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Salah May 2018
Why does it hurt?
The pain in chest as I look at the past.
The yearn for understanding thats never quenched.
The fear of being separated.
This thing hungers for my emotions.
It seals the positivity with a dark cloud.
It eats away at your soul.
Peice by peice as you realise...
..just how alone you really are.
Sally A Bayan Apr 2016
...if we just...
(14 lines X 2)

(1)

There are sounds we dread to hear
Yet, we still face and hear them, day by day...like
The honking of horns during zero hours...footfalls
Briskly walking, rushing...crossing pedestrian lanes
Stiletto and pump heels hitting pavements
The whistles...screams, calling cabs...catching buses
A little further on...there in the park,
A band's  drums and cymbals are playing loudly
People go through their conversations simultaneously
All the bluster of the street....getting through our nerves...
And yet...somewhere along those sound waves....traveling
In the mix of all those sounds, reverberating
There arises some kind of music...there exists a rhythm
Which only a few can recognize...and appreciate...

(2)

Then, there are those who get bored with quietude
And find it impossible, to last a day in solitude
Where nothing moves....and there's nothing to hear
Not a sound from a high definition TV, radio...or a CD player
Where voices are hushed...where transparent curtains part
To let in a cool breeze...so one may breathe fresh air...
These are two different folks...doing different strokes...
Why not just disregard folks and strokes, focus, instead...listen hard,
Hear the music in quiet spaces, in corners buzzing with activities
In every direction, where blows the whirring, or tumultuous wind...
If we just open the gates of our hearts and minds...accept, discover,
Feel and recognize that song...wooing the tough voices within
Then...NO noise, NO place, could be disruptive, or irritating,
NO image...NO theory, could ever be abstruse.




Sally


Copyright April 1, 2016
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
^This poem was "born" amidst blaring sounds of drills, grinders, the endless chatters of the workers in the construction site next door...^
Paramount Pawn Jul 2015
It's there
We looked at each other
We both know what's gonna happen


THE LAST PIECE OF CHICKEN IN THE BUCKET

Our hands swiftly moved
Each reaching out like it's gonna disappear
Both of us dying to get it first
We even fought for it
Slapping the other hand

Alas
You got it
Mocking me even
I simply sighed and laughed
Telling you
"You clean up this mess."
You making that face
And me sticking out my tongue
i mean.... chicken.
Meg B Dec 2014
I guess you could call me
a people addict;
I live for the exchanges,
momentary or prolonged,
the satisfaction of smiles substituted for
verbalized salutations;
the how-you-do's and hello's,
the pleasantries of chit chat,
talk of my oh my, I am not ready for this snow
and how was your holiday?;
catching a supposed-to-be-sneaked glance from that tasty
stranger,
allowing your eyes to meet for longer than
you meant to;
a compliment that drips off the lips so sweet,
its nectar invading the taste buds for hours
on end;
individualized or multiplied,
I relish in the conjugated haze,
in the gazes and the giggles,
in the potential formulation of inside jokes,
in a have a good day to a grin I will never see again,
the whirlwind of vowels and consonants,
of coincidences and sarcasm,
of the impressions we may leave of which
we will never be aware;
I crave the mundane,
I get high off the monotony,
I am swallowed by the simplicity;
Yeah,
I guess you could call me a
people addict,
and I'm cool with that.

— The End —