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Ryan Mar 2019
One by one we fade to black
petals falling from a cheap bouquet
we're gone too soon it seems
victims of the black parade
a field of roses a shallow grave
This is actually a poem written for a novel series I'm working on!
Star BG Dec 2018
I be a troubadour
marching streets paved
in lines of vellum.

My trombone of pen
releases words elegantly.
My breath dances,
on courtyards for eyes.

I am a troubadour
that moves before
all prince and princesses
born upon earth.

My instrument
is stored in heart
of red velvet case.
My intention is
to spread lyrics joyfully.

I am a troubadour
marching proudly
with my troupe of script.

My invitation stands
for all to gather on sidelines.
My intention is to share
melodies from a scribes score.
inspired by S-zaynab-kamoonpury  Thank you
Sally A Bayan Oct 2018

There is power over what's in front,
what's behind, cannot be vouched for.

any one, anything that accost me, are
all taken at face value....just as they are,
disregarding love, or dislike,
or, what dwells deep within.

when not shrouded, i am most useful
some say i'm cruel
others think, i'm kindest
but, i am just being honest.
with the least of light, i try my best,
i earn praises...they come back, they need me
sometimes i am bathed with hatred
i end up in the attic...or given away,
just because the truth is unacceptable.

the area across is most times regular,
a man on his table...what hungs on his wall.
occasionally, it becomes spectacular,
countenances, joyful, or sorrowful
come to and fro...all sorts of accolades
a mix of emotions...each day, an array
of lively colors and moods......a parade
of varied appearances feed my view
it's not what i's what i am given
any time of any day...any season.
whatever the reason
someone or something
stands  to face me.

when night is late, and in complete silence
that man by the table....ever writes on paper
and gets them all wet...with his falling tears,
he writes of volcanoes spewing fire, of rain pouring,
speaks to himself, then to me, of betrayal, promises
lost, of broken vows, and shattered expectations.
i am speechless, yet filled with his pain ....he is restive
til the wee hours of the morning....then i see light in
this visage, his an end to the dark
giving way to another day's noise,
......a facade.....


Copyright Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
October 11, 2018
Hae Sun Jul 2018
Today I saw Picasso’s self-portraits only to realize that at 14 years of age, he painted a man 5 times as old as him, believing that it was how he looked like or at least how he sees himself. At 15, he painted a woman who, under any circumstances, does not look like him nor his mother. As he grew older, the paintings became more distorted or rather abstract and surreal that some even looked like there was more than just one person in the frame. His last painting, I assume, is a face but if you look closer you will realize that they are pieces from different puzzles, that somehow, although they fit together, they are not from just one thing – but aren’t we all are?

Picasso, consumed his days thoughtfully to paint such masterpiece that reflects who he is – that he is not just any other person, that he is not just one person. He is a combination of many, the past and present, his mother and his father, the anima and the animus – all these are parts of himself, who, when put together become the Picasso who he knows.

Picasso has mastered it ahead of us – that we are more than just a face, we are a parade of many and if we do not recognize it, we might end up painting faces we don’t know, becoming a stranger inside a home.
Nicholas Fonte Apr 2018
Come and join the parade
Make no mistake
We march for heartache
For when it all comes down to fade
So take each step in the state
Where there is no fate
To follow along
So come and join our song
Trust me this is what you need
As long as you stay here
You'll never disappear
That is certainly garunteed
On this march tonight
Trust me your host
As our song burns each face alight
So come on down
Let's make a toast
To the town
Of no faith
Where we will bless
Them out of this mess
Trust me the wraith
Who marches with no shame
In the parade
That made
No name
But try to stay
Before it hits five
On this very day
Trust me
And trust in what you can see
mjad Apr 2018
He dropped the Hotwheel car as if it had suddenly become a bomb
Because over the store's speakers came his favorite song
He grabbed my hands and held my eyes with his stare
The second he started singing I knew I began to truly care
In my heart I knew we weren't just friends anymore
He sang the birth of feelings that I hadn't felt for him before
He went from a desire to a need in just one verse of Coldplay's Yellow
My heartbeat went from uninterested to the opposite of mellow
An announcement interrupted my personal Pick'n Save serenade
But I'll never forget that moment that felt like fireworks after a parade
I melted a little inside tbh
Ryan Apr 2018
To the end with him...dead
Dead he is...have you heard the news
So dead...dead
This is how I disappear he says
The sharpest lives and the sharpest wit
He welcomes you in, to a parade he claims will save us from our sins
I don’t know you from Adam
I don’t love you like a house of wolves
In the distance I hear him
He bellows his joy
He tells the injured to carry on carry on
I hate his voice
His blackened eyes his cancerous sores
Mama says sleep teenage boy
Disenchanted from his famous last words
To carry on carry on
Blood on all the walls
**** all your friends
Heaven help us
My way home is through you
You fabulous killjoys
The black parade
Dess Ander Mar 2018
You took the knife
Sliced every fibre of my heart
Next the hammer
Pounded it until all the blood
Spilled on the ground
Never mind the pain
Never mind my tears
I watched as you took my heart's remains
Paraded them in the street with your mates.
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