"emphasizing" poems
We are each our own moon.
Charismatic souls reflecting sunlight,
As if to illuminate a room,
We glow against black, void; an endless night.
Like a caterpillar to a butterfly, emerging from a tight knit cocoon,
Spreading each wing, confidently slicing the evening air…taking flight.
Or even a flower freshly bloomed on a midsummer’s afternoon.
The moon: a flower, silently smiling despite the plight.
Aside from what each day shuffles in; each night simmers out
No matter how often we feel we have lost ourselves…
Or leave way to fill our heads with doubt.
With recurring assumptions of a worldwide redemption:omnipotent stealth.
Needn't some take longer than others to sprout?
Staring blankly into a mirror, or a moonless night sky: hungry for answers, yet facing an empty shelf.
However, that doesn't infer we embark on a divergent route.
Simply due to lack of clarity, lack of reasoning behind each card dealt.
With that in mind,
Just as the moon,true colors may dwindle…they may fade, yet in essence are always there.
Even on a cloudy day, or when the sunshine is at its peak…and just as well for the blind.
Full moon, half moon, new moon…waxing, waning: dynamic phases the night sky shares.
Moon phases;moody faces…natures way of emphasizing personality defined.
Notwithstanding the dark side, each moon may wear.
Like a guilty pleasure manifesting in a secret shrine,
We all suppress a certain side; to pompous to face reality genuinely bare.
Fragments of our faces may always be hidden,
But there’s one thing that will never absorb into the eclipse: emotion.
Some figure each phase, each wave of vibes … simply fate already written.
Devils advocate begs to differ… let your mind emit all distraction and harmonize with the ocean.
Effervescent rays,warm barrels in which emotions, old and new, have ridden.
Chaotically contradicting thoughts, pulling and pushing, creating the paradox of serene commotion.
A world of words from each moon face: a beautiful encryption.
We are each our own moon, written in the waves, compelled by life’s devotion.
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 1:13 AM UTC
I’ve got a small house made of cobblestone,
and I have a mountain made of chairs.
I’m safely inside; withering to the bone,
and hanging onto my last remaining hairs.
I know what awaits outside my window
and I won’t open the door for anyone.
It’s not like I have any special place to go,
and I don’t care much for the beating sun.
The lights are all off, but I risk a candle
in truth it’s as much light as I can handle.
It’s solely so that I prepare for the battle
against the first foe; the lurking shadow
we all know.
But when a voice rings out
begging and pleading for my help,
asking me to simply let them inside.
I’m more worried about myself,
and preserving what’s left of my health.
I can’t prevent it, I run and hide,
I refuse to go outside.
Savor what’s left of my last breath,
today I won’t be tricked by death.
I let the stranger into my abode anyway
I guess I let my compassion get the best of me.
Emphasizing he had only minimal time to stay
he reassured he wasn’t tricking or testing me.
“Don’t you miss the trees and sun in a park,
why do you live like this way?” is what he said,
I replied “I’d rather be nothing in the dark,
instead of being dead.”
I won’t fade into my made bed.
But he’s the one that is bleeding,
medical attention he’s needing.
But I won’t let anyone into my fortresss of solitude.
Tells me he’s not trying to scare me
but letting him in was already daring,
I just can’t stand to be so cruel, uncaring or rude.
I refuse to be subdued.
He may not make it out alive
but maybe neither will I.
He shows his true colors and they thrive
as he shows me how to die.
The hand knocked and made it’s mark
but it wasn’t a delusion in my head.
While I’d rather be nothing in the dark
instead of being dead.
Sep 10, 2025
Sep 10, 2025 at 1:00 PM UTC
Donald Trump's presidency
Is one of the greatest achievements in art I have ever experienced
And Trump is a true artist
He takes words from the page
Like corruption, disenfranchisement, xenophobia
And brings them to life
Highlighting fear and paranoia so clearly
Contrasting the blacks and whites
Emphasizing anger
While reminding us we're mere infants
In the digital age
And warning us of our seniority
And capitalism's
We all like to think life has meaning
Until we hit an animal with our car
Then that's just the way things are
And I'm staring at an absurdist painting
Of a child driving a car
Through a herd of sheep
As I watch a heist film
Where the robbers turn their guns over
To the mentally unstable guy in the group
Trump is a national artist
Placing riots on the map
And drawing infernos on the Internet
His art forces an opinion
Everybody has something to say about him
And it's all true
Even the pages he ripped from his own cabinet
Tried to villainize him in their script
But he was already an anti-hero
The humor is that the mud slung onto him
Is dirt kicked up from his own tires
I guess if you surround yourself with hateful people
You're surrounding yourself with people who probably hate you
Trump's art is deeply conflicting
He reminds me of the people who want me to live in shame
Yet he embodies the individuality that separates me from that shame
His insecurities remind me of myself
High school is the White House in the eyes of a kid
And I had secrets I wanted to share
But felt I couldn't
I learned things
That changed my entire perspective
And didn't think people would understand
Afraid of being assaulted for my indiscretions
I hid behind a boisterous personality
And a nonchalant attitude
Trump's art evokes sympathy and hatred that feels so strong
When he holds a mirror defining our worst qualities
To a man viscerally opposed to his own reflection
The confliction of emotions
Is the hallmark of great art
We are all artists
The lines we write or the strokes we brush
Are in our actions
And Trump's canvas displays
A life filled with accomplishment
Inspiring me to live my own life
But I still wake up in cold sweats
From the American dream
That anybody can be president
Sep 29, 2017
Sep 29, 2017 at 6:39 AM UTC
Waiting for him,
Was like a,
Mindless abyss.
I thought,
This time I should give it a shot.
Add plus venture,
Into a realm full with pleasures of flesh.
Rather waiting to lie in sepulcher.
Thence came the wooers,
On horses, chariots, planes and cars,
Courted me to the foreign lands of brand new emotions.
Greasy, exotic, curious and even obscure ,
To satiate my hunger,
They poured,
And I sinfully devoured.
Ooooh!
A whip here.
Ouuch!
A tickle there.
Aahhhhh!!
The sheer unfolding of their classy work.
Every night lusciously they came,
Wrapped me in an awe of satire, skepticism and imagination,
Not to say of the bruises they gave,
Tears I shed of Anger,Pain ,Love and Hate.
Still I followed them blindly and agape,
Because a new world in me was taking shape.
Of Shakespeare, Freud, Tolstoy, Eliot, Byron, Wordsworth and my then fav,
the great Gabriel Garcia Marquez.
A medley of fantasy, fact-fiction, comedy, realism and romance.
Oh!
What not I chanced upon.
All emphasizing emotion, imagination, scientific and natural thought.
There was no stopping of these gnawing hunger pangs,
None lasted more than a one night stand.
The foolish me, unaware, cascaded in the fatal encounters,
Not knowing the pangs are of soul to reach the supreme ******
Thence came a Seer
The Prophet,
The Wanderer,
The Forerunner,
It was as if he can rip me with his thoughts,
And see my soul through that tear…..
I distinctly remember that divine night,
The moment I held him in my desirous hands,
I was no more in dual fight.
Things started falling into place,
Was no more in that abysmal space.
Still I would say,
It’s a current phase.
This soon would also evade.
New Lover ,
For every new night…
To cut a long story short,
Just so,
Because of your low attention span,
The lover, the poet , the wooer
Was the great
Khalil Gibran.
Jul 5, 2010
Jul 5, 2010 at 1:05 PM UTC
in this other side air took other color forms
emphasizing details, scanning asymptotes, like hearts
burning on pristine snow, of winter coming
in october already, even in the sun, in the sun above all, almost
red, like the air that took your form, hiding
walls and faces, of concealed rooms you make insomniac
and abruptly clear away, as you pour them in sealess salt
——————————————
Italian version from “Chieti, Scalo”, 2014:
asintoti obliqui
in quest’altra parte l’aria prese altre forme di colore,
insistendo sui dettagli, scandendo asintoti, come cuori
bruciati sulla precocissima neve, dell’inverno che viene
già di ottobre, anche nel sole, soprattutto nel sole, quasi
rosso, come l’aria che ha preso forma di te, celando
volti e pareti, di segrete stanze che componi insonne
e sparecchi di colpo, versandole in un sale senza mari
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 5:22 PM UTC
(Monsoon Moments 3)
The Chart is speaking to me
telling me......time has spilled over,
and, shaded most parts of the pie;
the space beyond the three quarters,
is what catches my eyes.........the pie,
looks like a clock, with only a quarter left,
its hands, hurriedly ticking......emphasizing
making it clearer......there is no turning back;
my to-do list alerts me
got to spend my hours...days,
all the more wiser now,
before the last piece of my pie,
before the last slice of my life,
gets consumed...........and, finally,
be...shaded....completely,
..........by.....time........
Sally
Copyright June 14, 2016
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Jun 23, 2016
Jun 23, 2016 at 9:36 PM UTC
What is it about a woman’s naked body
that is so beautiful to me?
there is nothing complex about it
it could be described simply
nearly uniform in color
with soft curves and small dips
light shadows emphasizing
her beauty
and tan lines
showing if she is expertly ****
or lack there of
showing delicate new nudeness
muscles showing determination
or fat showing satisfaction
and the look upon her face
that says she is proud of what she has
or a curve in her back
that shows she knows what she’s got
I could see a thousand naked ladies
and still want to see a thousand more
do that with anything else
and I’d become sick of it
there is one simple thing
that has to be fulfilled
They have to be naked
stripped of clothing, makeup,
and shyness
because those takes away from the natural beauty
yet
the most beautiful part about
any woman
is knowing that she is happy
with her own naked body
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 10:30 AM UTC
Condensation from a clouded mind,
falls down like rain on a stormy night.
As you lie in bed full of dread,
Cause the things he said are in your head.
"Come to mine, we'll have a good time."
Said some slime at the bar tonight.
You say "No thanks, I'm done with drinks."
But he won't take 'no' and your stomach sinks.
As you walk out the door his feet hit the floor,
So you adorn your keys like wolverine claws.
Cause no one can be trusted while there is so much injustice.
But awareness is rising, we started emphasizing,
That we are using a system that objectifies women.
But we need to do more than just look at a score.
Mothers can't even breast feed without the use of a chest piece.
But men can look and grab and squawk.
And walk out of court after a little talk.
So fight for equality, we need a new system.
We need one that women, aren't afraid to exist in.
Oct 25, 2018
Oct 25, 2018 at 5:31 PM UTC
i never bought the whole dark academia thing.
sure, ****** and drugs and *** are torrid and dark when you're from a rich family,
when you've never woken up to the news of your childhood best friend being shot to death,
when you haven't seen your family and friends fall into the seductive cesspool of opioid addiction,
when half of your class was pregnant by the time senior year rolled around.
the academic upper class thinks what working class kids go through is sexier when the backdrop of the overdose is chandeliers and silk,
instead of a small town parking lot at 3am.
my aesthetic reality of academia is scholarships, it's leather jackets and nicotine addictions
it's having the only fifteen-year-old car in the campus parking lot and hoping to find a plug before the first week of classes.
it's not sleeping between work and class and partying. it's being the only one whose dad isn't buddies with the guy giving me an internship.
it's lonely. it's the crippling loneliness of not understanding upper class social cues,
it's reading crime and punishment in the slivers of time between work and work and class and more work
and emphasizing with raskalnikov so much it makes your teeth ache.
it's coughing up blood.
it's having health insurance for the first time in college and still not using it.
it's drowning, it's fighting, it's violent and heroic and painful and
never knowing
if you'll actually
make it.
Jul 30, 2020
Jul 30, 2020 at 8:33 PM UTC
Suddenly words were reality
and the creases around her lips
were like two beautiful
(Parentheses).
De-emphasizing the emotion
that will come shortly after
feeling the warmth behind her kiss.-JS
Sep 1, 2015
Sep 1, 2015 at 4:46 PM UTC
I have written poems about rising.
It’s a good subject for poets.
Isn’t a poem itself a rising?
We spend much time revising
what we write and what we do.
There are so many good words ending in izing.
I could write a whole poem
using words symbolizing
so much of life -
it’s absolutely tantalizing.
I watch and read about all the polarizing.
It is a cool oasis lingering here
synchronizing
my words with my feelings and thoughts
realizing the heart of who I really am
comprising ways of saying my truth
without moralizing.
At times it is agonizing -
all this analyzing
how I belong and how I don’t
if I’ll join others or if I won’t.
I look at that guy Jesus
and how so many obsess
about his blood and sacrifice
all the while not recognizing
it’s not so much about our sins
and his need to atone as it is
about the good he did
who he sat with and loved,
the seeds he sowed
who he stopped to touch
on the side of the road.
I find obsessions with power
really unappetizing.
I’d rather spend my time rising
from darkness into light
or embracing my sadness, exercising
and emphasizing what is energizing.
When I do that, it is quite surprising
how creative my muse is helping ME
to also rise.
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 10:38 AM UTC
Hank’s mother lectured
Him on the objectification
Of women. Never objectify
Women as ****** objects,
She’d say emphasizing each
Word with a slap to the back
Of his head, (he hadn’t seen
Women as such up until then,
Being only ten), women, she
Added, her dark eyes boring
Into his, are not there for men
To paw over with their eyes
Or hands of any other part
Of their anatomy, poking Hank
In the chest. Yet, when he later
Considered her words, he recalled
That she and that Mrs Baldof were
Always leering over that Jack
Hynde, saying, look at those biceps,
Wouldn’t mind those arms about
Me, imagine those muscles rippling
Over you and they’d laugh and
Giggle like a couple of schoolgirls
Being tickled, and although his
Mother was dead now and his
Father brain drained in some
New York hospital ward, he did
Try not to objectify women as
****** objects, did try to see
Them just as human beings, but
It was pretty hard when a nice
*** went by or a pairs of *******
Casually caught his eyes, going
Down the subway stairs for a train,
Bouncing there like punch bags
In a boxing gym or a slim figure
Came into view as he stood by
The window looking at the late
Afternoon sun, puffing a smoke,
Listening to jazz, a bottle of beer
In his hand, but he did try, and his
Mother’s words were still there,
The echo of them and the slap of
Flesh on flesh still vibrated inside
His head, despite the passing of time
With the clock’s tick-tock and him
Still turning his head and old eyes,
Watching a pretty woman going by,
In a tight fitting, breast hugging,
*** clinging, short shock frock.
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 1:03 PM UTC
Without Peace We All Know Where We're Headed......
Give peace a chance, will those of nobility declare
Intelligence of spirit, who could ever compare
Valiantly fighting the evil in the world, unwilling to fail
Earnestly helping those needy, without ever becoming frail
Peacefully sacrificing time and energy without ever reconsidering
Endangering themselves to constantly make a difference
Antagonizing the establishment for an instance
Coming home with battle scars to wear and none to share
Emphasizing they are not heroes, only that "they care"
Angering all others, for showing they disagree
Considering the options with nowhere to hide
Hiroshima and its aftermaths, would never subside
Attempting to disrupt, what those warmongers insist
No necessity to justify, the results do persist
Coming full circle does our world continue to exist
Ending in oblivion, if we don't learn how to desist
Jul 24, 2015
Jul 24, 2015 at 8:50 AM UTC
Adapted from pg. 571 of Alcoholics Anonymous, 4th Edition
The Black Swan Sanctuary will become a unique and highly successful approach to that age-old public health and social problem, following the crowd... In emphasizing Black Swanism as an integral component of the human genome, the social stigma associated with this condition will be blotted out... "Historians may one day recognize (BSS) to have been a great venture in social pioneering which forged a new instrument for social action; a new therapy based on the kinship of common suffering; on having a vast potential for the myriad of ills of (hu)mankind."
Sep 27, 2014
Sep 27, 2014 at 3:03 AM UTC
I’ve got so many voices inside my head,
my Schizophrenia’s keeping them fed,
I’m starting to feel lost within myself,
think I’m turning into someone else.
I’m always planning my escape,
before my brain can escalate.
“I can’t find it,
where’s the door?
I don’t think we’ve been here before.”
Fight or flight is kicking in,
I can feel it in my skin.
My heart is pounding through my chest,
what is this?
I feel possessed.
“They’re out to get you,
stay at home,
you know it’s best to leave them alone.”
I can feel the panic taking over,
struggle keeping my composure,
start to shake uncontrollably,
I think the demons got ahold of me.
I’ve tried to drown them out,
but my head is in a drought,
my mind goes blank,
I’m in a daze,
somehow my body operates.
What was that?
I heard the door.
“Maybe you should go explore.”
The hallucinations are back again,
no one’s there,
there had never been.
It’s okay,
I’m not crazy,
things are just a little hazy.
“Who are you kidding?
You’re so deranged,
stop walking around like anything’s changed!”
I just want to make my family proud,
but these voices are getting so loud,
they push me down,
to the ground,
I think I hear them laughing now.
What’s so funny?
“It’s a game,
if you want to win you’ve got to play,
so pick a card and roll the dice,
Maybe tomorrow we’ll be nice.”
I picked a card,
they flipped The Fool,
I guess that means I’m just a tool,
a vessel meant for them to rule.
Which means tomorrow they’ll still be here,
emphasizing my every fear.
“Just close your eyes,
and relinquish your mind,
it’s time for you to say goodbye,
put that gun to your head,
we’ll be gone once your mind is dead.”
I’ve got the gun,
now there’s one in the chamber,
but let me leave you with this one disclaimer.
When I pulled the trigger,
my body collapsed,
then somewhere between life and death overlapped,
and my demons found their way through the cracks.
Now everything’s dark,
and it’s so **** scary,
I’m trapped with my demons,
in solitary.
Mar 14, 2020
Mar 14, 2020 at 4:29 PM UTC
I see a face staring through the pixels and plastic,
a face I recognize, even as I search it for familiarity.
It is a face of a starving child about to die
and in this realization, a tear forms in my eye.
For how can this be fair and how can we accept it,
when earlier this night, I bought food I didn’t need?
After eating far too much and appreciating nothing,
I see this face crying out and I know that the words
coming from his mouth share nothing with what people see
when they think of starving kids who share nothing with you and me.
What is wrong with me, with us
when there are more jokes about these starving kids
than efforts to help fill the spaces between his exposed ribs?
I see wrinkles around his mouth, emphasizing his eternal grimace
and wonder why we face a surplus for those who don’t need it
while the needy and wretched sit waiting and defeated.
Apr 17, 2012
Apr 17, 2012 at 5:27 AM UTC
You’ve read the words a million times
Seen it from novel to novel
You read about the daughters
And those they love
The ones who got sick
They hope
And hope and hope
then things go bad
And the only one who can still hope are the daughters
I’ve read their words from all across the decades
Sympathized with their pain
With their grief
With their internal struggles
But I never empathized with them
And in the past
I had this thought
In my head like a sticky note adhered to the fridge
Stuck there right next to the grocery list and the kindergarten artwork
It read
I would never be a daughter
Then the words leapt off the pages
Of the hundreds of novels
Inserted themselves into my narrative
Gluing themselves to my skin,
I tried to rip them off myself
But they peeled off my skin with their literary fingers
Taking some of my skin with them as they launched and
Ripped the sticky note off my cerebral refrigerator
I became a daughter
Sometimes I still can’t believe that word is a part of my life now
Cancer
And I understand what these daughters have felt
That it feels wrong that I should be the one feeling hurt
It is those I love that are sick and I am healthy with no physical ailment on me
No tumors or scars under my skin
But I feel as if they are in my heart
There is a tumor there and it won’t be removed
Because how could one ever remove a metaphorical tumor
Why does it hurt?
Is it because of the chemo
Cherishing the Hope that Everyone is Mostly Optimistic
Devoting myself to keeping everyone else in balance
Holding the weight of the world even though I could easily just let it go and crush
Every horrible thing in this life
But it became a part of me when that word entered my life
I can’t make it separate, make it leave, can’t stop being who I was born to be
Someone to hold the weight
Except one
One weight that ain’t no metaphorical tumor
The person I love is sick
The novels have inserted their words into my narrative
I just hope I can revise their endings
And move cancer into the index
The credits
anything
instead of having the last page read
the end
But, then I see the one I love stand strong
As everyone says this is the end
She won’t pretend that this it
Because it isn’t
She takes the pen into her own hand and erased what the world had written
And writes the end of part one
The end to this chapter in a long happy saga called
life
And she writes to the daughter
I'll see again
when you finish part one
In your wonderful fairy tale book
Apr 7, 2018
Apr 7, 2018 at 12:50 PM UTC
Shhh..little poet.
Why so angry?
I know you hurt; it comes with
Caring.
Black is a beautiful colour
When used for emphasizing
Contrast.
Alone it is a candle
In a dark room,
Unlit.
Life bites, kicks, pulls your hair
And puts its pointy fingers in your
Eyes laughing.
Other times it is a sleeping lion,
Warm and soft to the touch; too
Full and drowzy with sunlight
To anything but purr.
When Life bares its teeth,
Remember how much a grin
May resemble a growl.
Tell me how it feels to
Scratch the King of the Jungle
Behind its palm-sized ear.
All that glitters
Is gold.
Shhh...little poet.
Why so angry?
There is more to Life
Than life.
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 4:00 AM UTC
What I don't seem to understand is...
before you become a man and
everyone cradles you,
holds you by the hand and
fills your thoughts with these dreams and aspirations,
(no exaggerations...just genuine life expectations)
but nothing is impossible,
you are fresh.
Not to death, but from birth.
A brand new mind that has yet to be tarnished.----
Through adolescence,
you start to learn adult lessons.
Cowboys are no longer real...
President's have to wear a tie!
And if I become a stuntman...
then I'll probably die.
I can't be a wrestler on TV if I actually fought?
I need...what!?...on my SAT's to become an astronaut?
Reality, Gets In.
Our Ways, Set In.
Goodbye Dreams,
Goodbye Imagination.--
*"Today you are eighteen years old,
you are an adult."*
God, do I hate the way they say that.
An elongated "u" as if emphasizing the key component that I am an, "adddduuuult"
Then to agitate my irate sense of frustration they ask my for my declaration:
"Now, just what you want to do for the rest of your life???--
You don't have time to think.
This is it, hurry.
Choose.
Now!
Did you figure it out? No...?
Now you're already behind!
Wasting mine and your own time.--"
Time...the only thing that remains omniscient.
Time...the real gift to represent the present.
Time's up.
School's over.
Time to get a job, a good ole' nine to five.
But, I can't listen to that:
For I know that it's lies.
I know sitting in an cubical in an office drinking water from a cooler pretending to be cooler
will be my own personal demise.
I believe everybody has hopes and dreams.
From the oldest person alive to addicted drug-phenes.
Never write a person off by social means.
Never let the American Dream become the American Scheme.
All of us have our own devine-mind.
Life's a playground, don't *** on the slide.
Re-capture that child-like spirit.
If they tell you: You Can't.--
Don't Hear It.
Jump out of the line!
As the rest watch from behind.
No more: Stress.
No more: Fear.
Disregard all: Turmoil.
"You must be the change you wish to see in the world."
.Peace.
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 4:13 PM UTC
He has no choice but to chase her.
This hurricane of a girl,
who carries a roiling storm of turbulent winds behind her glances,
and breathes deeply of natural disaster.
Men will fall for forces of chaos.
Then pursue them despite emotional harm.
All he desires is her and that has made him blind.
He loves how the rain scents her skin.
She smells like dark mahogany and loam.
He loves her rounded gestures.
The way they angle in swooshing arcs,
cutting and emphasizing dialogue.
He wants to kiss her, hold her, be with her, talk to her.
But her crooked, crescent mouth sings only of destruction and implosion.
There’s no time for love or affection.
Her body is an empty vessel for primal lusts.
As slurred, blurred words are panted against her ear.
That’s how long she can stop.
That’s how long she can stay.
She’s caught in the swirl of her turmoil.
And like a hurricane she tears through place and setting.
Always in search of better things.
She has no time to puzzle out love.
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 2:28 AM UTC
You say we have the same eyes,
and I could spend eternity trying to wax poetic,
emphasizing ambers, honeys, and suns,
that can only mimic their radiance from our forms.
But they fall short of where my agony lives,
and I say agony because
lyricists say this is roller coasters,
ferris wheels, sunny days, and stormy nights,
where joy is the absence of suffering.
But somewhere in history,
four small hands grasped dirt and dust
only to find life inside,
abandoning philosophy for something more precious.
To think our fingertips have touched the same earth
is what the pious must feel before death.
How can you say we have the same eyes
when mine are wildfire tragedy,
and yours are January’s starlight?
When we were once rooted there was something shared,
only for it to be ripped from my body
to feel like a winter without snow.
I am undeserving, and yet
it will only be moments until I remove your ribs,
stealing ichor from the gods,
because it is my own vindication,
or perhaps,
the only thing I know.
And still, you only graze me like porcelain.
Jan 24, 2022
Jan 24, 2022 at 6:14 PM UTC
A white egret, slowly treads on marshy land...picking food
unafraid, beside a big carabao that munches grass...
...the tall reeds grow on their own, along riverbanks
........or on wide, unattended, sodden areas
no barbed wires control them from leaning, or sagging
they sway........where the wind goes.
Butterflies, dragonflies, birds
and bees in bright colors, hop on open blossoms
feasting on ripe seeds, nectar, and pollen grains.
and i, am wandering, flying, with these creatures,
perching on top of stalks.....even on carabaos' backs...
i am out there, in the open...swaying with the reeds
while dreams and inspirations spill over.
my mind roams free...no reins, no bounds,
above, and below....or, even sideways,
i inch, and feel my way
through the breathing,
...and the non-breathing...
i am a poet...i write what i feel...what comes to my mind
i follow rules set before me...though, i have
my own existing rules inside me...born with me
an innate knowledge of my limitations
as a person, as a parent, as a writer;
what should...and what shouldn't be,
what to reveal...and what to conceal,
how it is to be compassionate...and
how it is to be indifferent.
i am a poet, still hearing my late mother's voice,
emphasizing..."amor propio" and "delicadeza."
an invisible *** of fresh yellow daffodils,
lives on in my mind...a discretion ingrained in me
a kind of freedom, i opened my eyes to....
Sally
Copyright September 20, 2016
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Sep 21, 2016
Sep 21, 2016 at 2:34 AM UTC
These mental movies playing in subdued technicolor;
An entrapment that seduces my entire consciousness like a glimmering silverware under the sun.
It has kept me enthralled, convinced me to strip myself out of my worn out realism,
Then lead me through a journey that is neither truth nor a dream.
These constructed storylines which overpower my will to resist,
Leaving me no choice but to surrender upon its bittersweet, artificial melody.
How tempting and dangerously self-depreciating it is to let myself be consumed by an illusion's thorn-filled embrace,
Emphasizing in persistent bold letters the cruel honesty that it projects.
Aug 17, 2015
Aug 17, 2015 at 5:36 AM UTC
Corrected
As the unraveled words slip through my thoughts into the universe.
Correcting imperfections.
Judging every woven threaded word.
4,065 languages.
Written
Unwritten
Intermingling words composing every thought as my own.
punctuation leads me not.
Grasping my
Language(s): unknown
Voynich
Yet once
words
with lack of punctuation seen not as a problem.
Yet seen for its purity.
That we the people could connect in understanding
Emphasizing
The languages we combine.
Sep 17, 2021
Sep 17, 2021 at 1:15 PM UTC