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Francis Oct 23
Many hats on my head,
Many titles to claim,
I find it fulfilling to be,
Everything that motivates me.

One day I’m a fireman,
Another day I am a jailer,
This day I’m a poet,
Tomorrow I’ll be a mailer.

What’s funny is this,
A name and a shield,
Is merely a buck for a meal,
My ignorance is so bliss.

These paths are not me,
They are merely a guide,
For me to find whomever is me,
On a security guard’s salary.

To make films or to weep,
To keep jails or to sleep,
To fight fires or to leap,
Into this pen of little sheep.

Why is it that I,
Aim to be that guy,
Who’s career should imply,
That I’m “something” till I die?

An artist,
An actor,
An experiment of all factors,
I try hard to be somebody,
When I’m already my own everybody.

I’m exactly what I need to be,
In this world of all these faces,
Masks grow tight around these cheeks,
Why aspire to climb mountains,
And reach such heightening places?

I’m a detective one day,
An electrician by night,
A silly little dreamer,
Always ready to take on flight.

I’ll pilot this aircraft,
And spread my wings a’sailing,
Without prejudice or hesitation,
I may not always succeed,
But I’m never failing.
Between graduating high school to present day, I was a filmmaker, private investigator and aspiring police detective, volunteer firefighter, correction officer and now government-paid security guard. Today I write poems, while I wait for inspiration to make another film— yet I also want to paint and write novels, poetry, and more stories. I have always defined myself based on what I do and my accomplishments. Yet why I can’t I ever define myself based on me? Either way, I always seem to accomplish my goals.
Phia Oct 19
My love,
Are a walking galaxy.
So full of beauty,
And passion.
My love,
Are a walking miracle;
The entire cosmos in a single being.
My love,
Have the universe in your eyes,
The stars in your soul,
And stardust in your bones.
My love,
Are brilliant in every way.
Remember that the next time
Anyone makes you feel
Any less than what you are
Phia Oct 8
She covers her body in art
Hoping one day someone will look at her
And think her beautiful
Zywa Mar 1
It did not happen,

you cannot remember that!

I was not like that!
"Het Bureau - En ook weemoedigheid" ("The Office - And also wistful", 1999, Han Voskuil), page 152-153

Collection "Not too bad [1974-1989]"
Zywa Dec 2022
They are ponderous,

real men, no, nothing boyish --

"Het Bureau - Plankton" ("The Office - Plankton", 1997, Han Voskuil), page 272

Collection "Not too bad [1947-1973]"
Filomena Aug 2022
Being or seeming?
At first I was scared.
I was timid.
I tried to please,
but got in trouble anyway.
But when the changes came,
I was empty.
What you see is the real me.
I was worried.
I hated my image, but I ruminated.
I did things that should have been unspeakable.
I felt guilty. I felt free.
But I was still looking for the real me.
Psych ward poetry.
Set 3, poem 56.
Filomena Aug 2022
Reflections I've seen
in the pool of the self

Whenever my glasses
come down from the shelf

With changing distortions
that ripple and swell

The smallest of pebbles
can shatter my shell
Psych ward poetry.
Set 3, poem 6.
birdy May 2022
My body was art --- not to your taste,
you covered me in criticism.
Your words molding me like clay
until the mirror reflected a shell.

The child inside,
forever lost.
George Anthony Feb 2022
it’s been a long time, old pal
does the pen grab your hands with fright?
i used to read your poems and songs
like they were lullabies and holidays,
soothing me to sleep and escaping the days,

have you forgotten how to put pen to paper?
how to make fingers type?
is this what it’s like for all the poets whose words weren’t borne of pain?
thinking too ******* what to write, what to say
if they’re not tears, they don’t flow naturally
these words are hard to create

you’re all out of practice
nothing to compose that feels genuine or profound
are you a liar to yourself? have you lost who you once were?
are you not ready to give up what’s already gone?

maybe you’re not a writer anymore
working 6 for 7 in a bar, big boss boy now
happy but frustrated, making money you have no time to spend
but it gets spent anyway
with no quality time to show for it
and you, lying there, awake

staring at a blank page hoping the words will write themselves

wondering if you’re a failure for moving onto something else

do you even want to write anymore?
or do you just miss the freedom?
i feel like i don’t have anything to write about anymore and i think it’s partially because i’m in a better headspace these days and partially because i hardly have any time to myself

i feel like all my poetry was so easy to write and so easy to be heartfelt because i was so depressed

now i want to write and i’m struggling, and i feel like maybe i’m not so creative after all

maybe i was just sad
maybe i’m not a writer anymore
maybe that’s okay but i’m just having a hard
time accepting it
or maybe i am still a writer with an exceptionally long case of writer’s block and no time to work on it
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