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 Nov 2015 Chase Anthony
ringnir
Hope
is a benchwarmer,
a mere spectator-
wistful as the game tarries,
useless as a goal jockey.
Why hope? Strive.
 Nov 2015 Chase Anthony
Josh Wong
Ako’y


G  u  m  u  h  o


sa’yo.


N  a  b  a  g  s  a  k

ako

,


Paulit-ulit,

Hanggang ako’y


N  a  k  a  h  a  n  d  u  s  a  y


Sa pag-ibig **** -


B  i  n  a  t  o


Nang


M a l a k a s

at

M a k i r o t

,




Sinalo ko naman.

Bwiset.
 Nov 2015 Chase Anthony
RisingUp
Today I was told.

I don't know who I am.

An absurd remark?

Perhaps.

Or a sad realization.

A slave to the grades.

"Do that for your resumé!"

Try harder, you must be the best.

Perfect, perfect.

From school to work to food consumption,

the slave driver in my head allows no interruption.

And what has this created?  What is this Frankenstein?

A girl involved in so much, yet without her own mind.

What are her passions?  What gives her real joy?

What's hidden behind that achievement ploy?

For now, there's no answer.

She's perfectionism's fine dancer.

Yet with some searching and fun,

The puppet show may finally be done.
(20 minute poetry)

Laid down low and there's nowhere to go, but the nowhere you've been many times and so you rock to and fro hoping the pain will leave,
it does.

You know it does,
all things do
eventually.

In the here and now still wondering how you'll make it through when the faith inside deserted you,
You knew that would do too.

And so the pain becomes a friend, you carry on
is there no end to this?
Mother used to kiss us well,
now I'm too old for that.

I have fallen flat
rolled out and thinned,
pinned my eyes on many things.
Fruition is a seasonal affair and I'm not
nearly ripe enough to gorge
on any fancy stuff.

I'll get up soon
older,
none the wiser
eyes still pinned on distant dreams,
thinned and ragged around the seams.
I carry on and
nowhere in particular
tickles me like it used to do,
but that's okay
the pain can stay
as long as I keep moving
Into
through
each and every day.
 Nov 2015 Chase Anthony
Charlie
It is the season of
wiggly toes in wool socks,
witty novels and obscure films,
raindrops,
silver against the night sky,
And despite the crisp air,
an overwhelming feeling
of warmth.
It is the season of
warm feelings
that have no objective,
but only,
to feel warm
when my toes
meet yours
in a lucky accident.
Small secret moments,
no more real
than in my heart
and in my head.
They look down from their holy thrones
They pass judgement onto those that stray from the pack
To be different is to be unique
To be unique is to be a sin
And to sin is to burn

With venom filled words they whip our backs,
They strip us of our humanity
They toss us onto the wildlands
Just for being who we are,
We're nothing more than **** to them

The sacred boundaries they claim,
Have been defiled with our very existence
To love is to bring about hate
To hate is to commit suicide
And to die by our own hand,
Is just another proof of our sin of life

The robed men preach their indignity
Scream their hate
March their ignorance

Banned from a hypocritical dystopian
We're scared and traumatized
Divided and hunted down
Hurt and dying

To be a loving God, you must be Perfect
To be a holy angel, you must be free of all sins
To be human, however, you must learn to love

So now we ask you, the "holy" tyrants
If to be human, you must learn to love,
What is it that you truly are?
Perhaps, just maybe, you're the blasphemous sinners you claim us to be
If you haven't guessed it, this is a poem about "religious" people who believe that being who you are is a sin.
Mind attuned and strung
with balanced chords, struck to the
beat of my new stride.
 Nov 2015 Chase Anthony
kasia
there is something beautiful about you
when you cry.
i don't know if it's the sadness
that leaks from your skin
or how your brain pain is near tangible.
nor do i know
why that should be beautiful
but perhaps it is just the softness
the relenting,
the giving up,
the most ****** up form of peace.
and the repeat realization
of all the reasons
you should feel guilty.

it shows on your face.
as your cheeks redden and then drain slowly of color.
through your muscles
as they tense, almost relax, and then shake.
your eyes, they are red.
they are red and small and drooping.

you see yourself in the mirror
and you fight an urge to smash it again.
you're ashamed, but you see it too:
you are so ******* pretty when you cry.
that robe of misery suits you so well.
maybe you were born for pain.
not quite poetry

im sorry
this is so dramatic
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