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112615 #9:55PM

Nakaadya ang pares na sisidlan
Tangan ang kalasag na paparaan
Bibigkis ang kapagalan
Isasaplot at pasasalamatan.

Ni walang maitulak-maikabig
Pagkat sumamo'y patungong Langit
Siya'y isasantabi,
Sa papag **isasalig ang sarili.
Goodnight Philippines! Goodnight World!
mk Oct 2015
she was so unaware
i couldn't help but stare
she was lost
she was emerged
in the world
within those pages

my gaze unintentionally fixated
on the girl
with green speckled eyes
and the loveliest lips i've ever seen

her fingers
so delicate
turning the page
quietly, gently
as if not to hurt
nor disrespect
the yellowing pages
and the tiny print

the range of emotions
so clearly displayed
through her expressions
as she read through
i was entertained
by the little smirk
which turned into
furrowed brows
then sorrowful sighs
as the story went on

she went through the emotions
and took me along with her

everyday since then
at 12:04pm
i look for the girl
in the library
hoping to catch a glimpse
of my
*literary fantasy
give me the chance to love you, i'll tell you the only reason why: cause you are on my mind.
On
The counters of poetry
I dock and lock myself
Then
I scope on the bottles of liquors seductively
And spellblind by their syllables
I took the shakers and hybrid
The Similes
The Onomatopeia's
The Nemesis'
The Near-Rhymes
And The Triadic-Lines
Then I gulp fourteen shots of Sonnets
From my paper-glass
And glug a paradox
Or a foil-sigh
Trice,
The knots
Bundling my eloquence
Will exonerated itself
And torpidity will cuff my consciousness
And the droplets remains in my paper- glass
Will impel me
To quest for myriad of them

I'm not drunk!
I'm not drunk!
I'm not drunk!
I
Will slur
With half an eye open
As if the other is broken
Stock on a comedy chair

Then
When the
Limbs of time tread
Will I rush to the counter
Like the athletes at Olympia
And hybrid
The Blank-verses
The Alliterations
The Limericks
The Litotes
The Aporia's
And The Dysphemism's
And
Gulp countless
Yet measured shoots
Of Ballad,with my paper-glass
And unravel the oratories
Of sacred secrets,eclectic enchantment and regrettable reflexes
Aside,or injects the world
With my rugged pins of eruditions
Bestowed in me by the liquors of poetry

I'm not drunk!
I'm not drunk!
I'm not drunk!
I
Will slur
With half an eye open
As if the other is broken
Stocked on a comedy-chair

Again
I will rush
To the counter,and hybrid
The Exaggerations
The Personifications
The Imageries
And The Caesura's
And
Gulp uncounted shoots
Of Epic's from my paper-glass
And
Eulogise my steam and wit
Yet,I'm drunk
And deeply drunk wholly
By a might that mortify me so much
That I've become a slave
In the awe of my servitude

Now and then
Will I weep and wail terribly
Each morning,each noon,and each night
For the great demise of myself
And for an emancipation
From the perpetual counter-cells poetry
I'm drunk,and deeply drunk by poetry.

Deeply Drunk
©Historian E.Lexano
The liquors of poetry has stain my tissues
Writing has been my means of expressing my thoughts. Writing has been my way of expressing what I feel, to burst out my emotions. In writing, no one will judge you personally, face to face. Because in writing, you are alone by yourself, just you.

I write because I'm happy.
I write because I'm sad.
I write because I'm in pain.
I write to express myself.

I write tonight.
Lahela Apr 2015
If I am only a chapter in your story book...

I am the height of the adventure.
I may not be the light at the end of the tunnel,
But I am rising tension with the quotes that you wish you wrote,
And the kind of love that you'll find on the lips and fingertips of every character,
but won't be able to find in the real world.

Perhaps you're in love with fiction.

Perhaps that's what I am.
Thoughts of you are killing me
I don't know how and why
This is just how you affect me
And I want this gone

Sometimes near
Sometimes far
You make me confused
On what we really are

I hate you for being like that
Don't know what you did
You have left with no goodbyes
But still haunting me with your mem'ries
If I told you I love you,
Would you save my heart and soul
From being broken?
Would you love me too?
Would you save me
And pick up these broken pieces
And put it together
To make me learn to love again?
I was inspired by poet Lang Leav.
Philip Finch Oct 2014
i spit metaphors
and stumble to my knees,
i wipe similes from my lips
like blood and teeth.
i am pummeled with irony fists
as i stagger and crash
across barstools in anapest reels,
with splinters of broken
clauses enjambed in my flesh
and choppy flashbacks
blinding me, pounding my head.
i slip in spilled spirits,
scrabbling and scrambling
to steady my psyche.

i flail, i falter, i fall,
again and again in alliterative agony.

this is not a beating.
this is catharsis.
17 April 2011
The words run through my veins
innate to me like blood.
Thick, gooey flowing through my head;
my body.
Like when a nurse takes blood to save lives,
I bleed my words onto the paper to save myself.
To save others.
The way a person needs a pint of blood,
I need a poem.
I need words to give me hope.
Words, words,
words.
Neath Sep 2014
The Sacrificial Lambs in the Literary World
**Poets
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