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To some, life is a collection of public functions and the rest is death,
To some others, life is a collection of private functions and the rest is death.
Advaita destroys this worldly order.
2015 March 6
Aseh Feb 2015
the stuff that makes me loud while
the mind whispers softly, reminding
me not to speak
about the pain

the stuff that makes the eyes' luster dim
around the edges
(but we're always
evolving
behind
the eyes)

the stuff that makes us fitted
or whole or pierced
or shed or Other
or perpetually looking down
at our own interactions

the stuff that makes me hypothesize
you across the table
as fitted and whole or maybe
you are broken and barricaded

either way
I want to know you
and
your
warmth,
and
your drift
in the attention span
(can't count to five
seconds without
changing
activity constantly drifting
in and
out
of
life),
and
your electricity, and
vulnerability,
and
your ease in
knowing me differently
than I'm used to,
and
your affection concealed
with halfhearted punches,
and
your inability to Be
without fully Being

the stuff that glides
warm and
burns
down
the
throat
Sally A Bayan Feb 2015
(How Do I Write Of Thee?)

I always asked myself then:
"How do i write of thee?"
...how do I start?
...where do I start?
i am an expert on being mum,
but, i must write of thee,
and I do...the way i know---
simple-worded thoughts
coming straight from my heart...
honest, innocent lines,
bare...unaffected,
no false pretenses
not much metaphors
at times, none at all...
maybe, none is needed,
i just want to reach out,
a message, i want to impart.

"What would i write of thee?"
i equally wondered...
didn't know then how to hide behind words
to mean "i," or "me," by saying "you,"
to show "happy" in words,
when the truth is bright and tasseled with "pain,"
but, i had to start........and so, i learned
to write of thoughts i am most familiar with,
they are like second skin to me,
i write about the beauty of nature
that surrounds and comforts  me,
i write of sleepless nights,
of distances not bridged,
existing and failed expectations,
hanging conversations
dwelling within...safely cradled.

Deep, in the hidden corners of my mind
are thoughts very, very private,
some written...
some, yet to be written,
all unspoken of.
they are gentle whispers,
soothing,
unequaled moments,
sweet, sweet words,
a balm to my aching soul.

One day,
when i am too old to care,
these journals would be beyond my hold
and find their own way out,
to be shared...absorbed...understood
in a whole new different perspective,
these words shall be
i m m o r t a l i z e d
when i close my eyes for good.
people shall read about me,
and finally will know
that once,
in my lifetime,
I had written
My One Immortal Poem.

June 7, 2014---12:09 PM



Sally

Copyright 2014
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
a h Feb 2015
you love me
(can be used in place of i'm beautiful)*

tell me i'm beautiful when i’m crying

crack me open and watch the colors bleed from deep within my soul
like a painting that hasn’t completely dried
admire the light that peaks through the clear parts of me like a window with no blinds
(and don't forget to admire the parts that aren't as clear)

tell me i’m beautiful when i’m laughing
when i’m being a nerd and reading my favorite books
when i'm talking about my lame games and strange hobbies

tell me i'm beautiful
when i’m stuffing my face with those ******* golden oreos while i sit on my bed sheets that i haven’t washed in weeks
i’ll know you can’t be lying

you've listened to the waves my heart makes when i'm sleeping
and you've called my smile back to the surface many times when i've tried to deflect it back inside

tell me i'm beautiful
no matter how dumb it sounds
because that's all you'll ever have to do to make everything okay
Behind that happy face,
There's a life of fright,
I have this horrible case,
Where I have to cut at night,
My face has gotten paler,
My arms have gotten bloodier,
My sleeves have gotten longer,
My nights have gotten harder,
Behind that childish face of mine,
I have a part if me that's all broken down,
People push me around and call me a kid,
When they talk about those teenage things they tell me to get rid,
They don't understand that behind that smiley face,
Is a girl who cuts,
But if I told them then they'd think I'm nuts.
Sucky poem. Like all my others but I can really relate to this :C
Bassam A Nov 2014
let me be the blanket you need
when you're lonely and cold...

let me be the hand you need to love n' hold...

let me be the one to kiss in the morning 'n love at night...

let me be the one to be ...
in your private life...
Farnok Jun 2014
I am not what I am,
Nor am I what people say I am.

I am a locked box,
Full of things I cannot share.
I am sly as a fox,
Often portraying that I do not care.

But this of course is untrue.
What do I desire?
You and your unyielding fire.
And yet I can never seem to tell you.

Who am I?
I am the unknown.
In conversation about
the realities of War
a salient observation
surfaced again and
yet again - that current
creators of film or TV
images favour clean,
so fail the filth test
that for troops and those
who tend them once
bullets & shells have
wrought their harm
scar everywhere with
muck & misery - such
crisp white pinafores
and hair so carefully
coiffeured just never
figured - real warfare
harrows like The Victors
& D-Day scenes which
open Saving Private Ryan
as bloodily as any wound.

(c) C J Heyworth June 2014
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