the sun is a done
bun hon'.
worry now,
it can't be undone.
hurry now,
your pens and paper for fun.

you know it's too soon
to feel the flurry bow
down to rend bones
into red and vapor for fun.

so **** my **** and call me cherry.
pour the sherry one more time,
I can feel the divine
flesh and scrape her for fun.

knives and saccharine,
guns to blow the *****
off each and every one.
don't worry hon',
it's just for fun.

this ******* thing came to this:
two brains, sever and split.
two pigs, top of the town,
made marquee marked on the ground!

punctuate!
i'm smothered, but
the fourth wall's
done getting scraped!

version one point one was nothing new,
these scrapes make room for version one point two.

Sometimes I feel
I am no longer writing for myself,
but rather becoming more like an elf.
Working and writing for everyone,
but myself.

I feel the need to keep my followers
entertained consistently and constantly
out of the fear I may lose my audience.

I feel I lost the purpose of my writing,
finding myself writing to the others liking
rather than expressing the voice within me.

For, once writing felt like a destress
but now it seems more of a stress.

I find myself beating my mind,
scraping for ideas,
juicing what's left within me,
to be drained
just to post consistently.

It's important to remember
to put yourself first above others.
To express to your likings and authenticity.
To not lose one self in the muddle of others
demands, voices and likings.
To remember the reason,
why you initially started.

my ribcage scrapes against my heart
                              body
                              soul
      but isn’t supposed to
            protect me?

I basked in the light
Of the present moments sight
But all of a sudden
Your words triggered a bitter memory
And now I want to visit an infirmary.

But oh wait this can’t be bandaged to heal
For it is a resurface from a wreckage.
It crawls from the breakage
With a clinging message
that causes landslides
and scrapes my insides.

My thoughts collide
as my emotions become tide.
My lips become sealed
As I no longer want to speak.

But then I’ll lose my mystique
And become invisible;
Vincible
In the hands of my shadowy past.

I'd like to cover
our concrete fence
with white paint all over
:::::::::::::::::::
it is right now, choking
with an overgrowth of healthy moss...
i intend to wipe the spreading green
off its surface
:::::::::::::::::::
............it seems too cruel, though,
plucking....scraping....or pulling something
.....away from its habitation,
......................its comfort zone
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
i thought it similar to something
that had happened a long time ago...
..................it left us with no choice,
.........we had to leave the house
where we were born
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
my mother, my siblings and i,
we moved in
....with my aunt and her family,
.....................in a faraway place
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
things weren't the same again
.............after my father died...
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::



Sall­y


Copyright September 15, 2016
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan

I drag my nails down my thighs
creating furious jagged lines
surrounded by cloudy milk white.

it stings less than the sadness I feel.