You may take our words and make them yours.
But our fiery spirit is what makes a true writer soar.
We scribble with our hearts, like so many who’ve come before.
For most it’s therapy for their internal raging wars.
Our words are endless like waves crashing along the shore.
Slowly eating at your conscience receding more and more.
Like the rising and setting of the sun our words will endure.
Therefore armed with our pens it’s you we feel sorry for.
of a dreamer.
Who's quill he,
Grasping at an idea,
that he hydrates
In wrathful vengeance,
he abuses parchment,
with a sharpened wood spear.
Drinking his creation,
tweaking the taste,
that's almost bitter.
He is vexed,
about the ending…
Today I lie here
Naked and Numb
Waiting for you to be a blanket
That covers me up.
Wrap me up,
With your warmth
And I shall show you
How long I have
Craved for you.
Today I lie here,
Naked and Numb
Waiting for you.
Have you ever tried to draw a picture
without lifting the pencil from the paper?
One line, uninterrupted and looping
in on itself, swerving in arcs and switching
directions at sharp points.
The line grows at a constant rate
but the vectors change, how the wind is blowing
and the wobbling arrow of the compass.
A head hanging closely over the paper
and a hand pressing the pencil with trembling
force against the desk.
Eyes squinted, focused intently on the next
angle as the lead begins to tremble and crack.
Just a little more, just one more turn
the piece hasn't come together yet.
The timer beeps its descending count
10 to 9 and 8 to 7.
Sweat condenses on the brow
and the lead shatters
as it lets out its electronic shriek.
Now lift your head, trace the line with your finger
where it loops and why,
and when the work is done you will realize
where the line drifted away
from the hazy picture you had in your mind.
A scribble dons the paper,
the line intersecting randomly
and turning when it reached the edge,
influenced by the frame, not your whim.
So many notes
I've written over time
till' there's nothing left
The secret lives that we live
The poems that I write
You have no idea
Not that they are about you
Except this one
And a couple more
Ok, maybe a few.
Even lousy writing is terrific practice
Or so they say
I have been practicing
Painting ink on a page
All I can produce
Is sketchy scribble
Illegible and unintelligible
Words that I let dribble
Leaving the canvas blotched and stained
Maybe some will appreciate my thoughts
It is my medicine
From going insane.
Nang ‘di masilayan ang iyong mukha,
Ako’y tila ba nanlumo’t nanghina.
Salitang “mahal kita”,
Bakit ba ‘kay hirap sabihin?
Nakita ko ang iyong litrato,
Kailan pa naging ganoon kaliwanag ang mga ngiti mo?
Na para bang ito’y konektado,
At kumikislap ‘yan mga mata mo.
Abutin mo ang aking kamay,
Halina’t sabay tayong maglakbay,
Laban sa mundong puno ng lumbay,
Ikaw at ikaw pa rin,
Ang nais na makasama, habang buhay.
I scribbled some words on the edge of a napkin
Hoping at home they would make sense to read
But all I could see was disjointed confusion
And perhaps that was all that I ever could need
I see war movies
in the night a little late
That's only place I find
People with greater pain
I see it when I'm sad
I see it when I feel disabled
I see it when I need pals
I see it to feel less miserable
I saw a man in wildfire
And another burning it
There was one in vicious smoke
There was one making it
I saw the little devil blast
I saw lots of flying metal
I saw men killing fellow men
And it squinched my heart a little
Men lost their lives in war
Some only died half
Curse with a lot worse
They'll have to die in parts
Love doesn't pierce your flesh
Or leave any visible scars
But for I know and all I know
I'd rather be at war