"blotching" poems
I laid the body wounded from war,
marking the pain of bleeding scar,
they drip no blood but crying word,
scream of whys is all can be heard.
This warrior fought without a gun,
the sword was laid on the ground.
Flew in the war without a shield,
embracing the fires of the field.
The warzone is silent and cold,
daylight is starting to fold,
omitted gore has no trace,
but agony and pain mantled the face.
Alone, the warrior stood with yielding feet,
the armored belligerent took their seat.
They watched this warrior drown with tears,
their laughter bit the bleeding ears.
The archenemies took off their casque,
these are faces of the warrior's past.
Hopelessly he fell on his knee,
looking at the grinning enemies.
Armored with the sharpest sword,
strengthen by their greatest lord.
They rumbled drums with deafening sound,
plotting the line of the warrior's bound.
The warrior faced the strongest foes,
murmur of vicious wind starts to blow.
No armor can block the slashing assaults,
as these are words comes like a lighting bolt.
Words stabs deeper than a pointed knife,
blotching doubt in warrior's life.
Painted the warzone with unwanted shade,
every glimpse of light starts to fade.
The warrior with no hope to win,
carried darkness with tattered skin.
You can't win against yourself,
they will reveal voices left in the shelf.
The warrior dwelled in the cold and dark cell,
fall of the tears in every hit of the bell.
Tired of the biting lullabies marching like a band.
The white flag was raised with trembling hand.
Jul 29, 2020
Jul 29, 2020 at 10:52 AM UTC
How can I not love you?
For when your head is high up in the clouds
Free, unchained, holds no bounds
Drifting on endless blue
Towards the crimson afternoon
In a palette of pastel hues and gray
'Cross the canvass of our last summer day
Spilled sunset and water blooms
How can I not love you?
When the autumn breeze wraps itself around
The coffee cup warmed with traces of your hand
Melts to a morning dew
Blotching the sheets of white
Unfinished letters scattered like the sands
In a desert of aimless thoughts, profound
With oasis in sight
How can I not love you?
When your eyes burn like an ocean of stars
That swallow the winter lights asunder
Drowning all in view
All but the crowning trees
That spread their elegant twists in glory
Of imitating your hair, now tell me
How can I not love you Denise?
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 8:40 AM UTC
When the painting withers
From the pungent smell of life
A new pattern shall emerge
Covering all your imperfections
Your blackened heart
Shall shimmer with vibrant hues
You'll paint in the joy
Never blotching the canvas
Not a smear will profane
Not a splatter will alter
The stroke of beauty
That shall come to life
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 6:42 PM UTC
Do you know what it’s like to love someone so far away?
He writes in his letter.
It’s like an endless ocean separating you from me, and I can’t swim.
There is a craving deep inside; I cannot feed its hunger.
Only half of a life is contained in my soul.
So far away is the other half,
Far past the echoes
Down the stream past the point where sight has no use, he writes.
The man lays his head on the table and weeps, blotching some of the ink of the letter.
It’s so hard sometimes to recall you from my memory.
To see you sitting across from me having your coffee or,
Just to recall your scent, because these days everything reminds me of you
And it all blurs into that imperfect image of you that my mind has created.
My hands shake and my body trembles.
When will you return?
Love you always.
The man sits back in his chair and lets the pen fall from his hand.
He folds the letter and places it in an envelope and seals it with wax.
The man walks the road to the post
And returns home to wait until she returns.
Oct 29, 2010
Oct 29, 2010 at 8:34 AM UTC
C'est de ma coeur
L'amour de la chaude
C'est le gros feu orange
La rouge de ma peau
A new life
Gorge us
On the heat of your bleu base
The vastness of the ciel is captured in your core
The blanc
A bleached blank blot of light
Blotching the irises of
Nos yeux
Mes jambes burn with the blaze
My coeur melts quand tu rire
Mais tu es seulment le feu
Feu
C'est plus que ca
It is the waves and forces in my chest
The spark in mes yeux
The high of a rolling wit being exhausted
C'est la langue avec ce que j'etais nee
Et puis ca, c'est la frustration que j'avais avec
Anglais et French
C'est ma mere
Elle est la feu dans ma coeur
Tres fort
But it burns
It will always burn
Oceans of salt will not wash away the singe
I am rouge with force
Forte avec heat
I will burn on
Like fire
Mar 14, 2016
Mar 14, 2016 at 11:09 AM UTC
Light shines against my closed eyelids
So I'm seeing red.
The darkness pretends it can't touch me here
In the light of day
While I lie awake
But there are places to hide
When the sun comes out
Down, down, down it goes
Burrows into my heart and runs through my veins
While I breathe in, out
In, out
Willing the daylight to take over once again
But all my angels have fallen out of the sky
And the music I once heard has gone silent.
Even the sun doesn't shine as often anymore
And the thunderstorms of my mind have spread to the rest of the world
Allowing the darkness more time to work
More time to brainwash me into thinking that its normal
That everything is absolutely fine
But there's one small bit of my mind the darkness hasn't figured out about yet,
Or maybe it has but it couldn't win the battle,
That has a light brighter than even the sun
And maybe that's my starting and ending point
Or perhaps its some divine spirit seeking refuge in my ravaged mind
But its the only thing keeping me from succumbing to the darkness
Its the only part that stays conscious while the rest is violated and mislead.
But lately that light has been dimming
And the ink stains blotching my fingers
Feel less like the blood I know they are.
Aug 11, 2016
Aug 11, 2016 at 2:27 PM UTC
Beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder?
For I was torn between the wondrous musing
And the unfaithful, the treacherous verity.
Dad said that it lies in the wit and the wisdom,
Mom believed it to be synonymous with serenity!
I roved in reverie, pottered with presumptions;
What is beauty? From where does it emanate?
But may be, there was no oasis to my quest.
The answer breezed in and out, gusted here and there;
To catch hold of it was a big, big test!
Was it the reflection in the mirror?
The unbearable, the ill-favoured, it couldn't be.
The face that lacked glow, the face sans any sheens,
It longed for glory, for eminence.
I sighed; for was beauty the boulevard to my dreams?
There are the gifts of botany lacking blossoms,
And scads of scars blotching the moon.
But never could they blotch my view:
Splendor couldn't stop itself descending upon my eyes!
Even in murk, even in dim, I could descry hue.
'Twas in my eyes, they could life the lifeless
Like a shore serenading a cove or
The Ocean constantly kissing the shoreline.
These epitomised allure, incarnated love.
For me, it was an emotion 'divine'!
I realised: Not in the skinny legs and the fair hands
It is found in the vivacity of spirits.
Neither in the mascara nor in the mole;
Beauty has never found it's way through these,
It resides in the heart, in the soul.
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 12:10 AM UTC
Sometimes I try and remember what it felt like when you left those years ago,
I try to remember the words you said to me before we went our separate ways,
And I try to remember if I slept that night or not,
And I try to remember if my mother noticed the redness and blotching of my skin when I tried to hide what was going on,
I try and remember how long I spent in the shower with my knees tucked to my chest not even caring when the water got cold,
And I try and remember if I could even eat the week after you left that night,
I even try and remember the exact date you left because; I have the date we met etched into my bones,
And I try to remember if I even cried that night or if I was too choked up to even move because you had a way of making my chest concave,
But truth is,
I can only truly remember the pain- staking memories,
Because it seems to me that the little hurts fade faster than the ones that created the scars left on my body,
The scars from every bad fight we've ever had,
And I admit seeing couples kiss still makes me uncomfortable to this day because I can still envision them being us in the back of my mind,
And I try and blame you for ruining some of my favorite songs,
But truth is,
They probably wouldn't have been my favorites if it weren't for you,
And I admit that even the rain reminds me of you because I can remember the way you smiled when I used to go out dancing in it,
I even remember you in the ways I try and forget you,
And remember you in the ways I still write poems about you,
And I painfully remember you when my friends ask whatever happened to you and I really don't have a straight answer,
Because those are the things that impact me the most,
Those are the things I still find myself tearing up over,
But I guess time heals the pain and fades the memories; slowly one by one,
And only the scent of you now lingers on my T-shirts,
And the chest-clenching pain you had inflicted has faded to these words,
And I guess it's no laughing matter but I do find it funny how time and memory work together to try and erase the things that damage the human body,
And I guess that proves how vital survival is to us,
Even when the clock reads 4:36 AM and we lie there wishing to die.
Jun 10, 2015
Jun 10, 2015 at 7:01 AM UTC
On the way to class today
I found a bag of clouds
Bouncing on the fresh-cut grass
Making soft sounds
Sounds that touch your ears like cotton
Sounds we have since long forgotten
As I picked it up
It began to shake
Damp as all and every death
From the rain the clouds make
I ventured then to look inside
“Like Pandora” thought my curious mind
And just as She, I did then find
The contents at once left the bag behind
And soared, now free
Through ****** air
Blotching the blue
With their long grey hair
And cried upon the earth
Missing the ocean, their place of birth
Soon an ocean did arise
Between the earth and the skies
And despite my human cries
The water rose above my eyes
And so I found something that floats
And stole their cage to fashion a boat
And as these children of the sea
Rained and rained eternally
All of their memories
Washed over me
Finally my makeshift boat
Reached my morning class
I wondered where the clouds would go next
But decided not to ask.
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 5:28 AM UTC
Golden flower that annoys my lawn. Puffy white seed pod that drives my cat insane. Flower of Irish lore and a recipe for stew. How I love and loathe you. While you are pretty to look at, you cause me great distress. You come on like an invading army, blotching my landscape with your golden pimples. I cut you down yet you flourish, just a little lower to the ground. Then at the appointed time, you morph into snowballs of allergic terror, giving my sinuses fits. So oh Dandelion, I will love you from afar while trying to find a way to get rid of you. Until the frost comes our relationship will be one of love and hate. May winter find you and **** you off, as the frost helps me bid you goodbye.
Nov 14, 2016
Nov 14, 2016 at 8:57 AM UTC
The saints would want me to forgive. That I have
done. Uphill trek, great effort, conquered the summit.
But then the witch doctors have asked me also to forget,
just forget, like nothing happened. The gray amnesia
intensely urged by incessant chants of choral animé
of aging cherubims would make it difficult, quite
difficult, to explain myself, to myself, with all honesty,
how I got the scars that run deep to the core of my unholy,
(Why not just say sinful? But what is a sin, anyway?),
heart. Unreal these demands. Abnormal? Unnatural.
Unnatural such reactions. Like a Shylock, I would have
yelled, nay, sworn (did he swear?) - a Jew also feels
pain, and bleeds - red blood, not green, not yellow –
when pricked, wounded, ****** slashed, crucified.
But I am not a Jew. Neither a Christian. Nor a Muslim.
Not a saint. Just a human.
Just a human. Not an Avenger or any superhero.
Can’t fly. No imaginary avian wings like those
of Caucasian angels. Not bat wings like those
of soot- or ember-colored devils. Outside an airplane
only my thoughts soar across the blue skies
and above the numerous species and varieties
of clouds. No cloudy mind.
Just a human. Blindfolded Science, not blind nor blinded,
called the species I belong to, just one, **** sapiens.
Wise human. Subspecies **** sapiens sapiens.
Wise, wise human. Made up of matter. That matters.
A lot. Matter not essence. Matter of fact. A living thing.
Not a germ nor a microbe nor a god but surely omnipresent.
Not a plant but may be green-minded. Needs plants.
Not a fungus but may be fungus-faced. Occasionally
attacked by the whitening, not by the illusion of being white,
but by blotching, thanks but no thanks to Tinea versicolor
Not a protist. I just protest. And protest I must.
Just a human. Classified as a hominid. A mammal. Highest
Form? Who said so? Aristotle? Highest? No! Form? Yes -
an animal. Not a microbe. Not a plant. Not a fungus.
Not a protist. I just protest. And protest, protest, I must.
Not a virus. Not white, not black, an Asian, a Filipino.
Not your virus. But like all humans, afraid, very much,
of the new coronavirus. But I am
Not the virus.
Afraid of coronaviruses, and all other deadly viruses,
because I am. Just a human.
Apr 2, 2021
Apr 2, 2021 at 8:50 AM UTC
belle's rose, wilting one petal at a time
the creation of adam, gods hand yet to touch yours
you're 0.8 seconds away
from descrying the back of their head disappear into the distance
one last time; one heartbeat away
the inception of an everlasting process; the decay.
languished simply, because of the life left within
shoulders slouched, so as to crease what's in between
you let out a sigh
struggling to pick broken shards off the austere snow;
blotching blood stains so diluted by what your eyes let go
you realize what's so undoubtedly you; an overflow.
an overflow of musing so raw, each drop a crystallized sapphire kernel
burgeoning beanstalk in the hearts of every passerby
all led to the glasshouses you once vowed to unfalteringly stand by the refracting light dilating naked memories; an open invitation to pry
you lack distrust that things could ever go awry; they do.
stubborn; you never learn;
you live in denial, waiting for their return
your presence incomplete; the twinkle in your eyes masking your defeat
your glasshouses broken and beat; slow deplete
repeat repeat repeat
you fight shy of taking up space
last row corner seat, you almost always leave without a trace
your voice too mild to return an echo, your soul leaking too gentle to show
you long for warmth, yet you leave behind nothing to embrace. you know.
a paradox on your own; you're a daunting dilemma
you can love into thin air, hushed or acapella
your burning eternal, yet you soothe all fire
hollowing for your world, but there's nothing you desire
your heart's been plucked from the souls you've warmed
only to be left astray in the cold
yet you pick the pieces less frozen and hand it over for them to hold
obscure; oblivious, and obedient
to everyone but your own
you're fighting battles; for everywhere but home
withering and drifting
brittle dust in the breeze
worn out to the extreme
bittersweet; free
potpourri
p o t p o u r r i
Jan 29, 2022
Jan 29, 2022 at 1:40 AM UTC
There's a blank space,
clutching the pen--holding on
to the spiraling thoughts in my head
my pen slightly scrapes the paper,
with its endless void-- pen ink blotching the sheet
with nothing but a black spot.
all the worlds of words that
want
to
tumble
down
into the sheet
yet as I put my pen down
nothing comes out.
I stare listlessly into space
there's so much I want to say--
but nothing that I want to ACTUALLY write
I can't write.
my mind is petrified as if I saw a ghost
No matter how many times
I wrote... nothing good came out.
Like the girl who purges each night, but has nothing left to purge.
Like the photographer who can't see the world anymore.
Like the musician who can't hear his music anymore.
Like the old lady who wishes to stand up
and hug her grandchildren but can't anymore--cause she's dead.
Like the people who sit out in the streets with no home and no purpose
Like the writer who sits looking at the window with no words left.
This is the Writer's Block.
Nov 1, 2019
Nov 1, 2019 at 2:54 PM UTC