Bruised knuckles and shaking fingers,
These will always remind me of him,
Of a boy that I can no longer claim to know.

Bruised knuckles and shaking fingers,
I always hated the fact that his hands
looked looked how I felt.

Bruised knuckles and shaking fingers,
the sign that I hadn't got there in time,
I hadn't stepped between him and the wall,
the wall that he so desperately want to crash against.

Bruised knuckles and shaking fingers,
it always ended this way;
the feeling still lingers.

I take solace in the flowers,
They bloom and are beautiful,
They bring joy and meaning,
They smile at the sun, turning into the light,
Perhaps I wish I could be a flower,
They are all that I strive to be.

“As that of butterfly she sits not afar off from me,
Ah I notice a glance procure every so often,
Oh the body of excellence the skin of papal host,
She has made me feel alive again with her allure,

The wind blows the aroma of galbanum,
From this ethereal beauty,
As I now sit with an apothecary of emotions,
Abasement has slain my inspiration to continue on,
Light of another diurnal is not sufficient for my cogitation,

Could earth be cloistered in some obscure place?
In her curves and the galbanum of her body,
I am besieged by the enlightening celestial beauty,  
This could be the most ecstatic point of my life,

Your skin, your big eyes, alluring one be my alluring one,
You are beginning to be my light my shadow alluring one,
Magnetism is what you are alive in front of me my allure,  
I can feel the Tender Touch of your hands the tender lips upon, mine,

As the sea influxes collide in the sea before us,
As we cosset in the sand you are now my,
Ethereal ALLURE”
By AG 04/1/2018

.......a parade of thoughts,
crowd its tip......sad...sweet,
scary...unpleasant...pleasant,
hopeful...or prohibited,thoughts
come.....one after the other,
like white circled smokes from a spectre,
smoking....hiding, behind the curtain,
triggered by a song, a verse, or somethin'
else.....like a photo, a voice...a memory...

when they come to haunt...and taunt
..... i just bow my head,
and let my  pen stand *****
or lean inside my palm,
allow it to make curves, loops and  
lines, to cross out untimely thoughts
on white blank pages...
pen struggles with me--whether or not, to share
my likes, dislikes, my disgust, fears, my despair...
my endless questions are frozen...wintered
within...i wonder, will they remain unuttered?
....the answers, as before, are uncertain...
.........my discontent, oh, so apparent...
::::
.....when i hold my pen...is when my soul
breathes and relaxes...it journeys...i forget all,
....hunger pangs do not enter my mind
..my troubled self....and the peaceful me
....join forces....their combined energy
flow freely, inside my inner streams...
...i sit tall when they bring out the best in me,
...wonder if i could bring back worst moments,
......and correct the wrong in them...but,
who's to say what is right? what is wrong?

when i hold my pen, i realize its might,
its omnipotent power....its written bold words,
exclamations, lines, commas, dots and dashes,
can incite, or douse strong actions and feelings
it softens the sharp edges of anger and pain
it can puncture deeper...better than a sword,
it can heal...soothe wounds and  slashes
.................inflicted by other pens


........when i hold my pen,
i let it speak for me...time and again...


Sally

© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
March 21, 2018