"benzine" poems
A tiny beetle
Shimmering in the sun
All the colors of the rainbow.
Like benzine spilled in the rain.
May 19, 2025
May 19, 2025 at 10:33 AM UTC
I am thinking with some nostalgia
about the simple but unforgettable things we shared
and how beautiful everything seems now with time gone by
There were four of us clumsy but sturdy Mother's boys
One Sunday best shirt and one Sunday best pair of shoes
We took turns to go to church and proudly wore our shared attire
The other boys on our street - how they envied us our pair of longs!
Gray flannel freshly-laundered with benzine and neatly-ironed
Worn so proudly and revered like a family coat of arms
We shared the near misses and the sore heartbreaks as well
When it wasn't your turn at church she looked around for you
With marble-sized eyes, this girl - the one for whom you fell
I remember the bitter tears I cried when you tore our shirt
And I could not keep my tryst with the one who sent me crazy
The things that we shared - how they broke our hearts sometimes!
But the beauty of it all was there was no malice or avarice
We accepted our fates and guarded the family secret
And none so jealously as I did though I was often in tears
Oct 23, 2015
Oct 23, 2015 at 9:41 AM UTC
the entrance to my mind
portrays an appealing demeanour,
but with a glance at the contents,
portrays an intervenor
towards the progression
of anything consolingly
appeasing
or so I think
I keep pushing and
pushing until mist to dry,
a view to my loneliness
through a myopic lens
depicts nothing but self
at the following end,
a nearsighted perspective
allowing self-consciousness
to transcend into an abyssal
crevice leaving nothing but
self-blame scattered about
the exiting footprints
retrospect; permitting
history to foreshadow the
ending of every attempt
to let someone in,
I allow the spark to
grow to a flame,
putting it out in
attempt to prevent
and circumvent the
burning of the
one not to blame
the cancer in my
veins ignite with
every attempt to fight
for instances where i'm
not to blame
for instances where the
outcome is sane,
a love born a king and
deceased a slave,
a love resurrected,
mirroring death the same
the entrance is an inhaled cigarette,
that with intent of positivism,
paints the walls, dripping with benzine
illustrating their egress as
an opposing objective to
the goal in attaining peace
by companionship
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 12:18 AM UTC