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Wagas ang paglilingkod
Sa bayan niyang sinisinta.
Nagsilbing pananggalang
Ng mga sugatang paa.

Walang pag-iimbot
Na hatid ang bawat galaw.
Katapatan niya'y 'di matinag
Sa baluwarte niyang saklaw.

Siya ay anak-dalita
Kaya may puso sa maralita.
Hinirang dahil may bilang
At hindi lang puro salita.

Maaga man ang paglisan
Habambuhay magmamarka
Bansag na "Reyna ng Tsinelas"
Na kanyang naipinta.
Para sa pagkilala at pagalala kay Kagawad Manet Gonzales Buensuceso

i think he was a delivery guy
building four, number 2
across the walk

a moped with one of those
cage attachments
for carrying food
or packages
or whatever

one time i brought over a
loose hammer found near
his bike and caught a
glimpse through the door

gray couch,
folding chairs,
table full of wires
nothing out of the ordinary
same layout as ours

white Hats barreled in
before we could react
the dog was first
then my brother
then me

guess they had some bad intel
for peace in solidarity
island poet Apr 2020

for some time,
in these troubled moments,
midst the uprooted formless firmament
where rawest poems come from,
and the saddest gentled, go to die,
colloquially a place, a space,
we call,

in these, them days of lockdown quarantine,
time has lost its preeminence,
the swagger of precision-swiss-definition
of the imposing measuring stick of
is lost to that very
formless firmament

we look at each aghast,
with wild puzzlement faces,
inquiring of each other,

what day of the week is it?

the eavesdropping, spying voice of this device
“see the upper left corner”

which is kind of a miracle
but not nearly as amazing that

a few hours later,
or some time span of an approximate relevancy,
(we assume,)
we ask each other, once more,
in a reverie of hopelessness,
with total no-pretense of the
no, worse,
the frightening pointy needlessness of
it matters

dearest darling,
pray, pray,
what day of the week is it?

writ on the Isle of Manhattan
Tahlia-rayne Nov 2018
What are we doing?
Our words are growing quieter
Our touches strained
Our hearts building a small wall each day
Hurting it's hands pushing the bricks and material together without us even knowing
Why are we here?
It's like there's something in our minds still fighting tooth and nail for a war nobody believes in anymore and our bodies are just following along
Maybe it's time this war came to an end
I don't think either of us want to deal with the casualties of our love dying along with our hope
fearfulpoet Aug 2018
surrender and defeat,
my fated causality,
by mine own hand done in,
'twas the death I ordained,
when to the addiction of ego,
I did, did I,
concede and become another casualty
by mine own mind
Brandon Conway Jun 2018
A handful of dust, immortality
A portrait to age, immorality
A hungry lust doth consume, apathy
A conscience driven mad, insanity
Narcissistic soul buried, casualty
The capturing of youth, causality
Rsebd Apr 2018
There’s residue on my torso, dark twisted and tainted by blood.
I’ve seen this once before, convinced that I would never be here again
The aesthetics are casualties of war.
I’ve lost control of the cannon in my chest.
Mystic Ink Plus Feb 2018
Blast was/is /will
Never be

Music of my choice.
Theme: Haiku for Peace. A moment to Syria.
AtMidCode Nov 2017
to hurt

explained that
mean it

in her
and see
the knife
only pierce
my flesh
but also
her soul

-i am not the only casualty
Luna Craft Nov 2016
Today's another illusion, another dissolution with my reality
A casualty of war; a mind that can't handle sanity
The thoughts of thought long forgotten, independent
Exceeding all that was perceived, a unseen precedent
Of minds throwing thorns at the throats of lost children
Dreams of a crippled life of being hidden
That ripple beyond the dead sun and burdened eyes
We finally see nothing beyond the lies;
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