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Its the end
The end of what,
The road is over,
We travelled long past.

It was good why it lasted
Now that was,
Is now with out.

Will we carry on
Not like before,
We were
greedy,
Consumed,
We were
Wanting,
Needing,
Never Satisfied,
We
All wanted more.

The ride is over
Its time to get off,
The end is here
Make of it what you will.

Will we now be one people
Work as one,
Will rise higher
Or
Turn to savages,
Show are true colours,
Sink to the bottom
And show the worst in us.

The road was long
But the time is to get off,
Is it the end,
Or the beginning of us.
I am not a writer.
I am not good with words,
I cannot speak up for myself,
It is my pen that bleed words.
No amount of convincing can give me conviction.
No amount of clarification can make that distinction.
Please refrain from using titles.

I am not a writer.
I am just a dreamer,
Dreaming dreams of inverted galaxies
Where complexities are reduced to simplicity,
And maybe love wouldn't be so complicated.
I dream of a world where I'll be unchained and liberated,
Because currently freedom is hard to go by.

I am not a writer.
I am just another over thinker,
I stay up all night disassembling the world,
So I can put it back together.
Adding new features that I think will make it better
I get lost in thoughts, and day-mares, fantasies and others,
I obsess and I always suffer.

I am not a writer.
Though sometimes I am photographer,
Snapping,
Close ups and selfies of my terrible mind.
Giving glints of places you won't usually find,
All because I write sometimes.
I just express my emotions is what I'm trying to say. This poems sounds like I'm rambling..
He is the buddha in their household.

When he arrives from work,
his two elder daughters run to his sides
already holding their guitars,
wanting to start jamming with him
right there and then.

The two younger ones
stand close to his feet,
waiting to be swung with his arms
as soon as he puts down
his heavy black bag.

His third daughter just hugs him tight,
his tummy choking within her tiny arms.

Right now, he is walking on air,
smiling widely, as his five girls
give him their  gifts of homemade
loom bands and paper robots,
as they all  greet him loudly---
"happy father's day, daddy!"

He is my son, Norman,
he is the father of my five
granddaughters...

He is the buddha in their
household....


Sally

Copyright 2014
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
***They are  always a sight to behold...***
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