There's this liquid straight from the bottle,
That honestly makes me feel awful,

But it takes away my flowing conscious,
without it everything is nonsense,

It's a strange liquid that makes my feelings stronger,
And in doing so it makes me warm like my skin is fur,

Soothing, right down to the touch!
Although everything turns black when I've drank too much!

My mind is an ever-flowing mountain of idea's in the shape of streams,
From all these things I see day to day, and  past to past I can still feel you're still inside of my dreams,

Go and and go away,
Please God, I cannot stray

I breathed you in,
your addictive tasteful sin,

My darling was the medication I needed,
To stop the hallucinations that I once succeeded,

To the touch it feels me and I- hurt,
When I'm drinking and I'm feeling, everyone compares me to the dirt.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Any time of day, when mind wanders,
it's like the water...splashes...escapes,
and flows down the precipice...
it spreads, surrounds, and creeps
...in and out of us......water sustains
...but....it can also drown us...

we come across big or small rivers,
...feel their depth....our feet, as feelers,
...narrow......running...calm......serene,
in cool colors of silver, blue or emerald green
they don't roar...they just make ripples
on the surface, when a breeze blows,
....dancing our blues away, on tiptoes

then, there are colder streams,
darker....where anguish, despair and
brokenness...comfortably dwell
...testing us....giving us choices...
some opt to float on the water,
thinking, none else matters~~~~~~
then, surrender to the rushing current,
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
.....when they could sway, or play
they could waltz with the water...

the wise ones dance...fight, with some art,
they do freestyle.....breast....or back,
or the wavy butterfly stroke,
til they find a most welcome shallow part...
.........:::::::::::::::::::...........
for those fed up...and trapped
...at some point, they give up
surrendering to the force of the current
they abandon their body and soul,
with nothing left behind,
...........just an absolute

...D..e..a..d......W..e..i..g..h..t...

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Sally

Copyright July 25, 2017
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan

Those red lips,
forged by MAC
are but only one color
in the endless stream of
existing shades.

In a stream of wrought
Invisibly
I reflect ripple and wave
thirsty for sun rays
my moments dribble by
these keys tapping beneath thumbs
my boss appreciates the drum
rocks against my body
easily downs the dream
my tone a calm serene
a frosty sheen but between
the cracks emotion currents
ebb and flow rushing to where?
longing logging lobbing for air
her head bobbing to the trickling sound
fishing through a stream of movement
distant in her delusion
work is getting done;
and I am like water
in a stream of thought

Be like water my son.

Every weekend at summer camp
Memories of the midnight walks we made,
The rushing of the silvery creeks
As well as the daily art and games,
Entertainment as well as molding clay,
The mountainside at night gave good
Presence, the moon offering her halo,
With the memory of endless essence so,
During this time of adventurous fun,
A story telling we campers would all go.

Her raspy voice, I can remember well,
Those cute sparkly playful brown eyes,
We walked side by side, she told me that
The truth was being denied, she was a
Girl in disguise, how I dream of her
In Garnet, Capricorn. That feeling of total trust,
Now I will probably never be close to
Anyone I love again, already grown old,
To old to ever dream, but what a dream,
A lovely bliss to know that she was my friend.

One day, when the time is right, we'll find it,
This feeling again, of wild spirited joy, campfires,
Of following the forest path, now innocence lost,
A time that is long-gone and past, and if it
Never happens again, the darkness of night
With quiet whispering, story time moon light,
I will never forget her, never will I forget that
Beautiful freckled face, those beady eyes,

*No, never forget you, not for all time.

I have plans for the moon
By night and by day
sometimes opening, sometimes closing
a seeing which does not depend on the eye
and an eye which does not merely see.
The moon gets behind me
and flows like a stream
inside a mountain
many dark miles unseen
before emerging as the source
of something pure that will heal me.

I have plans for the moon
like the sunflower nodding in the mind
shifts and keeps an eye
on father sun in the sky
resemblance does not depend on closeness
but the transfer of heat and invisible elements.
In the cool of the evening
a trail appearing through the dew
where an animal walks with a god
and man is missing from the middle.

I have plans for the moon
as the moon has plans for me.

The mountain becomes microscopic
when the sun shines on a leaf
or the ripples of a shallow stream.
The leaf has the precise shadow
of a winter stem on its white tongue
and the ripples make the stones
look like little dwelling places.
The mossy one I kneel upon
is like a carpet of fresh ancient forest.
A wind rises from on high
ranges over ranges…
There is still so much
possibility.

The world grows many times over
as the eye sees more than its sight.

I make faces and fingers
out of the stones and branches
and my own face in the water
is feline, a primitive mask
I take off for shining water underneath.