll lead you outside with haste —the light shines upon your pupils still drowned in tears, bewildered, with your legs wobbling. Yet you're no longer my sleepyhead anyway, so walk on, off with you, carry on with your stiff legs —though you pretty much look like you'll need a stick just to stand upright - and do come see me if you ever need me again.

0

Sep 10, 2020

Sep 10, 2020 at 2:51 AM UTC

saul_bae

Medicine Man

Call me a medicine man, and yeah, I'll be there for you sure, dedicated to you only, to help the one without a cure. Once I step inside your heart you'll begin to doze off, and those shaky hands will be soothed while letting your head rock to and fro; can't be helped. You'd be my tiny little sleepyhead holding that little dose in your palm and you'll soon wander off deep into the neverland of your own version, forgetful of human senses: the striking smell, the taste to savour, the sound the music that is ever whimsical, the bright light and the dim dark. And I reckon you already like it all surrounded by the forgetfulness —the numbing sensations nullifying your will to rise, and the pleasure finds shelter within you. Then in your dream you start to want me more, not knowing the impending consequences of forgetting all about yourself, of drowning further into the river that we all call the sorrow, and of falling faster and farther until you know nowhere to return. I call out "Wakey-wakey," then, prying open your eyes and every doors that'll lead you outside with haste —the light shines upon your pupils still drowned in tears, bewildered, with your legs wobbling. Yet you're no longer my sleepyhead anyway, so walk on, off with you, carry on with your stiff legs —though you pretty much look like you'll need a stick just to stand upright - and do come see me if you ever need me again.

42

Come to me, my dearest one. Let me get inside you more; naivety is your nature, thus eager to please and to be pleased —time flies like a fleeting bluebird, a fairy in its blue bright spirit, and still you’re nearing my presence. Almost there, so be afraid of me, and yet fond of me, for I'll never let you stray off anymore —stop your wandering, no more— and ‘tis the proof that I hold you so dear. I long to relish that imminent moment where you’ll give me the enjoyable tickles while struggling in my arms tightly locked, kept held in my blooming ***** in ominous anticipation. Alas, I'm much eager to please you so —and I do expect, you would feel the same; that is what I know from your eyes trying to shun my eagerness, still neglecting my attentive gesture beckoning you to join me, but you will hide it no longer, for all of your struggles, big or small no matter, fans my fanatic yearning for your soul. So accept me, my foolish child (so carefree, but still shuddering) as the dim evening clouds would shroud the skies above, sealing off the passage of light that was once so brilliant, but now without a reason to exist. And you, the courted, don't just stand there when I come to embrace you heartily, so induce me—do ****** me, and betray your fear to be accepted by me, and only. Do me a favor, and this shall work as a token of passion for me; the perfection is all yours: the purification of our intents, the petrifaction of our conscience, the completion of our unison, ceasing the compliance with the rigid standards of the unworthy. Wings of the butterfly collapse altogether, and you will be awaken, knowing that, my love, you are truly a butterfly. Like a pair of moths, we fly into the torchlight burning incandescent.

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Sep 4, 2020

Sep 4, 2020 at 5:54 AM UTC

saul_bae

Enthralled

Come to me, my dearest one. Let me get inside you more; naivety is your nature, thus eager to please and to be pleased —time flies like a fleeting bluebird, a fairy in its blue bright spirit, and still you’re nearing my presence. Almost there, so be afraid of me, and yet fond of me, for I'll never let you stray off anymore —stop your wandering, no more— and ‘tis the proof that I hold you so dear. I long to relish that imminent moment where you’ll give me the enjoyable tickles while struggling in my arms tightly locked, kept held in my blooming ***** in ominous anticipation. Alas, I'm much eager to please you so —and I do expect, you would feel the same; that is what I know from your eyes trying to shun my eagerness, still neglecting my attentive gesture beckoning you to join me, but you will hide it no longer, for all of your struggles, big or small no matter, fans my fanatic yearning for your soul. So accept me, my foolish child (so carefree, but still shuddering) as the dim evening clouds would shroud the skies above, sealing off the passage of light that was once so brilliant, but now without a reason to exist. And you, the courted, don't just stand there when I come to embrace you heartily, so induce me—do ****** me, and betray your fear to be accepted by me, and only. Do me a favor, and this shall work as a token of passion for me; the perfection is all yours: the purification of our intents, the petrifaction of our conscience, the completion of our unison, ceasing the compliance with the rigid standards of the unworthy. Wings of the butterfly collapse altogether, and you will be awaken, knowing that, my love, you are truly a butterfly. Like a pair of moths, we fly into the torchlight burning incandescent.

55

The two ol' pals are facing each other. He passes a glass of poison to his dear guest, leaning near the front door, slightly opened; and he's learning the reason— why he's standing there, about to storm out of the stone-cold apartment— 'bout to burst in tears shedding the vivid droplets that shouldn't be belonging to a mere ghost. Yet he's fleeting, escaping the scene still, while the owner of the kitchenette is putting back the bottle to where it belonged; and he's gone, present no longer. The drink on the rock—left on the shelf— is evaporating, following the vaporized guest, leaving the scent of faint alcohol that lulls the other friend to regretful sleep.

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Aug 31, 2020

Aug 31, 2020 at 10:20 PM UTC

saul_bae

A Drink

The two ol' pals are facing each other. He passes a glass of poison to his dear guest, leaning near the front door, slightly opened; and he's learning the reason— why he's standing there, about to storm out of the stone-cold apartment— 'bout to burst in tears shedding the vivid droplets that shouldn't be belonging to a mere ghost. Yet he's fleeting, escaping the scene still, while the owner of the kitchenette is putting back the bottle to where it belonged; and he's gone, present no longer. The drink on the rock—left on the shelf— is evaporating, following the vaporized guest, leaving the scent of faint alcohol that lulls the other friend to regretful sleep.

19

Blissful art those that are ignorant. They know not pain, for they do not know what pain is; and I wish I could join them, the children of the oblivion.

0

Aug 31, 2020

Aug 31, 2020 at 7:04 AM UTC

saul_bae

Bliss

Blissful art those that are ignorant. They know not pain, for they do not know what pain is; and I wish I could join them, the children of the oblivion.

7

Batteries of the skies; booming thunders, and so are you. You, the whirlwind the most ferocious, befit such name ever notorious— ever in a strife of your own seemingly unending. The whirlwind strikes hard and fast, and as such; angels of death descending, striking from the faint heavens to accomplish its sole purpose, destructive in nature, beseeching its everlasting glory that’d evoke the sun’s jealousy, even. Alas! You carry out the task that spares none of the land, taking away the dearest one from another, weeping, flipping cars and engines from where they're standing, while plucking out the road signs once robust and even the trees once deemed so ancient— none is spared but wrecked before the might of the whirlwind the total annihilation being its sole identity— the one that destroys in the name of thy honor and in the very name of glory in vain. You look around— only to see none has survived or has been left alive; spectating the empty earth and the water while being dispersed, scattered amidst the air, lifted by the hands of thy maker disappearing—joining the void specters, and thus befitting the word, truly, the vainglory.

0

Aug 31, 2020

Aug 31, 2020 at 6:57 AM UTC

saul_bae

Vainglory

Batteries of the skies; booming thunders, and so are you. You, the whirlwind the most ferocious, befit such name ever notorious— ever in a strife of your own seemingly unending. The whirlwind strikes hard and fast, and as such; angels of death descending, striking from the faint heavens to accomplish its sole purpose, destructive in nature, beseeching its everlasting glory that’d evoke the sun’s jealousy, even. Alas! You carry out the task that spares none of the land, taking away the dearest one from another, weeping, flipping cars and engines from where they're standing, while plucking out the road signs once robust and even the trees once deemed so ancient— none is spared but wrecked before the might of the whirlwind the total annihilation being its sole identity— the one that destroys in the name of thy honor and in the very name of glory in vain. You look around— only to see none has survived or has been left alive; spectating the empty earth and the water while being dispersed, scattered amidst the air, lifted by the hands of thy maker disappearing—joining the void specters, and thus befitting the word, truly, the vainglory.

32

The pleasure is all mine when I see a nickel on the sidewalk while on my way to the bus-stop nearby, and when I, the fast traveller, see a piece of weathered poster whirled up in the wind and then laid there on the roadside forgotten, yet still retaining its hue vivid —the colors are still lively at the least, nevertheless. My heart grows into full vivacity when I see such serendipity so small, glowing in brilliance yet so lucid, in a manner ever graceful —no matter how tiny that is— from the bottom of my heart —I'm being accepted into thy blissfulness, which may hold the wonders of the world ever imaginable.

0

Aug 27, 2020

Aug 27, 2020 at 5:41 AM UTC

saul_bae

Serendipity

The pleasure is all mine when I see a nickel on the sidewalk while on my way to the bus-stop nearby, and when I, the fast traveller, see a piece of weathered poster whirled up in the wind and then laid there on the roadside forgotten, yet still retaining its hue vivid —the colors are still lively at the least, nevertheless. My heart grows into full vivacity when I see such serendipity so small, glowing in brilliance yet so lucid, in a manner ever graceful —no matter how tiny that is— from the bottom of my heart —I'm being accepted into thy blissfulness, which may hold the wonders of the world ever imaginable.

24

Say it to me, baby, that you want me—still— after all that I've done to you, and only. I hear you breathing out hot —lying flattened on the cold floor— even after the hard bruisin' you've gone through—swell, sure it was. And I wrecked such havoc on you all because I care for you, nothing more, nothing less. I beat you up swell to get you in a better shape just like a sculptor beating his stone into the shape of David—bare naked. I'm modern Michelangelo, so to say, and I want you to whisper to me that you crave me, that you desire still such tyranny of mine even more. So just say it, for your perfection and a sheer thrill that follows —all these right at our hands—are so close. Wicked as it is, my whispering to you demands it.

0

Aug 25, 2020

Aug 25, 2020 at 9:38 PM UTC

saul_bae

Whisper

Say it to me, baby, that you want me—still— after all that I've done to you, and only. I hear you breathing out hot —lying flattened on the cold floor— even after the hard bruisin' you've gone through—swell, sure it was. And I wrecked such havoc on you all because I care for you, nothing more, nothing less. I beat you up swell to get you in a better shape just like a sculptor beating his stone into the shape of David—bare naked. I'm modern Michelangelo, so to say, and I want you to whisper to me that you crave me, that you desire still such tyranny of mine even more. So just say it, for your perfection and a sheer thrill that follows —all these right at our hands—are so close. Wicked as it is, my whispering to you demands it.

28

Lull my body dull my self, ye good poet of mine; I could use some lullaby at this starry night—starry stars in heavens, creations from the comforter; oblivion now seemingly a synonym of blissful state of a mind; countless stars—starry are they, boundless thoughts—wild, rowdy thoughts and imaginations un-checked, stimulating, eager to be loaded and fired, and so on, et cetera. They are crossing the sky dressed in a hue of midnight. I think of my late-night coffee to be some reason for this, but I'll never be sure, still.

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Aug 24, 2020

Aug 24, 2020 at 10:31 PM UTC

saul_bae

Lullaby Wanted

Lull my body dull my self, ye good poet of mine; I could use some lullaby at this starry night—starry stars in heavens, creations from the comforter; oblivion now seemingly a synonym of blissful state of a mind; countless stars—starry are they, boundless thoughts—wild, rowdy thoughts and imaginations un-checked, stimulating, eager to be loaded and fired, and so on, et cetera. They are crossing the sky dressed in a hue of midnight. I think of my late-night coffee to be some reason for this, but I'll never be sure, still.

20

Woe to the being in its brilliance ever illuminating, ever since it was brought out to this world full of wonders —you might’ve thought as such, at first— to your initial senses just born into the earth. Stellar you are, and they regarded you such at first, but considered as a constellation baffling, soon after, thus celestial, irritating to their perception —belonging to none of the earth; heathen you’ve been, and so that’s why, I see, you’re deemed a heretic. Looking around, you walk on the heaven’s arc painted in all its auroral glory, wondering, ever yearning for the only answer they might give you someday: to which stars the people of the earth give their praises so pristine.

0

Aug 24, 2020

Aug 24, 2020 at 2:12 PM UTC

saul_bae

Stellar

Woe to the being in its brilliance ever illuminating, ever since it was brought out to this world full of wonders —you might’ve thought as such, at first— to your initial senses just born into the earth. Stellar you are, and they regarded you such at first, but considered as a constellation baffling, soon after, thus celestial, irritating to their perception —belonging to none of the earth; heathen you’ve been, and so that’s why, I see, you’re deemed a heretic. Looking around, you walk on the heaven’s arc painted in all its auroral glory, wondering, ever yearning for the only answer they might give you someday: to which stars the people of the earth give their praises so pristine.

24