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SpiritHeart67 Jan 12
Sometimes the more I see,
the less I want to look...
takitak May 2016
Mahirap magmahal,
sa taong di ka mahal

Pero mas mahirap magmahal,
sa taong di mo mahal
Musings on: "Mahal ka o mahal mo?"
jane taylor May 2016
come hither
bring the next epiphany
tho’ it may be shrouded
in the darkest night of soul
‘tis too exquisite
not to know
the wisdom folded
within

©2016janetaylor
Try to drown my sorrow
Try to  pretend tomorrow
Wont be just another day
Down this road I follow..

But I'm at the bottom of the bottle
Ive went and gone full throttle
Looking back in my rear view
Sobriety.. Is not my motto..

Another rack of *****
I toast each one to you
Thank you for the memories
I relive on my drunken cruise

The radio echoes out to me
And all my heart has come to be
Empty bottles hide the floor
Evidence of my self-mutiny

Had a few too many now I see
The lanes in the road now multiplying
A crack, a smirk, and pop the cork
And run this car into a ******* tree.
Nabs Jan 2016
By Nabs

XII. December
    A woman was humming a winter hymn.
She wore a thick Russian cloak, and her fingers were tapping the stained glass. Snowflakes framed her eye lashes. Vicious wind were hitting her old bones, weariness settled deep in her chest.

She had been away far too long.

Looking at a window, she saw her reflection.
Her eyes were sharp cold blue, but it was sunken and there were frozen tear tracks on her cheek.

Her fingers were gnarled, and wrinkles marred her face. Her used to be golden hair, was as white as snow.
She barely remember the days now.

A baby wail could be heard coming from a house, lit with thousand warm candles.

Looking up, she realized that she's a grandmother now.

XI. November
  The man pulled out his cigarettes, his riffle by his side. Sitting in front of his porch, with a glass of scotch, remembering the horrid symphony of gun shots. His shoulder was aching.
He had been a soldier, he had been at war, and now he was in his house.

But he was still lost in the desert.

He gripped his glass tighter as the deaths that he had caused flashes before his eyes.
He felt cold at the knowledge that settled in the pit of his heart.

He was not a war hero, he was a murderer.

The glass shattered.

X. October
  The wind blew her bright hair. It was similar to the color of autumn leaves and burning fire. She was wearing a scarf the color of lion, Lilies crowning her head.

She was holding up a shield.

A feeling of warmth, like one would get after drinking warm chocolate, washed over her. Her bright green eyes was filled with fondness at the sight of her stag cooing over her baby.

Ravens were cawing over her head, an omen.
Her face was grim, she knows they're not going to last any longer.

Death was arriving.

IX. September
    A bright yellow dot could be seen moving in the forest. It was a boy who was wearing a rain coat.

He was running around, playing by him self.
Diving into a pile of leaves, jumping over tangled roots, climbing trees, and picking apples.

He didn't tell his mother where he had gone.

The sound of trickling water lulled the freckled covered boy away. He stood in front of an old abandoned house. The smell of ****** bread was wafting through the air.

He ignored the hanging body on the tree, and put on the fallen hat.

For the first time, he felt he was home.

VIII. August
    He was named after the emperor. The one history called a legend. His parent had hoped that he could escape the chain of slavery that had shackled their family for generations.
He wondered sometimes if he skinned his skin, would he stop being a slave?

After all he would be pink instead of brown.

They branded him like a cattle. Passing him down from one master to another. Calling him pretty for his species. The marks always burns when he felt like his dignity was stomped on as if it didn't matter.

He knows it didn't matter to them.

The day he broke the chain, the grass turned red instead of withering

VII. July & VI. June
    They were born from the same chrysalis. Spun from silk and privilege. Yet one got tossed away and the other were put in a gilded cage.
Separated.

The boy with corn silk hair and gleaming pearly wings was staring out of his room. He was locked with gold in his little cupboard. Only to be let out when they needed to show him off.

He stared down waiting for his shadows.

The girl with iridescent eyes and tattered black wings had lived in the ruins all her life. Her small frame was littered with cuts and the harshness of life.
But she stood strong, her back unbending.

She stared up at her light, and asked for his hand.

Fate decrees that neither could fly, with out the other.

V. May
    The market was bustling with people. A middle aged woman stood in her stall, selling vegetables and fruits. Her nephew was bringing her baskets full of wild berries for jam. He was 6 years old with a gap toothed grin and untamable hair.

His eyes were electric yellow.

The woman stared at the boy sadly. Remembering that day on the moor when wolves slaughtered her sister's family.
She thanked him and ruffled his hair. The boy gave her an abashed smile.
She noticed a man with a nasty smile, shooting her nephew a predatory look. The man approached her stall, asking to buy apples while looking at her nephew ravenously as if he was hungry for him.

She understood what she have to do.

She put on her sweetest charm and gave him an apple for free. The man nodded, appreciating the offer. Said his thanks and went back to the shadows.

The man didn't notice that the apple he had just bitten were kissed by Belladonna.

VI. April
  A mute girl was sitting in the palace garden. She braided flowers into her hair, adding pale green ribbon with a flourish. She wore a white dress with lace on it's border. She looked like a sacrificial lamb.

A knife was lying on the floor, she had just cut her hair short.

As she keep braiding, she dreamt of home.
Of the deep blue water, gentle waves lapping at her body, sea shells that she liked to collect, pearls braided in her hair, about exploring the oceans with her sisters.

She could barely move her legs, now.

She realized, belatedly, that maybe the price was too heavy.

III. March
    The marching band passed the town that day. Trumpet, drums, cymbals, and xylophones were shouting in harmonies. A marvelous fusion of sound, creating joy behind them.

A teenager, with curly hair and sun kissed skin, was staring at them in awe.

A violin was clutched on his hand, the last gift from his father. It was his first time seeing a marching band. He wonders if the delicate moan of his violin would complement them.

He knows that it won't, but it wouldn't stop him from wondering.

He was not his father.

II. February
  A family of three was preparing their dinner in the kitchen. It was the birthday of the son.

The mother was busy preparing the roast, cutting up vegetables and spicing the meat. The father was helping the mother preparing the roast, he was making the mashed potatoes. They were dancing around each other, as they navigate the kitchen.

Their son, who have a cherubic face, watched them with adoration.

One threw an onion at the other, the other caught it. Exchanging tools and spices with an easy glide. Kisses were traded, intricate steps were taken.
They both move with trust on their heel, and souls entwined.

Love was still in the air, even after all the storms.

Their son understood that no one can take the matching arrows embedded at his parents back.

After all, they stabbed it them self.

I. January
    A mother was lying on a hospital bed. Green buds were peeking out from the snow.
She had just given birth. Her breathing was labored as she struggles to breath. A frown appeared on her face when the nurse gave her a bundle to hold.

It was her baby girl.

The baby opened her eyes and let out a gurgling giggle. It was the most beautiful sound the mother had heard.
Big doe eyes, that resembled her mother's, watched as wet tears were falling from her mother's eyes.

The mother clutched her daughter tight against her chest.

Realization struck her like ligtning,
She knows that she couldn't give her baby away.
A long long poem made on the theme of ephiphany. Thank you for those who read this poem.
takitak Dec 2015

~~~
every heart is different,
thus,
every love is different
~~~

Grizzo Apr 2015
You just can't reach some men,
maybe some men
are too cold to be reached

Too set in
their ways, haunted
by their

Hearts, left open
and beating
whispering,
sometimes
shouting

Trying to say
"Save yourself

I've never been
a real bother
to anyone."

Well
maybe a few,
but just like the guard
the warden
the prisoner

We all get our chance
to be heard
and more often than not

misheard,
mistaken,
Our syntax
swept along and emptied
into the waste basket
like we're some kind of mess
left for someone else to
clean.
NaPoMo #2
Inspired by the famous Cool Hand Luke quote, "What we've got here is failure to communicate. You just can't reach some men."
Joanna Nov 2014
Stop.
Push my buttons 1, 2, and 3
Test me, push me, the truth you will soon see,
At the end of my rope is more than what society says,
But to be different is suicide so we hang on by poisonous threads,
You look in the mirror and hate what looks back,
We are raised from birth to be weighed and measured for self-attack.
Stop.
Is beauty defined by who vies to hold my hand?
Not by the intelligence and strength of who fears not to stand,
to stand when the whole world may be pushing them down,
but holds their head high as if balancing an imaginary crown,
I know not what it feels like to live in contentment,
Save me, I'm falling in the abyss of resentment.
Stop.
Would you love me if I looked more like what you see on the screen,
If I was taller and smaller, built like a queen,
Why is it that I chase for your approval,
the cure to your poison is permanent removal,
Surely men want more than just glory,
Is this all there is to my potential love story?
Stop.**
Speak of the devil, You show up once again,
and imprint your mark in permanent pen,
There is more to me than you will ever know,
Because for some reason I was lost at hello.

You may see my rhymes as the kindergarten act of A, B, C
but stop and push my buttons 1, 2, 3.
feel free to comment what you think :)

© Joanna Mrsich. All rights reserved

— The End —