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ava Dec 2019
Hands lay flush against my head,
their Fingers pale,
gripping tight on the small unripened fruit,
slowly Climbing up and down my skin
poking and caressing my lungs as it speaks
giving me burns of varying degrees,
you twist and they turn the colour of red, purple and blue
the only thing holding the blistering skin together
are stitches that haven't yet given,
my blood is forming slowly
it dribbles down like spittle
and as it clots you split
digging your fingers inside my flesh
and I am infatuated
head lolling
eyes shivering
bones sore
as if they are pleading for a way
for a way
a chance
to slip away in peace
with you by my lonely and lowly side.
Sally A Bayan May 2014

Even at this point in my life, i still,
could never have my back to the door...
I always face the window
or the door itself...
When the opposite is inevitable,
there are no airs of safety,
or thoughts of peace.
What is it about doors, even windows?
They are supposed to be symbols
of new beginnings, new chances...
But why don't i trust them enough,
to have my back to them...
Like someone,  or something evil lurks,
waiting for me 'til i have relaxed my reflexes...

The door and window, i always seek,
always glad after I've gone out of each exit...

But then, behind you, no matter what,
there will always be another window,
another D O O R
                              O         O              
                   O         O    
                  R O O D...

I sometimes wonder:
is it the doors? it me?


Copyright 2014
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
***Some random thoughts that  came out of my mind after reading Gonzo's DOWN THE HALL. and while looking at the glass door.***
Atypnoc Jan 2015
Why turn on the light illuminate the beast that's here?
Who stirs beyond the softness of the focus so unclear...
Condensing on the hairs sprung straight from necks the breath so near
And if i light it, we ignite it, I haven't ways to fight it, giving sight to insurmountable fear
Love has no way of staying attached.
Love is not an *****, not a cell in your body.
Love is this thing.
Love is there, then it isn’t anymore, and there is nothing that can be done.
So you create a ring to put on someone’s finger to say they belong to you.
Maybe they will keep it.
But they can pull it off.
They can do anything.
You have no control.
And it is terrifying to know that love,
Love is a thing.
Not a person.
You cannot lock it away and force it to love you back.
Love comes and goes
Love comes and stays

But love never takes any advices.
Love has its own frame of mind.
And its mind is as cloudy as this autumn's evening.
You cannot predict if it will rain, if the wind will blow, if the moon will appear, if snow will fall unexpectedly.
You cannot predict a thing.
But love is always around,
Perhaps to break your heart,
Perhaps to sew it back together.
But it is there.
It lurks.
And strikes everytime it hits.
"hit me with your best shot baby, why don't you hit me with your best shot?"

— The End —