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  Jul 2016 camilleavila
Camille Avila







  Jul 2016 camilleavila
Midnight Rain
you haven't read her
until you feel her words
still rattling in your head
for days.

because her poetry
will always **** a little
bit of you as you read.

her words are bullets
to the heart, you can't help but
bleed long after she's gone.

& death is to those who choke up
on them and feel it clawing
up the back of their throats as they try so
hard not to cry.
Inspired by a poetess and a dear friend of mine.
  Jul 2016 camilleavila
Camille Avila
Lumipas na ang mga araw
Kasabay nito ang ating alaala
Ngunit hindi pa rin mawala wala
Ang iyong imahen sa aking isipan

Matang nakakaakit,
Labing mapula,
Magagandang ngiti,
At boses na napakasarap pakinggan

Lahat ng ito'y gustong makita't maranasan muli
Ngunit ako'y naguguluhan,
Tama bang naisin ko lahat ng ito
Kung ako naman ang lumayo.
  Jul 2016 camilleavila
Camille Avila
Lulubog ang araw
Maaalala kang muli
Alaala natin'y babalik
Na para bang kahapon lang lahat ng nangyari.

Habang nakatitig sa langit,
Sa buwan at bituin
Ika'y andito sa puso't isipan
hindi na maalis

Sa bawat oras na lumilipas
Lungkot saya ang nararamdaman
Ngingiti, Luluha
Dahil sa alaala nang nakaraan

At sa paglitaw ng Araw
Panandalian kang makakalimutan
Ngunit sa muling paglubog nito
Andito ka ulit, sa puso't isipan.
  Jul 2016 camilleavila
We danced toward
each other's wounds

with gentle step
and touched inside

and now the bleeding
has resumed

and all this blood
is hard to hide.
  Jul 2016 camilleavila
she was a poet,
and he was her pen.
in him,
she always found words to write,
songs to sing,
thoughts to think.

he'd smile,
and kiss her softly,
and say,
"write me a poem."

and she would.
she'd put poe,
and whitman,
and shakespeare to shame,
and she'd write a poem that made his eyes water.

she'd compare him
to a rose with no thorns,
a book with no end,
a world with no poverty --
the things we all wish for,
but can never attain.


he asked her one day,
"what am i?"
and so she picked up her pen,
and began the usual:
you are the shining sun after a hurricane,
with rays that open the eyes of the blind.

but he stopped her after those two lines,
and said that this time,
he didn't want any metaphors,
or similes,
or analogies.
he wanted the truth.

and so on that night,
as he slept,
the poet picked up her pen,
and she wrote.

she wrote,
then thought better of it,
then started over again,
and this cycle continued well into the early hours of the morning,
until suddenly,
she wrote, frantic,
if i can't love you for what you really are,
have i ever really loved you at all?

this, too,
she thought better of,
condemning it to the trash.

the next morning the poet was gone,
her final work a mere two words:

i'm sorry.

this is more of a story than a poem but i like how it came out so leave thoughts & comments please
camilleavila Jul 2016
I am shouting your name
giving all of my voice
just you to hear me

But I forgot
you are too busy
by shouting someone's name
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