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Nylee Aug 2020
My battleship,
it fell in the living room,
didn't even cross the door
to outside world.

My sinking ship,
much like the Titanic
will reach the deep oceans
can't breathe the air.

My broken bridge
the path has disappeared
the ends don't support
no one can cross.

My punctured tyre
miles left ahead of me
stranding me on a lonely road
away from home.

My defective piece
the phone that won't call
never served it purpose
not smart at all

My dead plants
with surplus of sun
and my infinite watering
you had no chance to live.
stopdoopy Sep 2019
so much to give
but so closed off

a glass
filled to the brim
waiting to spill

others take tentative sips
or pour it out completely

I just want to be savored
drank slowly over time
enjoyed through all seasons

while my heart may be punctured
oozing out love to anyone who looks
my bones are hard and sharp
waiting to poke through this flesh
and stab if need be

to want to love
so freely
to want to receive
the same

you'd think it'd be easier
to crack open this ribcage
Sally A Bayan May 2018
Nothing...had enchanted me more,
than that big yellow rose...
bright, stunning at the tip of its tall stem,
soft petals.....yet to fully unfurl,
its inner part...a soothing light shaded swirl...
i sniffed a bit of its fragrance,
and felt its softness...but,
i got pricked by a hidden thorn,
just a tiny puncture...yet,
my finger bled so much...
i walked on through the garden,
...with my pricked finger inside my mouth,
i was amazed by other flowers, more colorful ones,
but, the yellow, pink, red roses outshone them all...
with care this time, i touched a  big pink,
slowly.........and, again, i didn't see,
another thorn was in the way
it was more painful
it bled even more...
i stood thinking, while bleeding...
its beauty, its silky feel...its
fragrance that lingers in the mind
would all be difficult to resist,
the pain from the thorns...harder to forget,
but, i'd still want to walk through this vast this life...and seek those roses
feel inspired...over and over
never mind the spikes!
never mind the pain!
love is beautiful like a rose
a rose is beautiful like genuine love,
there are thorns...hindrances and
hurdles, that come with its beauty....yet,
that wonderful feeling of loving,
and being loved, in return,
the wanting, the longing for it,
never dies...the fear of bleeding,
is ignored,
for, what is life without love?
and what is love without pain?
isn't love lovelier...more hopeful
the next time around?
a rose could never be a rose
without its many thorns...


©Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
April 11, 2018
Happy Valentine's Day
you lucky *******.
If not for the usual, severe
exhaustion I might have
something to share or
sometime to spare.
Alas, insomnia
suits me better
than dear sleep
that I pray will
take me 'afore I
continue to lose
a few good brain cells,
Or a few more friends.

My world needs dimming,
Turn the lights down low
and stick something on; ****** Bed
by The Bluetones. Everyone's
gotta make their mark. Sleep calls to me
and I'm trying to call back
as she strokes
my tired back,
Arching, aching
and shaking with
hysterical, delirious
laughter. Gleaming
needlepoint, sooth me.
*"You're the only friend I need,

Sharing beds like little kids
and laughing 'til our ribs get tough
but that will never be enough".
Mydriasis Alethia left/seeking
the empyreal choir
only for
the chthonic drums
Myosis Lethe wrought/found.

Lines Twenty-Nine, Thirty, Thirty-One and Thirty-Two from Ribs by Lorde
ryn May 2016
This feeling...
Like a wreath bearing down my neck.
Every fibre in me seem to be at loggerheads.

My heart...
Each beat is a hammer
sledging away at my saneness.

My breaths...
Premature and short.
I respire full but with punctured lungs.
david mungoshi Feb 2016
gingerly on the knife-point of a problem
my inflated ego slowly was punctured
i heard the hiss of its demystification
in that constricted moment of revelation
a moment that enthused about the demise
of my avid hallucination now laid bare
salvation, the voice of naked truths chanted
is neither in the fig leaves nor in bashfulness
and the humming monotone of desperation
is a boost to candid inactivity and stillness
it is in such big-bore moments that we of
puerile yearnings recognize our childishness
a voice told me to stop tempting fate forthwith
for in truth i was a child with a dangerous toy
and only pampered tutors could stay the course
We must not always divest poetry of the beauty of contemplative mystery
Paul Sands Jul 2015
have I been here before,
the variations of anywhere
framing the limits of waking within a wretched humility?

am I become one of the blown boys, those dear, dear boys
and their desolate, punctual, martyrdom,
or a resolute extra in a post-mortem smack fug

at ease to fester with my wounded, skyward muttering,
where even fake flowers offer injury?


easily shaken by bleary imaginings as obdurate
as a politicians dancing lips which, if they are moving,
must be lying,

rather crave the ocean's incoherent, uncorked, yawn
its contorted salutation an easy answer to the hardest ask
I had a conversation, one that decorum suggests I shouldn't have, and I was left as if crumpled and dumped on the kerbside

— The End —