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 Apr 2014 Griselda De Anda
fdg
it is 3:49 am
and i am awake
because i slept all day
because i was awake all night
because you were there,
your lips on mine
and even though you're not here now, you're still keeping me up..............................
There’s something about the lonely hours,
Just you and me, our space overlapping.
The sky a meadow, constellations, flowers.

No passion-filled debate, no vying powers,
Lazy destiny dreams, eschewing plans or mapping.
There’s something about the lonely hours.

Past today, the future glowers,
But reserve this sacred instant for reflection, recapping.
The sky a meadow, constellations, flowers.

The earth is straining, injustice towers,
Insidious corruption, pain and deceit chafing, chapping.
There’s something about the lonely hours.

The darkness consumes, seconds become hours,
Sorrow lurks at hand, irksome insecurities tapping.
The sky a meadow, constellations, flowers.

Yet, peace resounds, the evil cowers.
Hope, the thing with feathers, quietly, resiliently flapping.
There’s something about the lonely hours,
The sky a meadow, constellations, flowers.
 Apr 2014 Griselda De Anda
phocks
the first time, touched
us, otherwise strangers
delving within ourselves
our overt close encounters
past intimate imitations
of love’s labour lost and gained
we collide
again and again
crossing over, crossing under
energies focused at the hip
flowing through & into one another
endlessly
we release
feathers soaked
in each other’s essence
for soakyourfeathers on tumblr
Don't ever fall in love with a poet
because they will indeed admire and watch your every move
they will write about how the pen marks on the side of your palm when you write
don't ever because they will trace
every single freckle you have on your face and
write about the color of each and every one of them and
describe how they smile so brightly under the sunlight
they will want you to want to know every little thing about them
even if it's just what hand they write with and want you
to be wondering why they write with that specific hand when in
reality it doesn't even matter

the poet will watch the way you dig
your eyes onto that book and your small quick remarks onto the 26 letters all crumpled together and will know that everyday at 5:28 p.m. you smile

they will look deeply into your eyes
to see if they can at least take a little
peak of your soul and they will write
about you like if you were the only
thing they see good in this world

they will want to know what you think
about when you look at them and
see if you also count each and
every freckle and hope and write  
that you do but they will
love you endlessly and they will
show you that they love you and only you

but don't date a poet if you aren't
capable to watch them and
admire their imperfections
when they sleep late at night
beside you.

j.f
Fear is like a plague.
There’s no getting away from that aching
feeling of uncertainty that follows you
everywhere you go, finding you
even in the smallest of corners.

Fear is like a fire that you can’t tame
because trying to put it out only makes it grow
stronger and although people tell you
to face your fears, once it sets in,
spreading faster, is there really a way
to get away from something once it has
complete control over you?

You grow up with the pain of fear.
Fear that nothing good will ever come
because that’s just how the world works.
The pain, the depression, and the rejection
can easily be masked with a small smile
that says you’re fine.

It gets to the point where that small smile
becomes the biggest lie in the world;
a lie to deceive anyone and anything that
it comes in contact with.

Yet, no matter how big the lie may be,
it holds the power to make something
good slowly turn into something bad;
where the lie not only deceives
everyone else but also
ourselves in the end.

Lies about who we’re not become
truths about who we are to become.

The world works in ways where
the truth is a lie and a lie is
the truth if you’re willing to believe it.
They get tangled into such a web where
you no longer know the difference
between the two, only causing misery
in the long run.

It gets so etched into your mind
that you lose who you are to it
and once that happens,
the day has arrived where
you may wake up in the morning,
look in the mirror and no longer recognize
the stranger in front of you.

It’s the day you realize that so much time
has passed that the person you once were
is no longer who you are.

You won’t know the difference between good or bad,
you won’t know who you had been,
or what you had become.

There’s no starting over,
no returning to what use to be;
all you have is that one moment and
you live inside that same moment until
the deception finally kills you over.
I can't write like you do
I can't really compose
Grace has always eluded me
In movement and in prose

You write of such big things
But they are still all the same
Me? I can't really toy
With ideas so insane

I'm not a professional wordsmith
My art hasn't been trained
When I write, the words flow easy
Unabashed and Untamed

You and your words are sculpted
Precisely, with finesse
But with a subdued gloss and lack luster
So twisted so suppressed

And now I see my dear self
Finally in a clear way
Not in my movements or in the glass
but on my inked page

So if you ask me, dear self
Which cage do I choose?
I'd choose my dented brass one
Instead of your golden noose.
Maybe I'm a good man
A lost soul on the move
I'm a liar with conviction
Maybe you are too

I think the sky blue on purpose
The moon still full enough to view
The stars add up in surplus
Maybe one plus one is two

The way you laugh is angelic
Maybe you already knew that
My compliments sound long overdue
I think you knew that too

I'm scared of asking for your name
Maybe I know you'd only be passing through
We're separated by more than six degrees
A conclusion you already drew

Maybe life provides no guarantees
And all I ever wanted was the truth
I don't know what to believe
Maybe you always needed something new

Maybe there are no keys to succeed
Maybe success is knowing who you are is true
Maybe who you are is complete
And you and I will make do
Here's an edited version of my latest write. Let me know what you think!
 Apr 2014 Griselda De Anda
hkr
and all of my demons?
they look just
like
you.
ten word
I just want someone to care.
To notice, when I'm not there.
To stay by my side.
To let me cry.
I don't want to be judged.
I just want to be loved.
I don't care how far,
I don't care if you've receded,
I just want to know
that I am needed.
It's not creepy.
Certainly not.
It's just odd,
to read what's been thought.
I love the imaginary,
who exists.
I love the birds,
and bees.
I love the sky,
and seas.
I'm waiting.
I'm watching.
Watching the world.
Thinking about it,
I've come to notice.
You help me even now.
Because I don't know who you are,
I spend so much time thinking,
wondering,
contemplating elatedly,
to the point I don't even think,
about..
the world anymore.

All I care about it this beautiful,
wondrous,
ponderous,
distraction of mine.
And this image in my mind,
it may not be you,
but I may know some day.
This love is true.
This love is so much.
I don't even know what to do.
This love of mine,
I await.
I will wait.
I'm waiting.
I'm watching.
Watching the world.
The world will pass me by,
and in the end..
I will have you,
and hold your hand.
The collected dust,
will tell a story.
True love does exists. You just have to be patient.
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