#proses
All poems and proses are unfinished
Only those in sonnet are finished
Completed, done, and terminated
A poem or prose can still be edited
Revised, retouched and rewritten
A poem is a powerful tool or weapon
Leave alone my unfinished poems
These are my spices, my stars, my emblems
You don't understand their symbols
And the words used to fill up the bowls
You just have to read my poems ten times
To fully comprehend them. Ignore the rhymes
To pay more attention to the vernacular
They are not bizarre; they are just particular
They are not regular; they are unfinished
They are not strange, they are simple. Kabish!
Copyright © July 2019, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several books of poetry.
Mar 25, 2025
Mar 25, 2025 at 7:11 PM UTC
The most beautiful proses or poems
Were divinely dictated by the Almighty.
I'm not immersing in some profound dreams.
Needless to say, I'm neither inebriated not crazy.
Believe me, just like the verses in the Bible,
Many poems came from the womb of inspiration,
However, the most powerful ones were scribbled
By the Spirit of a Higher Power through dictation.
After reading a few verses from some poetry books,
The words come out alive and move like sharks in hooks,
One can experience the very presence of a supernal being.
Poets of all style, in God's name, please do not to stop writing.
Copyright© February 2017 Logerie Hebert, all rights reserved
Hebert Logerie is the author of several books of poems.
Dec 1, 2024
Dec 1, 2024 at 11:56 AM UTC
i wish knowing you're not worth the words is enough to make me stop writing about you.
but apparently, it's not.
Oct 3, 2019
Oct 3, 2019 at 10:27 PM UTC
She's the girl with the matte lipstick,
Deep, bold red that flows in her veins
She throws them fierce on her fragile lips
Warning every man she's more than a kiss.
She's the girl with the matte lipstick
A deeper red than the roses she was given,
One look at the mirror and she's all set
To rule out the world with her head set high.
And she will be stronger than you and I,
For her soul is clinquant with
glittery gold
Of fading scars and past mistakes
That she will one day conquer all on her own.
Dec 20, 2016
Dec 20, 2016 at 3:03 AM UTC
I have shrunk to a thousand creases.
My dents have moulded
into sand and I'm built of nothing.
I might be brittle cascades
or a hollow dead star.
I might be a scattered ocean.
You would never know what I am.
The comets of my empty skies
emit radiation louder
than a thousand deaths.
Since a million years
I'm buried in vacuum.
My nerves are stapled
with rusted nails.
I've drowned into ocean floor,
I've been swallowed
by molten rocks.
This magma floating
within my veins,
is only your faded face
singeing me from inside.
You destructed me
and I've fallen.
I've fallen beyond grasp.
I've fallen empty,
into vacant depths of a screaming abyss.
Sep 20, 2016
Sep 20, 2016 at 11:04 AM UTC
This life is all greed,
hatred, anguish, joy,
betrayal, hope, hurt,
loss, deaths, failures,
luxury, pain, happiness,
melancholy, helplessness,
habits, hobbies
and a curse called love.
It's called love
because they named it wrong.
We're cocooned in paper thin walls,
tearing through
and ripping them apart
and stitching them again
when they see our dark sides.
We're sunburned
and blue-veined,
and the recrudescence
of these scars spills
nothing but blood —
frozen blood
breaking into incandescent shards.
And we're bleeding,
we're bleeding with tears
and we're bleeding with screams
and we're a destruction
destroying others
and destroying ourselves.
We're a wave of hate
swallowing those
with a difference.
Gray haired people
tell us we're too young
to know the world,
but they won't ever see
the rivers like we do.
They tell us
the sky is colored blue
but our wild imaginations wonder
if sky could be pink and green,
and it is.
Where we shattered,
the pieces are still lying there.
Someone else picks them up
and solves the puzzle we are.
Some breathe
with broken hearts
and some walk
without leaving footsteps.
We are so different,
all of us,
looking back again and again
and again
and hoping again,
and we wonder all the time,
what I would be like to exist
in a different place.
Somewhere far away
from this present
spreading darkness
until we're blind —
so blind that we forget
what light feels like.
In the end though we'll
know we're fallen.
We're fallen faiths
and fallen dreams.
We've fallen into a phoenix called life.
We're different.
Maybe it's time we accept.
Sep 17, 2016
Sep 17, 2016 at 5:03 PM UTC