#origin
A poet and muse can never be together—
And maybe that's why,
A poet becomes A Poet.
May 17
May 17, 2026 at 2:15 PM UTC
they said my name like it belonged to someone softer
like it was meant to bend
to apologize
to disappear before it made anyone uncomfortable
i learned early
how to hold silence in my mouth
like it was something sacred
like speaking would break whatever fragile thing
they thought i was
but silence grows teeth if you leave it alone too long
it started small
a thought i didn’t say
a feeling i buried
a version of me i kept locked somewhere deep
where no one could point at it and call it wrong
and then one day
it stopped asking for permission
now it sits behind my eyes
watching everything
remembering everything
the laughter that wasn’t kind
the hands that pushed
the moments i was supposed to shrink
i don’t shrink anymore
i just stand there
and let them realize
they don’t recognize me
because the person they named
the one they thought they understood
never survived me
Mar 30
Mar 30, 2026 at 10:54 AM UTC
🇮🇹 Scintilla dell’Origine
Siamo venuti alla vita
da una scintilla antica,
un soffio nascosto
che non conosce nome né religione,
ma solo l’eco di un’origine
più grande della nostra memoria.
Camminiamo forti
quando il corpo ci sostiene,
e ci crediamo eterni,
padroni della strada,
immortali per illusione.
Ma basta un dolore,
un vuoto nel petto,
per ricordarci che siamo fragili
come foglie nel vento.
C’è chi cerca il divino nel buio,
solo quando la paura stringe
e la notte sembra infinita.
Ma il vero rispetto
non nasce dalla disperazione:
nasce dalla gratitudine
di un respiro ricevuto
senza prezzo né merito.
La donna, custode del mistero,
crea la vita nel silenzio del grembo,
e in quel gesto sacro
c’è un ingegno più alto
di ogni mente sulla Terra.
È la porta da cui passiamo tutti,
il primo tempio,
la prima luce.
Eppure il mondo dimentica.
Dimentica la scintilla,
si perde nell’odio,
nell’egoismo, nelle guerre.
L’uomo si crede forte
finché la sofferenza non lo piega,
e solo allora ricorda
che la vita è un dono fragile
da onorare,
non da sprecare.
Siamo più del corpo che si ferisce,
più del tempo che ci consuma:
siamo la traccia di ciò che ci ha creati,
la memoria di un amore originario
che la paura non cancella.
Forse tutto ciò che ci è chiesto
è semplice:
riconoscere il valore del respiro,
rispettare l’origine da cui veniamo,
non aspettare il dolore
per ricordare chi siamo.
Siamo scintille
che camminano nell’ombra,
ma la luce
non l’abbiamo mai perduta.
Masi Roberto © 2025
Nov 30, 2025
Nov 30, 2025 at 4:55 PM UTC
It can be everywhere
there is plenty to say about it
but It remains unclear
Yet we cannot be silent
seduced by the mystery
that we breathe
that spans around us
that is our heaven
that binds us
and has no name
even when we talk about it
and give It many names
And there is that other mystery
that drives our bodies
to new life, the other one
that we breathe
that fulfils us
that is our earth
that binds us
and has a name
even if we are silent about it
since its many names
fall short
Nov 27, 2025
Nov 27, 2025 at 4:01 AM UTC
The first one wrote the second's tune,
it built this place, it picked the room.
The second knelt, all faith and flame,
and whispered back the first one's name.
The third just laughed, unlaced its tie,
walked past them both, did not say why,
unlocked the door and left it wide.
Oct 10, 2025
Oct 10, 2025 at 2:24 PM UTC
i did not fall in love
with poetry
because of textbooks.
an a plus student,
excellent in german,
lit and history,
could not bear the idea
of studying a poet’s
second-hand misunderstandings.
it was a summer
filled with cigarette smoke
and borrowed crushes —
my godmother’s nephew
with his band tees
and cheekbones
that lit the spark
against my will.
fifteen going on tragic,
the air thick with heat,
through the windows
he blasted music,
'ordinary disappointments',
screaming vulgarities,
the really bad kind
that me at thirteen
shouldn’t have known about.
during those months
those lyrics
lived in the back of my mind,
especially when the sun fell,
leaving only
the deep indigo of the night.
after summer ended
and he went back home,
i still carried a piece of him
as if he were my own shadow,
and the gateway drug
of obscene lyrics
and songs about józsef attila
intoxicated me.
i still believe
those blistering weeks
forged my taste
for poetry.
Oct 2, 2025
Oct 2, 2025 at 1:36 PM UTC
laying in that eternal white void i wonder
how the oceans flow,
the forests grow,
the skies arose,
the earth upholds,
as the universe chose
and my energetic field’s connection to it all
will my veins run as deep
as the river networks?
my lungs branch out full of freedom as the trees,
the print of my touch agree with the stump of nature,
my eyes glow ethereally as the galaxies,
the tides sing to the ebbs and flow of my blood,
if the death of a star
reads to the birth of thy cells,
then who is i?
then propagating that eternal white void
they sing♬ :
“O you who have reached the end,
enter into the paradise that envelops
all, join this great choir of organic matter
and feast~ listen to the billions upon
billions of cosmos holding you in their
embrace, harvesting thy gem of soul
from within moons.”
alas, nothing runs unknown anymore
for i who breathed life into the heavens
my soul shall erupt,
a luminous stellar explosion of love,
o supernova named after oneself
as you birth gods and monsters
alike,
let’s whisper once more,
“for we life, are everything and
everywhere all at once”
Aug 14, 2025
Aug 14, 2025 at 9:50 PM UTC
Who first formulated.
Who lifted the veil.
Who first experienced.
Who came from the fog.
Who cleared it.
Who first expressed.
Who emerged from the ocean.
Who walked from the it.
Who first stood.
Who learned to swim.
Who communicated with electric.
Who befriended fire.
Who surfed the waves.
Who noticed the channels.
Who remained.
Who stayed sailing.
Who returns.
Who was chained.
Who saw flame.
Who sees through illusion.
Who was framed.
¹Who unleashed the climate.
²Who dismantled the electrical field.
³Who stemmed magma's reign.
⁴Who cracked the boulder's pebble.
⁵Who called forth the dust.
⁶Who found refuge in lit-dark.
Who built an arc.
Who bridged & arced.
Who lead beneath, under arch.
Who sailed to & fro to warn & to gather.
Who rebuilt & continued to tinker.
Who melded distinct & different peoples.
Who stayed on a boat.
Who resided on a mountain.
Who lived within one.
Jul 10, 2025
Jul 10, 2025 at 1:02 PM UTC
Back when Tigers smoked and Cranes
played fiddle late in the night,
back when men left the forests
for fear of the Moon Bears’ songs,
back when women were revered
for their surging red moon dance,
I remember less warfare,
more reason to feast and sing,
I recall my beginning
as father took mother’s hand
and bathed her in the river
in the late Korean Spring.
May 9, 2025
May 9, 2025 at 3:21 AM UTC
Once
One
Oblivious to the pain of the world
And of herself
The split
Began
When she could not handle
Her reality
One
Became
Three
But they were not done
These troubled souls
Mourned
Together
Held each other up
But it was not enough
They were
Helpless
Doomed to watch their cruel fate unfold
So three grew into five
Five
Different
The same
Whole
Divided
They thought they were done
Five is plenty
But 6
7?
Must be
Better
Safety in numbers
A motley family
Concealed inside a single
Body
Pain
And safety
Dissociation
And protection
We are a far cry from that little girl
Mar 16, 2025
Mar 16, 2025 at 4:02 PM UTC
Am I even religious? I ask myself.
Am I spiritual? I ponder.
Feudal, socialist, capitalist, fascist?
Hmmm.
Am I more over here,
Or more over there?
What's my hereditary, what specific mix;
Where exactly am I from?
From where did my family come,
Where have we been?
What did we take part in?
It's interesting,
But where are we going?
What's the heading?
Feb 13, 2025
Feb 13, 2025 at 11:32 AM UTC
there was a tale
of an angel
with a wing so bright
you could see it at night
but he never had the other
to complete his pair
and in its place
was a wing filled with air
though his beauty was there
and his wing was glistening
he could never fly
because of his missing wing
so he was good
but never great
he was a mate
but never checkmate.
always an angel
never God
always second best
never firstly sought.
and out of this jealousy
a raging war
he stared at his creator
like a lion he roared
he took with him
a third of heaven's stars
and there on the battlefield
blood shed redder than mars
and the battle was won
not by the angel
but by Michael
the warrior more faithful
“Lucifer!” he cried
standing over the earth
“Away from me,” responded Lucifer,
cast down on the turf.
there he lay
with the rest of the ‘meteors’
once stars now never
now they meet the earth.
so he lives
not for long
with the humans
in their song
spreading pain
spreading terror
but this won’t last
forever.
Sep 9, 2024
Sep 9, 2024 at 10:30 AM UTC
Home is: where you live.
We are not from a country --
but from our childhood.
May 5, 2024
May 5, 2024 at 4:00 AM UTC
Maybe we were once stranded here
on the slopes of these mountains
between the white peaks and the low land
We certainly came up with words
to tell that story
and we went into the world
with that answer to the question
Where do we come from?
From the belly of the boat
as the image of our Mother
Earth, who is born where she is
in the lap of heaven
above the Holy Mountains
which kiss eternity
on the border of our existence
We move on and give names
to the world we discover
Time and space embrace us
Sep 16, 2022
Sep 16, 2022 at 4:42 AM UTC
This is a tale about a tale
that had no end
A tale of the tale
of what was then
It went on forever
from wherever
but none knows when
Jan 9, 2022
Jan 9, 2022 at 8:10 AM UTC
Tell me why indigenous
seems so obsolete?
Thoughts in the genius
whose sense is up so late
Why originality
seem so fake?
And off-reality
is worth the take?
It might not seem its best
nor have the Sauce
Not in Vogue as the rest
But it's the source
-Pastorlee
Nov 26, 2020
Nov 26, 2020 at 1:53 AM UTC
There is no middle ground
This taking sides again
It's Adam or Eve
She, deceived
He, the willful one
Once naked
Now ashamed
And misconnected
Within an
Inauguration of leaves
Sleeping upon
Thorns and thistles
The genetic defect their own
To carry forth
Children of sin and death
In the shadow
Of something now
Unattainable
It was never
About appetite
It was always
About sovereignty
Nov 25, 2020
Nov 25, 2020 at 9:44 AM UTC
Van Gogh’s ear sings tales all night
Soulful moaning over mind’s eye sight
Antagonize the heart and turn the eye
A visitor to the heart or passing by
From this spring that we all drink
What whispers all the thoughts we think
Lunatic genius with eyes turned in
Tell me where my mind has been
A freighting tether is shelter and cage
Where the writer’s pen touches page
Ink’s fossil trail bleeding from my pen
A history of where my heart has been
To go and not say in doing so
Beyond this point no words can go
With feet of clay and hand to chalk
I’ve come to hear Van Gogh’s ear talk
Sep 8, 2020
Sep 8, 2020 at 1:51 PM UTC
Broken flight
They went down somewhere
in the trees
The sky is sad
and full of remorse
But never Calliope
Broadway and 52
God knows
they got to you
She sings songs
of their misfortune
Decidely the muse and
mother of importune
Aug 31, 2020
Aug 31, 2020 at 7:22 AM UTC
In a sacred garden
where no one treads,
the wildness claims all;
overrun, overgrown
none can observe
nothing is known.
There is no friend here for you
once trust is betrayed
no paradise to be shown
the path is blocked
no way to return to home.
Yet, I---
here I remain, here I become,
for all seasons that come and go;
a living epithet of past Adam and Eve
I am the angel
who holds the withered branch
with a story none shall believe.
Aug 18, 2020
Aug 18, 2020 at 2:51 PM UTC
Sometimes I think,
Whether Satan is an impostor of God.
Jul 23, 2020
Jul 23, 2020 at 1:43 AM UTC
-Water
Refreshing when Im thirsty,
Relaxing when Im *****
How blessed I am to have access to Adams ale,
Far more precious than treasure,
So much better than pleasure,
Without you nourishing me, I'd surely be frail!
Jul 17, 2020
Jul 17, 2020 at 11:07 AM UTC