#obscured
Sometimes I don’t feel invisible at all, I feel too visible, like I’m standing too tall.
Everyone can see me, yet none truly gaze, a ghost in sunlight, lost within the haze.
My voice drifts softly, carried by the air, but no one catches, I parented to not care.
My laughter echoes, then vanishes away, a fleeting spark in the brightness of day.
I stand in crowds, yet alone I remain, a window with no face pressed against the pane.
All eyes may glance, but none truly see, the quiet storm that swirls inside of me.
Yet in this paradox, a strange beauty lies, a soul that wanders beneath open skies.
Invisible to most, yet alive in the light, a secret flame burning softly through the night.
I’m here, I’m loud, yet quietly fade, a living poem the world cannot braid.
Too much, too little, both lost in sight, a soul that shimmers in plain daylight.
Dec 18, 2025
Dec 18, 2025 at 9:51 PM UTC
Warring colors busting at the seams,
the day-burnt sun's fists
sag and dip into the clouds,
weary of the battle the night has won.
And the night sired children,
restless as the dawn,
riveted the dark with metal sheets
and armed it with visions
of an obscured future
polluted with hollow promises
stirring in their minds.
Hope lay dying,
dank with mold and blood,
her cries met with clogged ears
and barred doors.
They were against mother,
she who fills their bellies with
rice and corn,
she, who pours water onto their
glass to the brim,
she who softens their fall with
carpets of moss for their bed
and canopies for shade—betrayed
and thrown out with the wolves.
Now these,
and what sorrow to behold
hands holding up their voice
snatched and pocketed
for a bushel of grain
to fend off pangs of hunger
away for days,
in return, all their tomorrows
until none to spare.
Mother why have they forsaken you?
You gave them life,
now they bring you death.
—e.d. maramat | erwinism
Sep 18, 2024
Sep 18, 2024 at 10:49 PM UTC
Patterns float
obscured
by uncertain mists
recreating
a scene perceived
and painted
in washes of water colour
overlapping, merging
transfixed
fresh and timeless.
The shape
of routine activities
unpredictably change
or shatter
behind
the inexorable advance of time
as sequences
inevitably retreat
into a fading future
until the circle is complete.
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 12:26 AM UTC
There's more
wine
in the glass than
ink
in the
pen.
A truly conflicted
narcissist
upon
obscured
reflection.
Beauty.
Skin deep?
I'll carve
manifestos
in
flesh
when the wells run
dry.
Trace each
scar
with
shaking
fingertips and
blind
eyes.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 7:22 PM UTC