Left alone on the highway
Close to the high rise
Two Banyan trees
Alone, yet side by side
Branches stretched upwards, towards the sky
The birds make nests
Birthing sweet melodies
Every morning as the sun crests

Dusty in summer
Their life spared
Reminiscing times
Of the forest  
That was thriving green

Missing the younger ones
And many a comrades
Deemed unimportant
As trees
Who lost the battle
To the concrete

The war is actually within
We should leave it be
We could meditate
The entire universe
Into world peace

Don’t take my word for it
Give it a **** good try
Peace on earth is worth living
War is a but a lie…

Love and passion compel me through the nights that last to long..
No invisible entity can touch me, my muses are far too strong!
I don’t need to strain my eyes to see what can’t be see from afar
We know that evils out there,
cause love is who we are!

Courtesy to the star that was forged to make me all I am.
Kisses to the protein and salts used to make up all the parts of my brain.
Though I still lack the capability to figure out how it holds everything
and nothing at the same time.
Even in a yonderly state the words still know how to line themselves
on the page, as they transfer from my head and onto the white screen.
something else I can't explain.
Like how substances can tell me how life should feel
but I lack the capability to grasp it for myself.
How I hold the potential to achieve the impossible in my back pockets
but even the possible seems too incredible for me.
More things I can't physically grasp onto.
I'm mentally climbing a man-made rope called strength.
I'm strong for all the wrong reasons, wrong people.
I just have to be strong enough to survive, but what if I just don't
want to do that either.
What if I just want to clock out, and call off for the next 5 years
to grow inside of myself and not this astronomical object that harbors
my life and anything else with one.

Some people aren't open to talks
others don't even entertain jokes,
because their daily moments are
a chaos, of sadness, pain, of anger,
of rising from varying rejections.

We.....are the heroes,
or the villains...or the sacrificed,
characters...in glorious times,
struggles, described in verses;
we know...for we are those writers,
our poems are colored with our lives.

We create our own rhythms, from
calm or tempestuous days and nights,
we hear ourselves
in gentle or loud voices
we hide...among our limited choices,
we turn numb
we become blind, due to despair,
yet, with a little love,
we get by, and...in time,
our poems become our lifetime hymns,
bringing us back to those days,
how we tried, and
learned our lessons.

sally b

Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
March 2, 2025