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Shay Dec 2015
Someone moves like a python striking prey,
someone screams at the top of their voice moving away,
and suddenly it's as though I'm back to you and me,
and I relive all the things you'd do to me.

Someone brushes me by; touching my skin,
and a friend kisses me on the cheek with a friendly grin -
but I flinch violently; scared of what might happen, evergrowing eerier
because you used to leave not kisses but bruises laced on my exterior.

Someone is drinking straight from a bottle of whiskey
not caring about his actions which really are rather risky.
And I'm reminded of you and the way you used to drink
and how you'd blame It for the way you'd throw my head against a wall with a clink.

Someone spills wine onto the floor without a care,
but all I can do is panic and stare,
because had that been me when I was with you,
I'd have been your punchbag every waking moment - you know it's true.
Sally A Bayan Jan 2016
A poet writes
about truths,
what is, and what is not...
a poet writes about nature,
people....the sun, moon and stars,
a poet dares to feel...to see the whole world...


A poet writes...
to vent his/her own shares of  joy
of agony...and aches...miseries...afflictions
as well as those of the others'
a poet reads...sees through someone else's eyes,
face...words...voice...and actions...

A poet writes,
to euphemize the sharp truths and facts in life
make them less painful to the ears
to at least, soften the pointed edges of every trial...to hurt less
to pad the impact of a fall...from frustration and despair
and, through words...encourage one...to rise...when fallen...

A poet writes
to cite reasons...so a hurting one would believe again
have faith in life...in love...again
to reach out...to those who have gone far, in the dark
and take them back to the fold ...of the bright side...

A poet writes...
to tell the woes of those oppressed
the world over
those tortured...violated...and killed
of children abused
their future stolen away from them...

A poet writes
of how nature has been exploited...and maltreated
how human beings
would one day disappear,
how nature...would be around.......no matter what...

A poet is sensitive
observant
and vigilant...
A poet is compelled to see and tell all truths...
truths of yesterday...those that are here now...happening
and those of tomorrow.....and beyond...
All these,
A poet must write...
...nothing more
...and nothing less...


Sally

Copyright January 3, 2016
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan



[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[(())]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]­]]]]]]]]]]
***Guys, you may add your own ideas.....please do...the list is endless...***
Fish The Pig Sep 2013
There is a line
between
pain and
pleasure.
But when that line blurs-
When the pleasure overthrows
your inhibitions
and the pain numbs your body,
When pain becomes pleasure
and pleasure becomes pain,
how do you know when to stop.

I glorify it.
I crave the taste
of the sickness.
of the disease rippling across my skin,
boiling in my veins
and flowing through my blood.

Is it Healthy?
I love you,
I love it,
but is it healthy
To walk the streets at night
in constant fear
not only of what lurks in the shadows
but of you too.

Anorexic bodies
falling all around us.
Mine included.
Skinnier by the day,
yellow nails chipping and peeling,
grinding of the teeth
to procure a never ending headache.

Pale skin;
cold to the touch
from lack of circulation.
Weak in your arms
an intoxicated mind
and a heart struck through with daggers.

Blasting screams
and beats
to block out the world
and create a throbbing in our heads.
Your freak show;
My guilty little pleasure.

So sick
So satanic
So tenebrific
So twisted
so disturbed
so disgusting
so beautiful
so broken.

cradled by poison,
hold me in your arms,
a monster in the shadows
with thanatognomonic eyes.

With my thanatophobia
You manage to keep me alive.

You do it to feel the pain,
as a confirmation that you're still alive,
But I do it to feel nothing,
to feel all this pain
all these repressed emotions
disappear.

Overall we do it to stay alive,
and shred away
our pitiful sorrows
one by one,
piece by piece.
For inch by inch
we come closer
to meeting the same
fate
of our cold,
useless,
easily forgotten bodies
lying on a metal slab.
Soon to be greeted
by the maltreated Earth.
Meanwhile Ulysses and the swineherd had lit a fire in the hut and
were were getting breakfast ready at daybreak for they had sent the
men out with the pigs. When Telemachus came up, the dogs did not bark,
but fawned upon him, so Ulysses, hearing the sound of feet and
noticing that the dogs did not bark, said to Eumaeus:
  “Eumaeus, I hear footsteps; I suppose one of your men or some one of
your acquaintance is coming here, for the dogs are fawning urn him and
not barking.”
  The words were hardly out of his mouth before his son stood at the
door. Eumaeus sprang to his feet, and the bowls in which he was mixing
wine fell from his hands, as he made towards his master. He kissed his
head and both his beautiful eyes, and wept for joy. A father could not
be more delighted at the return of an only son, the child of his old
age, after ten years’ absence in a foreign country and after having
gone through much hardship. He embraced him, kissed him all over as
though he had come back from the dead, and spoke fondly to him saying:
  “So you are come, Telemachus, light of my eyes that you are. When
I heard you had gone to Pylos I made sure I was never going to see you
any more. Come in, my dear child, and sit down, that I may have a good
look at you now you are home again; it is not very often you come into
the country to see us herdsmen; you stick pretty close to the town
generally. I suppose you think it better to keep an eye on what the
suitors are doing.”
  “So be it, old friend,” answered Telemachus, “but I am come now
because I want to see you, and to learn whether my mother is still
at her old home or whether some one else has married her, so that
the bed of Ulysses is without bedding and covered with cobwebs.”
  “She is still at the house,” replied Eumaeus, “grieving and breaking
her heart, and doing nothing but weep, both night and day
continually.”
  As spoke he took Telemachus’ spear, whereon he crossed the stone
threshold and came inside. Ulysses rose from his seat to give him
place as he entered, but Telemachus checked him; “Sit down, stranger.”
said he, “I can easily find another seat, and there is one here who
will lay it for me.”
  Ulysses went back to his own place, and Eumaeus strewed some green
brushwood on the floor and threw a sheepskin on top of it for
Telemachus to sit upon. Then the swineherd brought them platters of
cold meat, the remains from what they had eaten the day before, and he
filled the bread baskets with bread as fast as he could. He mixed wine
also in bowls of ivy-wood, and took his seat facing Ulysses. Then they
laid their hands on the good things that were before them, and as soon
as they had had enough to eat and drink Telemachus said to Eumaeus,
“Old friend, where does this stranger come from? How did his crew
bring him to Ithaca, and who were they?-for assuredly he did not
come here by land”‘
  To this you answered, O swineherd Eumaeus, “My son, I will tell
you the real truth. He says he is a Cretan, and that he has been a
great traveller. At this moment he is running away from a
Thesprotian ship, and has refuge at my station, so I will put him into
your hands. Do whatever you like with him, only remember that he is
your suppliant.”
  “I am very much distressed,” said Telemachus, “by what you have just
told me. How can I take this stranger into my house? I am as yet
young, and am not strong enough to hold my own if any man attacks
me. My mother cannot make up her mind whether to stay where she is and
look after the house out of respect for public opinion and the
memory of her husband, or whether the time is now come for her to take
the best man of those who are wooing her, and the one who will make
her the most advantageous offer; still, as the stranger has come to
your station I will find him a cloak and shirt of good wear, with a
sword and sandals, and will send him wherever he wants to go. Or if
you like you can keep him here at the station, and I will send him
clothes and food that he may be no burden on you and on your men;
but I will not have him go near the suitors, for they are very
insolent, and are sure to ill-treat him in a way that would greatly
grieve me; no matter how valiant a man may be he can do nothing
against numbers, for they will be too strong for him.”
  Then Ulysses said, “Sir, it is right that I should say something
myself. I am much shocked about what you have said about the
insolent way in which the suitors are behaving in despite of such a
man as you are. Tell me, do you submit to such treatment tamely, or
has some god set your people against you? May you not complain of your
brothers—for it is to these that a man may look for support,
however great his quarrel may be? I wish I were as young as you are
and in my present mind; if I were son to Ulysses, or, indeed,
Ulysses himself, I would rather some one came and cut my head off, but
I would go to the house and be the bane of every one of these men.
If they were too many for me—I being single-handed—I would rather
die fighting in my own house than see such disgraceful sights day
after day, strangers grossly maltreated, and men dragging the women
servants about the house in an unseemly way, wine drawn recklessly,
and bread wasted all to no purpose for an end that shall never be
accomplished.”
  And Telemachus answered, “I will tell you truly everything. There is
no emnity between me and my people, nor can I complain of brothers, to
whom a man may look for support however great his quarrel may be. Jove
has made us a race of only sons. Laertes was the only son of
Arceisius, and Ulysses only son of Laertes. I am myself the only son
of Ulysses who left me behind him when he went away, so that I have
never been of any use to him. Hence it comes that my house is in the
hands of numberless marauders; for the chiefs from all the
neighbouring islands, Dulichium, Same, Zacynthus, as also all the
principal men of Ithaca itself, are eating up my house under the
pretext of paying court to my mother, who will neither say point blank
that she will not marry, nor yet bring matters to an end, so they
are making havoc of my estate, and before long will do so with
myself into the bargain. The issue, however, rests with heaven. But do
you, old friend Eumaeus, go at once and tell Penelope that I am safe
and have returned from Pylos. Tell it to herself alone, and then
come back here without letting any one else know, for there are many
who are plotting mischief against me.”
  “I understand and heed you,” replied Eumaeus; “you need instruct
me no further, only I am going that way say whether I had not better
let poor Laertes know that you are returned. He used to superintend
the work on his farm in spite of his bitter sorrow about Ulysses,
and he would eat and drink at will along with his servants; but they
tell me that from the day on which you set out for Pylos he has
neither eaten nor drunk as he ought to do, nor does he look after
his farm, but sits weeping and wasting the flesh from off his bones.”
  “More’s the pity,” answered Telemachus, “I am sorry for him, but
we must leave him to himself just now. If people could have everything
their own way, the first thing I should choose would be the return
of my father; but go, and give your message; then make haste back
again, and do not turn out of your way to tell Laertes. Tell my mother
to send one of her women secretly with the news at once, and let him
hear it from her.”
  Thus did he urge the swineherd; Eumaeus, therefore, took his
sandals, bound them to his feet, and started for the town. Minerva
watched him well off the station, and then came up to it in the form
of a woman—fair, stately, and wise. She stood against the side of the
entry, and revealed herself to Ulysses, but Telemachus could not see
her, and knew not that she was there, for the gods do not let
themselves be seen by everybody. Ulysses saw her, and so did the dogs,
for they did not bark, but went scared and whining off to the other
side of the yards. She nodded her head and motioned to Ulysses with
her eyebrows; whereon he left the hut and stood before her outside the
main wall of the yards. Then she said to him:
  “Ulysses, noble son of Laertes, it is now time for you to tell
your son: do not keep him in the dark any longer, but lay your plans
for the destruction of the suitors, and then make for the town. I will
not be long in joining you, for I too am eager for the fray.”
  As she spoke she touched him with her golden wand. First she threw a
fair clean shirt and cloak about his shoulders; then she made him
younger and of more imposing presence; she gave him back his colour,
filled out his cheeks, and let his beard become dark again. Then she
went away and Ulysses came back inside the hut. His son was
astounded when he saw him, and turned his eyes away for fear he
might be looking upon a god.
  “Stranger,” said he, “how suddenly you have changed from what you
were a moment or two ago. You are dressed differently and your
colour is not the same. Are you some one or other of the gods that
live in heaven? If so, be propitious to me till I can make you due
sacrifice and offerings of wrought gold. Have mercy upon me.”
  And Ulysses said, “I am no god, why should you take me for one? I am
your father, on whose account you grieve and suffer so much at the
hands of lawless men.”
  As he spoke he kissed his son, and a tear fell from his cheek on
to the ground, for he had restrained all tears till now. but
Telemachus could not yet believe that it was his father, and said:
  “You are not my father, but some god is flattering me with vain
hopes that I may grieve the more hereafter; no mortal man could of
himself contrive to do as you have been doing, and make yourself old
and young at a moment’s notice, unless a god were with him. A second
ago you were old and all in rags, and now you are like some god come
down from heaven.”
  Ulysses answered, “Telemachus, you ought not to be so immeasurably
astonished at my being really here. There is no other Ulysses who will
come hereafter. Such as I am, it is I, who after long wandering and
much hardship have got home in the twentieth year to my own country.
What you wonder at is the work of the redoubtable goddess Minerva, who
does with me whatever she will, for she can do what she pleases. At
one moment she makes me like a beggar, and the next I am a young man
with good clothes on my back; it is an easy matter for the gods who
live in heaven to make any man look either rich or poor.”
  As he spoke he sat down, and Telemachus threw his arms about his
father and wept. They were both so much moved that they cried aloud
like eagles or vultures with crooked talons that have been robbed of
their half fledged young by peasants. Thus piteously did they weep,
and the sun would have gone down upon their mourning if Telemachus had
not suddenly said, “In what ship, my dear father, did your crew
bring you to Ithaca? Of what nation did they declare themselves to be-
for you cannot have come by land?”
  “I will tell you the truth, my son,” replied Ulysses. “It was the
Phaeacians who brought me here. They are great sailors, and are in the
habit of giving escorts to any one who reaches their coasts. They took
me over the sea while I was fast asleep, and landed me in Ithaca,
after giving me many presents in bronze, gold, and raiment. These
things by heaven’s mercy are lying concealed in a cave, and I am now
come here on the suggestion of Minerva that we may consult about
killing our enemies. First, therefore, give me a list of the
suitors, with their number, that I may learn who, and how many, they
are. I can then turn the matter over in my mind, and see whether we
two can fight the whole body of them ourselves, or whether we must
find others to help us.”
  To this Telemachus answered, “Father, I have always heard of your
renown both in the field and in council, but the task you talk of is a
very great one: I am awed at the mere thought of it; two men cannot
stand against many and brave ones. There are not ten suitors only, nor
twice ten, but ten many times over; you shall learn their number at
once. There are fifty-two chosen youths from Dulichium, and they
have six servants; from Same there are twenty-four; twenty young
Achaeans from Zacynthus, and twelve from Ithaca itself, all of them
well born. They have with them a servant Medon, a bard, and two men
who can carve at table. If we face such numbers as this, you may
have bitter cause to rue your coming, and your revenge. See whether
you cannot think of some one who would be willing to come and help
us.”
  “Listen to me,” replied Ulysses, “and think whether Minerva and
her father Jove may seem sufficient, or whether I am to try and find
some one else as well.”
  “Those whom you have named,” answered Telemachus, “are a couple of
good allies, for though they dwell high up among the clouds they
have power over both gods and men.”
  “These two,” continued Ulysses, “will not keep long out of the fray,
when the suitors and we join fight in my house. Now, therefore, return
home early to-morrow morning, and go about among the suitors as
before. Later on the swineherd will bring me to the city disguised
as a miserable old beggar. If you see them ill-treating me, steel your
heart against my sufferings; even though they drag me feet foremost
out of the house, or throw things at me, look on and do nothing beyond
gently trying to make them behave more reasonably; but they will not
listen to you, for the day of their reckoning is at hand.
Furthermore I say, and lay my saying to your heart, when Minerva shall
put it in my mind, I will nod my head to you, and on seeing me do this
you must collect all the armour that is in the house and hide it in
the strong store room. Make some excuse when the suitors ask you why
you are removing it; say that you have taken it to be out of the way
of the smoke, inasmuch as it is no longer what it was when Ulysses
went away, but has become soiled and begrimed with soot. Add to this
more particularly that you are afraid Jove may set them on to
quarrel over their wine, and that they may do each other some harm
which may disgrace both banquet and wooing, for the sight of arms
sometimes tempts people to use them. But leave a sword and a spear
apiece for yourself and me, and a couple oxhide shields so that we can
****** them up at any moment; Jove and Minerva will then soon quiet
these people. There is also another matter; if you are indeed my son
and my blood runs in your veins, let no one know that Ulysses is
within the house—neither Laertes, nor yet the swineherd, nor any of
the servants, nor even Penelope herself. Let you and me exploit the
women alone, and let us also make trial of some other of the men
servants, to see who is on our side and whose hand is against us.”
  “Father,” replied Telemachus, “you will come to know me by and by,
and when you do you will find that I can keep your counsel. I do not
think, however, the plan you propose will turn out well for either
of us. Think it over. It will take us a long time to go the round of
the farms and exploit the men, and all the time the suitors will be
wasting your estate with impunity and without compunction. Prove the
women by all means, to see who are disloyal and who guiltless, but I
am not in favour of going round and trying the men. We can attend to
that later on, if you really have some sign from Jove that he will
support you.”
  Thus did they converse, and meanwhile the ship which had brought
Telemachus and his crew from Pylos had reached the town of Ithaca.
When they had come inside the harbour they drew the ship on to the
land; their servants came and took their armour from them, and they
left all the presents at the house of Clytius. Then they sent a
servant to tell Penelope that Telemachus had gone into the country,
but had sent the ship to the town to prevent her from being alarmed
and made unhappy. This servant and Eumaeus happened to meet when
they were both on the same errand of going to tell Penelope. When they
reached the House
Juneau Feb 2015
puffed out chest, ignorant, aggressive, and far too conceited
these are the traits of a man whose biggest fear is looking defeated
to admit fault and apologize is the same as having retreated
one can't debate these fools as the arguments will soon become heated
and odds are if you keep this up you're bound to be maltreated
it's like their brains are underdeveloped; functioning yet uncompleted
they don't learn from lawful punishment and the behaviour is repeated
my patience with some people is really becoming depleted
if only there were an ethical way to have some of them deleted
February 4, 2015
fifty-three
Edward Coles Nov 2014
He chains black coffee and cigarettes,
knocking ash into last night's beer bottles
whilst Tom Waits is yowling from the stereo.
The Sunday morning is bright-white
like the bleached kitchen counters
that spread in uniform fashion
across the neighbourhood.
The window blinds him with the brilliance
of daylight, after staring too long at the screen.
Another chance to make a go at living,
but with the opportunity
of squandering it all the same.

Conscious that he was standing in his boxer shorts
and more so for the inevitable morning *******,
he checked for humanoid shapes in the allotments;
no Peeping Toms or curtain-twitchers,
only carcasses of Sunflowers
charred by November
and forming a Tunguskan fence.
In his incomplete state of a half-grown beard
and lack of full-time employment,
he found it quite impossible to think
that he was the present day culmination
of all humanity's endeavours.

Save for a relentless talent of self-destruction
and a penchant for giving oral ***,
he had long given up on a remarkable life,
instead savouring the aesthetic of smoke
curling by an open window,
or else watching the squirrels renovate their homes
to the patterns of the seasons.
A strain of survivors lead to his existence
but it didn't steel him in the slightest;
the most energetic thing he had done all week
was to kick a dog-chewed tennis ball
across the park in disgust at his life.

He kept a chart of happiness tacked to the wall
but he was always too depressed to fill it in.
Instead, there were books to be stared at
from their shelves, women to be thought of
but never spoken to;
a windowsill to lean against
and feel at one with the Earth.
Despite the cruelty of self-imposed detainment,
he had come to find a solace in stillness;
to slow his days to a glacial pace
with tense, quivering yoga poses,
and a disdain for daytime television.

During this hiatus for living he had finally
stopped biting the skin around his nails
to the point his fingers would bleed.
He was a man with a myriad of bad habits
and an maltreated disease,
but now the world was crashing around him
whilst he stood in the sidelines
as a disinterested spectator.
He has no stake in the outcome
of endless war and lottery tickets;
only the next collection of honest words,
and to where they might lead him.
C
Danielle Mimran Apr 2014
What's in the power?
What is below?
Frustrated,
maltreated,
victorious,
and on
and above
frustrating again,
the power
makes people
forget
To Who I Belong...?
Who people become when the total power is in their hands and when they are sure that they are never gonna fall?
Does it apply everyone....?
Maybe for some it takes more time until the power strikes them because they were much further than others.
"Thoughts from movies."
Nigel Morgan Sep 2016
this space this place
a shelter from the weather
wind the rain unclothed
the deer would huddle
in habitual restlessness alert
except when in the forests’ deepest
dark their great pale eyes would close

today this sheltering of souls
does not escape the weather
but life’s maltreated pattern
its daily flux and disarray
to sit in this observatory
of evening sky’s condition
seeking only quiet and rapture

on high-backed benches
settled as giants enthroned
pale orange light above our heads
glows within an architrave
to reach across the funnelled
ceilinged surface to the aperture  -
a heightened vision of the sky

we close our eyes prayer-like
to meet our solitary self
where teeming thoughts begin
mind images stream
discarding all intent and reason
until we raise our lidded sight
to this single square of sky

travelling the past and triggered
by undetermined thoughts
speech ringing in the ears
words flood and spawn
so intense this skied perfection
we are drugged towards
a kind of sleep: time waits

then a wakefulness resumes
and all is sound spun turbulence
from trees above that calm and fill
replacing or confusing thought
inside the noise of rising wind: a single
oaken leaf is tossed within the chamber
where it skids and quivers at our feet

unlike the deer who lack imagination’s marvel
we take our thoughts outside this present space
this containment empty of distraction save ourselves
our so-slightly shifting hands buttocks heads limbs eyes
towards a nether world we have no words to share
the salient features of this dreamscape we might glimpse
that is ourselves: distinct alone apart beyond

slowly shifting colour from grey of day to blue of night
the small square accumulates ephemeral
memos sent from our seated selves perhaps
to fly with the wind-tossed crows to roost
somewhere in nearby trees we cannot see -
with the handshake of Friends the meeting ends
and out of silence shyly we reconnect with speech
http://www.ysp.co.uk/exhibitions/james-turrell-deer-shelter-skyspace
Fish The Pig May 2015
I'm different
yeah I'm different,
I'm different
yeah I'm different,
been praised
since birth
for my originality
*****
mentality
bow down
to the freak of freaks
with the good techniques
compliments of god
just for being odd
think I'm plagued by benality
cursed by originality
they think it's the coolest
they think it's so great
they don't understand
how this twists my fate
I'm different
yeah so different
pretending to be indifferent
to being treated
maltreated
isolated
outcast
never understood
different isn't so good
and if I could
I'd be so much more generic
I'd have little simple thoughts
eco friendly watts
get starbucks on weekends
do my nails and hair
highlights down to there
and if you only knew
how it feels
to be so **** alone
you wouldn't be so prone
to envy my creativity
when it's met
with such negativity
to have no coherence
of proclivity
I'm a slave
in captivity
people come by and watch
but don't touch
they point
ooh and aaah
but they don't know what to feed me
how to care for mee
my biggest strength
is my biggest flaw
Since birth
I've been told
I'm so original
but I'm so broken it's clinical
almost criminal
these thoughts I have
living in a world so fictional
I'm so ******' lonely
and hungry
and slowly
freezing to death
with no one to keep me warm
or speak to
I'm cryin up a storm
because no one understands
no one knows my heart
no one knows my soul
you'd think with all this praise
I'd be able to climb out of this hole
but truth be told
lord behold
I am a long sad story
nobody can unfold.
this is meant to be read as a rap.
Steven McNevets Jun 2015
THE CRY OF AN ABANDONED CHILD

There is a pain he wishes to share,

Wondering if any will stay to hear;

A pain transformed into trumpet,

To be heard by the dominant of the earth.

Is there any who seem to care?

Let him the burden of listening now bare,

As his circular canal called to clean

By removing the right and left holes beam.

Does his growth fascinate you?

Your tears may only him fool,

If you do not act to relief:

By praying for dew’s drop on the drying leaf

It is a pain infringe by a mother tree,

Who knows not how to care for her seeds

Therefore, leaving them to go search for pasture,

In the foreign field of rancor

The seed fell among thorns and stones,

And for long in the darkness groans

Finding some better path to light

If he could trace his ways out of the dark night

Many nights, many days,

In tears and pains passed away

Without hand visiting the mouth,

And stomach for long cried about.

Yet left to fend for nutrient

On the weary stormy gale of nature’s strength

Without a link to the root

Who his growth suppose now boost.

Wandering about like a lost sheep

Without the succor of a shepherd;

To him wrong and bad always alleged

Without any room for self defense

Many moving mountain to climb

Without the guard of the mother’s limb

But I am still climbing upward

Though without you seem awkward

Others home I see with prudent,

As mothers and father’s love flows in affluent,

Mother encouraging children to endure:

In climbing the lofty mountain grandeur

As for me who care,

No soothing word that cheer,

Even on a weary night;

When the night darkness subdued the light

How long will I continue to bear?

The lonely weary nights of tears

Who shall help out of this snare?

By making himself so near

Though without comfort I am consoled,

As the nature with rain, cool my thirsty soul.

Maltreated I endured,

When under the nature’s solemn sound secure.

Though discouragement grip my soul;

The rising shining sun suggest hope

On the lonely journey of life,

The moonlight also for faithfulness strife

Though abandoned by mother;

The loving solemn wind never murmurs,

When the eyelid of papa could not found,

The smile to lift from weary ground.

Dejected and despised was I,

While sailing on life oceans with strife.

As family, turn so ferocious,

I found friends proving friendly.

I found friend fully friendly for fun,

Even when the hand of the clock turns,

They never despise nor reject my plead,

But with care and love with me they feed.

Any single thought of the mother,

Is always like to be murdered.

Friends see life in me

But she seems not to know what it mean.

When the friendly sun sunned me dried,

It was as a meat fried

In a hot oil for long,

Perhaps if it could be prolong.

But to friend they want me live,

So all their care and love they give.

To them; for me to live is gain

And to die is shame.

To mother; if I die I die,

My memory is not in her file.

To her; if I live I live,

My odds never make her feel.

Oh, mother! Oh, mother!

Does it not you Now bordered

To lose your jewel to nature so faster,

Such jewel that give you painful laughter.

I came crying to make you smile,

That the pain of your travail may so soon fly.

All these you do not cherished,

So, leaving your jewel to perish

My precious dreams got shattered,

As stones and thorns on it hampered,

When she is not there to pick them off,

To help make my journey to the top

There is something great I really need,

Its dissatisfaction I always feel,.

When the joy of such moment look farther,

That I will be mother

Mother do not lose hope on me

I can always make you, what you want to be

Only if you just believe in this truth;

That I still love you.

Never lose hope to poverty,

For there is room for liberty,

If you will take me as a golden treasure

And your better hope of triumph.
Never had I seen such beauty like yours,
Such a worthwhile smile that shapes me like a file.

Never had I seen such wit as yours,
Such a rightful judge to the cruel misrule.

Never had I seen such persona, with playfulness, reasonableness, uprightness, and inquisitiveness.

Never had I seen perfection, the quintessential condensation of all great characterization, in balance with my imperfection.

Yet it is only wise to appreciate you with my eyes, as my body is apprehended by the past, the future, the time, and the agony.

The life I've experienced has taught me that love is futile, served with sadness and unhappiness and dolefulness with a side of temporary blissfulness.

The idea of success impedes me from obtaining happiness, from settling for ‘less’ and portray a smile nevertheless.

Warped by expectation, limitation, and exploitation, time isn't sufficient to provide you with my fixation, affectation, and ministration.

Sustainability I cannot devise for when I witness your brown eyes, brown like earth, which with the kiss of rain and the seed of love can allow the flourish of life and euphoria never dreamed of.

My heart accelerates uncontrollably, approaching me to a heart attack of which I'm never coming back.

I suffocate as you leave me breathless, yet you suppress my stress and hopelessness.

I so wish to warm your hand while wrapping around your arm.

I so wish to embrace you in my arms and promise you safety for eternity.

I so wish to feel your lips and your hips, never letting go until the last grasp of my fingertips.

I so wish to stare at the stars to your side, while I admire your eyes, hoping that our love never dies.

But being with you is an impossibility, in addition to an atrocity.

Separated by time, a history, and personalities, war would form and never end in peace,
For my peasantry doesn't deserve your royalty,
For my filthiness shan't nudge your pureness,
For my darkness can't cohere with your brightness.

I'd be put to trial for the exile of your smile, the most intact of the wonders of the world that would now be purled.

I wish I could love you but never will I deserve you,
Never will we be together, for we would be an incompatible tether.

I wish I could be with you but it is true that we are through,
Never shall our past be repeated, for it won't be greeted, but rather maltreated.

I wish I could but I've understood from our childhood where I stood and where I stand,
Never will I know, if I were… with you, know where it would lead to.
We wish to love while abstaining ourselves from the possibility.
When he died we flew kites
in the wind. We didn’t, but
that was the feeling. Instead,
we stood on the sand and waited.

We waited for tides to change.
Currents gathered, as did blame.
Tears and raindrops fell. Windswept
Bantham in September wept.

As the strong swells retreated,
corpses of bottles – maltreated.
Uprooted and forcefully
sculpted. Glass misshaped cruelly.

From evenings of love here;
fire, green glass bottles of beer.
Or anger and resentment,
drinking through abandonment.

Now smooth chips of feelings:
light green or white shining.
Like shells of life’s remedies
and dead men’s memories.

When he died we flew kites.
Val roxas Oct 2017
I woke up every single day
Without nothing commenting on my way,
I tried so hard to go away
Envy, angry, everyday.

I always looked up; to fight my rights
But people I  know they are my benight
Who, Where are my knights?
Why they leave me in this sorrowful night?

Do I need to use a punctuation semi colon;
To continue, but I was abandoned.
I grant a pardon to them and make some action
But my action treated like malfunctioned.

They caught me; I was a real spy
But no one can testify
Do I need to terrify?
From revealing what I classified.

Let me just simplify,

Don't be so happy and complacently feeling ahead
You're just still and stilled in my toe; instead.
I hope that this piece, won't you read,
Because I don't want you maltreated.

I'm a good person you know,
I can protect you, but now we're full of foes
I don't want to be your patience with this show
Just reserve it to your woe.

My time is close enough to making amends for,
My willingness for you to pay what's my depths;you adore
I know You lived and believed from the story that you bought into the bookstore
And now, you can't be with me evermore.
chasingeuphoria Apr 2019
Like a rose that blooms,
Despite its thorns and imperfections,
You stood out among the rest,
An elegance that is admired by not just many, but me.

You've been through it all,
The tragedy, the lessons,
The ascend, the downfall,
And most importantly, you smiled.

A positive outlook,
Though thwarted by many
Judged, shredded
Bluffed and maltreated.

Now look at you,
Now an epitome of optimism,
A symbol of hope and happiness
Yes you, are in awe of elegance.

@chasingeuphoria
More coming soon! @chasingeuphoria
Joseph Zenieh Apr 2022
THE DECISIVE OPTION
He is the norm which man desires
if one aspires to what is good.
He's done all what those He has loved
will find so good for their own world.

He hasn't looked for what He likes.
His boon will all His life destroy.
It will disturb His glorious plan
and bring His heart most horrid woe.

This is the choice you have in life
to serve yourself or who are near.
You can't have both as selfish men
reduce to peat those who are dear.

Serve yourself and you lose your heart
or love those near, you make it warm.
You feel maltreated, but inside
you reach the balm of upper aims.
BY JOSEPH ZENIEH
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
____________
BTW Jul 2021
Poet Tree (A Lowku)
30 July 2021

Maltreated goth,
Needed a hit with his m'oth.
Cocoon spooned.

— The End —