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Glenda Lee Nov 2017
Ngano kaha gihigugma gihapon tika
masking nawala na imong paghigugma sa akoa?

Ngano kaha gipangga gihapon tika masking wala na ka ganahi sa atoa?

Ngano kaha gahandum gihapon ko nga ikaw ug ako gihapon
masking ako nalang ang gapugong sa kung unsay naa ta?

Ngano kaha ikaw ug ikaw gihapon ang pirminte naa sa akong huna huna
masking kabalo kong dili na ako ang naa sa imuha?

Ngano kaha gagunit gihapon ko sa imong saad na ako ra
Masking kabalo kong naa nakay lain na mas angay muhigugma sa imuha?


Siguro ingon ani lang gyud ko mahigugma
Higugmaon gihapon tika masking sakit na kaayo para sa akoa

Siguro ingon ani lang gyud ang gugma
Sakit pero nahigugma raman ko nimo masking ikaw wa na nahigugma sa akoa

Kabalo kong walay taong bogo pero andam ko mabogo kung ang kapuli kay pagpabilin nimo sa akoa

Pero ug kalipay gyud nimo ang mubiya na
Andam nakong mubuhi sa atoa
Andam nakong buhian ka ug ihatag sa iya
Andam nakong ako nalang ug wa nay kita
Kay tungod ingon ana kadako akong paghigugma sa imuha
#gugmasabisaya
#proudbisaya
Michael W Noland Sep 2012
[A] is for
An
Archer with
An
Arrow through his
Adams
Apple, very
Applicable, to the
Ample
Amounts of
Amiable
Attitude,
Adorning his heart, in
After
Action
Attributes, that impart, the
Admiration, of
*******, in this
Acting out of
Arrogance bit. he is,
Astute, in his
Allure, and
Aloof, in the
Air, of
Aspiration, in which, he was
Alienated in the
Agony, of
Asking
Assassins, the
Aforementioned. lights, camera,
Action. recipe of the
Ancient
Admirals of
Avian
Aliens, that
Attacked, with the
Arms and fists, of
Arachnids, now
Aching to be
Activated in sudden
Allegiance to the
Answers, of the truth.
Accumulating wealth for
Anarchy's of
Abating
Angels in
Atrophied,
Alchemical
Academies of the ever
After life .. . of silence.
****** strengthens in these
Accolades of violence, in
Alliance to
Appliances
Appearing in the
Arson of
Apathy, happily, to
Anguish in the
Amputation of my
Abdomen, if it meant i'm a real
American, even, when, only
Ash, remains.
Acclimating in its remains
Attained, the
Articles of my pain, in
Affluent shame, next time ..
Aim... oak
[A]?

[B] is for the
Bah of
Black sheep, and
Big
Bit¢hes, fat cats,
Bombarded in the
Blasted,
Bastion of
Blackened
Benevolent
Blokes,
Berating the
Blasphemous,
Be-seech, of
Brains, to feel
Bad, about the
Blotching of
Binary codes, erroding, the
Blanked out
Books, of
Belittled
Bureaucrats,
Bowling
Back the
Bank rolls of
Betterment, from the
Back of the
Blackened
Bus, as i'm
Busting guts, in the
Bubbling
Butts, of *****
Benched, but
Beautiful, in the
Battle, in the
Bane, of existence.
Baffled, in the strain of
Belligerence, in
Beating the
Beaming
Butchery into
Billy's
Broken
Brains, in
Bouts, of
Battering
Bobby's for
Bags of
*******
Before, affording to
Build
Bombs, is just
Beyond
Breaking
Beer
Bottles on the
*******
Benefactors of
Boulder
Bashing with the
Beaks, of
Birds, with no
Bees. just a
Being, trying to
[B]


[C] is for the
*****
Courting the
Choreography, in
Computerized
Curtains,
Circumventing the
Cultured,
Contrivance of
Chromatic
Cellars,
Calibrating, to the
Contours of
Calamities,
Celebrating the
Cyclical,
Cylinders of
Cyphered
Calenders,
Correcting the
Calculations, of
Crooks
Coughing, in
Courageous
Coffins of
Canadians,
Collecting
Cobble stones, from
Catacombs, in the lands of the
Conquered,
Capturing the
Claps of thieves, sneaky
Cats, of greed. its
Comedy. oh
Comely, to my
Cling of
Cleanliness, and for your self
[C]

[D] is for the
Dip *****, as they
Delve
Deeper in the
Deliverance, of
Deviant
Deities,
Dying to
Demand
Dinner
Delivered in the throws of
Death,
Deceiving
Defiance of
Darkened
Dreams,
Demeaning that which
Deems the
Dormant of the
Dominant, to be
Demons of
Deviled
Devilry,
Dooming us for
Destruction.
Deploy the,
Damsels in
Duress.
Defiled and
Distressed,
Detestable and
Dead. in the thump of
Drums,
Dumbing down the
Debts of,
Dire regrets.
Dissect the
Daisies of,
Disillusion, in the current
Days,
Diluting night into
Dawn,
Disconnecting the
Dots of the
Dichotomy, and arming me, in the
Diabolatry, of,
Demonology, as i watch me
Dwindle away, the
[D]

[E] is for
Everything in nothing,
Eating the
Euphoric
Enigmas of
Enlightened
Elitists,
Exceeding in the
Extravagant
Essence of
Esoteric
Euphemisms,
Escaping the
Elegance of the
Elements in the
Eccentricity of
Eclectic
Ecstasy,
Exhaling, the
Exostential blessings, of inner
Entities, and renouncing the
Enemies of my
Ease,
Easily to appease
Extraterestrial
Empires,
Extracting the lost
Embers of
Enlightenment, in
Excited delight, but to later
Entice, the fight, and
Escape, like a thief into the night of
Everywhere,
Entering the
Exits of
Elevators leading no where, to
Elevate, this useless place,
Encased in malware in the
Errant
Errors of
Every man,
Enslaved, of flesh and
Entrails,
Enveloping the core of
Everything, that matters,
Enduring, the chatter, of
Evermore,
Ever present in
Everybody
Ever made to take
[E]

Funk the
Ferocity of
Foolish
Fandangos, with
Fanged
Fanatics,
Fooled in the
Fiasco of
Fumbled
Fantasies,
Falling through the
Farms of
Freely
Found
Fans,
Flying in the
Fame of
Fortune.
Fornicating on the
Fallen
Fears of
Fat
Fish getting their
Fillet of
Fills.
Feel me in the
Frills

Granted with
Generosity.
Giblets of
Gratitude and
Greed,
Greeting the
Goop and
Gobbled
Gore,
Gleaned from the
Glamour of
Ghouls in
Gillie suits,
Getting what they
Got
Going, in the
Gratuitous
Gallows of a
Game
Gaffed by
Giants.

Hello to the
Horizon of
Hellish
Hilarity, in
Hope of
Happy, to
Heave from
Heifers, to
Help the
Hemp
Harshened
Hobos in
Heightened
Horror, to
Honor the
Habitats of
Hapless
Habituals,
Herbalising the work
Horse, named
Have Not, in the
Haughtily
Hardened
Houses of
Happenstance.

Ignore the
Ignorant
Idiots, too
Illiterate to
Indicate the
Indicative
Instances of
Idiom in the
Irrelevant
Inaccuracy of
I,
In the
Intellect of
Idle
Individuals,
Irritated with the
Irate
Illusion of
Idols
Illustrated upon the
Iris,
In the
Illumination of
I.

******* the
Jobless
Jokers, and
Jimmy the
Jerkins from their
Jammie's, in
Justified,
Jousting off the
Jumps, in
Jokes, and
Jukes of
Just
Jailers,
Jesting for
Jammed
Jury's to
****
Judgment from the
Jitter
Juiced
Jeans of
Jesus.

**** the
Keep of
Khaki-ed
Kool aid men,
Kept in the
Kilometers of
Kits,
Kin-less
Kinetics,
Knifing the
Knights of
Kneeling
Kinsmanship,
Keeling over the
Keys of
Kaine, with the
Karmic
Karate
Kick of a
Kangaroo.

Love the
Levity, in the
Luxurious
Laments of
Loveliness,
Lovingly
Levitating in
Level,
Lucidly.
Living in
Laps, of
Lapses,
Looping, but
Lacking the
Loom of the
Latches
Locked with
Leeches of the
Lonely
Lit
Leering of
Lightly
Limbs, that
Lash at the
Lessers in
Loot of
Lost letters,
Lest we
Learned in the
Lessons of
Liars.

Marooned in
Maniacal
Masterpieces,
Masqueraded as
Malignant
Memorization's of
Motionless
Mantras, but
Merrily
Masking
Mikha'el the
Mundane, who is
Musically
Mused of
Monsters,
Mangling the
Monitor, but
Maybe just a
Moniker of
Marauders.

Never to
Navigate the
Nautical
Nether of
Never
Nears.
Not to
Nit pic the
Naivety of
Nicety.
Notions
Neither take
Note
Nor
Name the
Noise of
Nats in the
Nights of
Neanderthals
Napping in the
Nets of
Ninjas

Ominous in the
Obvious
Omnipotence of
Oblivious
Obligatory
Opulence,
Of
Other
Oddly
Orchards
Of
Offices,
Ordaining
Orifices in
Offers of
Ordinary
Ordinances in
Option-less
Optics,
Optionally an
On-call Oracle, in
Optimal,
Overture.

Perusing the
Pestilent
Pedestals of
Personal,
Parameters,
Pursuing the
Petty
Plumes of
Piety with the
Patience of a
Pharaoh,
******* on the
People with the
Penal
Pianos of
Port-less
Portals, in the
Paperless
Points in the
Palpal
Pats of
Pettiness.
Poor, but
Prideful.

Quick to
Qualify the
Quitter for a
Quick
Quill in
Queer
Quivering of
Quickened
Questioning,
Queried in the
Quakiest of
Quandaries.
Quarantined to a
Quadrant, of
Quagmires.
Questing the
Quizzing of
Quotable
Quartets.

Relax in the
Relapse of
Realizations, and
React with
Racks of
Rolling
Rock to
Rate the
Rep of the
Rain-less.
Roar in
Rapturous
Rendering of the
Random
Readiness in the
Ravenous,
Rallying, of the
Retinal
Refracting of
Reality.
Realigning, the
Righteous
Rearing of the
Realm, and
Retrying.

Steer the
Serenity in
Sustainability, and
Slither through the
Seams of
Slumbered
Scenes.
Secrete the
Solo
Sobriety of
Sapped
Sassys,
Salivating upon a
Slew of
Stupidity,
Steadily
Supplied in
Stream,
Suitably
Slain in the
Steam of
Sanity.
Sadly, i
Still
Seem,
Salvagable.

Topple
The
Titans in
Tightened
Terror.
Torn
Territories
Turn
Turbulent in
The
Teething of
Totality.
The
Telemetry of
Time,
Tortured of
Torrent
Theories,
Told in
Turrets of
Transpiring
Terribleness, from
Tumultuous
Tikes unto
Teens,
Trading
Toys for
Tea.
Thrice
Thrusted upon by the
Tyranny of
Tanks.

Unanimous is the
Ugliness in the
Undertones of
Undreamed
Ulteriors
Undergoing the
Unclean in the
***** of
Utterly
Upset
Users,
Uplifting the
Unfitting
Ushers in
Underwear-less,
Ulcers,
Undergoing the
Ultra of
Uberness.

Venial in
Vindictive
Viciousness of
Vindicated
Venom,
Venomously
Vilifying the
Vials of
Villainy in the
Veins of
Vampires,
Validity of
Valuable
Violence, is
Valiant in the
Vaporous
Vacationing of
Vagrant
Vices.

Why
Whelp in the
Weather
When you can
Wave to the
Whirling
Wisps,
Whipping Where the
Whimsical Were
Way back in the
Wellness of
Whip its,
Wrangling my
World,
With
Waterless
Worms, as
War shouts are
Wasted in the
Wackiest
Walks of
Waking
Wonder.

Xenophobic
Xenogogue, of
Xenomorphic
Xeons, turn
Xyphoid, in the
Xenomenia of my
X, my
Xenolalia of
X, to
***. im lost in the
Xenobiotic zen of
Xerces, on a
Xebec to the
X on the map.
Xenogenesis, in the
Xesturgy of my
Xyston
Xd

Yelling
Yearned from
Yelping.
Yard
Yachts
Yielding, to the
Yodel of
Yeah
Yeahs, to the
Yapping of
******
Yuppie
Yoga
Yanks, over
Yonder.
Yucking it up with the
Yawn of a
Yocal.

Zapped from a
Zone i
Zoomed with
Zeal in the
Zig and
Zag of my
Zapping
Zimming
Zest, upon a
Zombie-less
Zeplin.
Zealot,
Zionist, or
Zoologists,
Zeros or ones, just
Zip your
Zip locked. and
Zzzzz
Zzzz
Zzz
Zz
Z
Zero
this is a work in progress
Hannah McGregor Mar 2023
From a young age I tried to fit in,
Observing those around me from where i was sitting.
Taking in their smiles, jokes and body language,
Learning this social code which they use to their advantage.
My manual is not the same,written entirely for me but I have not read it properly.
Navigating a world where I copy to survive,
Forver wondering if I sustain this will I learn to thrive?
I have become a result of continuous masking,
In social situations I feel like I am drowning.
Living in a world which does not feel for me,all I can do is write about my isolation in poetry.
Brianna Heins Jun 2012
Situations find themselves unraveling uncontrollably,
picking at scabs of superiority,
delving into wide expanded pits of insecurity.
The master of masking change
would be the ever drifting reputation,
it leaves bitter, it brings hate.

May I express how much I hate?
Nothing squirms and squiggles uncontrollably
more, than watching reputations
crumble, due to fake superiority.
What do I want, change!
What does she want? Change, but she gets insecurity.

To understand the confliction, insecurity
must paint walls of peeling purple hate.
Well, something in you will change.
You may remain stubborn, uncontrollably
defending your sudden superiority,
you’re just choosing a rotten reputation.

I wish to fly you to a new nation, I mean shes breaking your reputation.
I’d like to find the spot in your mind resided by insecurity,
I know you’re not studded with superiority.
She’s finding a reason for everyone else to hate
the way you attract uncontrollably.
Nothing about you, in you, should change,

because this digs deeper than the change
her and my relationship took, than are used to be reputation
of adoring each other uncontrollably.
of ignoring that insecurity.
of the day she learned to hate,
spindling a slippery net of superiority.

Her comfort zone of a home lays in superiority,
I’d rather cry endlessly than change
by cultivating my hate
for her, for her debilitating take on your reputation.
Transperency touches insecurity
and you are broken, falling uncontrollably.

I will continue to hate her superiority, but that won’t reflect on her reputation.
You mustn’t change your disposition, but lose the grip on insecurity
Don’t you dare hate these words, they care, they love uncontrollably.
s-s-s-sestina!
raw with love Nov 2015
(Yes, better than Harry Potter, get your pitchforks ready)

My first encounter with THG was approximately four years ago, when I had barely turned fourteen, did not consider myself bilingual and was romantically frustrated. Naturally, I made several mistakes at the time. First off, I read the series in translation, since I'm not a native English speaker, and missed out a huge chunk of the significance of the story. Then, as I said, I was romantically frustrated and thus paid such a monstrous amount of attention to the romance aspect of the story that I want to bitchslap myself. Finally, at fourteen, I was still ignorant and uneducated about so many things that I read the series, got hyped for perhaps six months or so, then forgot all about it, save for the occasional rewatch of the movies. In retrospect, this is probably one of the biggest mistakes I've ever made. Now, at the ripe old age of eighteen, a significantly better-read person, waaay more woke, as well as socially aware, I decided to finally read the series in the original and am finally able to put my thoughts together in a coherent, educated review of the series.

The Hunger Games has continuously been compared to a number of other books and series, occasionally put down as inferior and forgettable. In those past few years I managed to read a great part of the newly established young adult dystopian genre and am able to argue that A. The Hunger Games is undoubtedly universal and unrestricted to young adult audiences and that B. it is, without the slightest shade of uncertainty, the best series written in our generation.

While many people draw parallels between The Hunger Games and, say, Battle Royale, the similarities end with the first book, which, while spectacular in execution, seems unoriginal in its very idea. As the series unrolls, however, it is hardly possible to compare it to anything, save for, perhaps, Orwell's 1984. The social depiction and the severe criticism laid down in the very basis of the story are so brutally honest that it fails my understanding how the series was ever allowed to become this popular. What starts out as a story about a nightmarish post-Apocalyptic world works up to be revealed as a cleverly veiled portrayal of our own morally degraded and dilapidated society (if you're looking for proof, seek no further: as the series was turned into several blockbuster movies, public interest was primarily concerned with the supposed love triangle rather than the bitter truths concealed in the narrative). Class segregation, media manipulation, dysfunctional governments are just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to the realities that The Hunger Games so adroitly mimics. If I were to dissect, chapter by chapter, all three books, I'd probably find myself stiff with terror at the accuracy of the societal portrait drawn by Collins. I strongly advise those of you who haven't read the series between the lines to immediately do so because no matter how many attempts I make to point it out to you, you simply have to read the series with an alert sense of social justice to realize that it doesn't simply ring true, it shakes the ground with rock concert amplifiers true.

Other than the plot that unfolds into a civil war by the third book (the series deals so amazingly with trauma survival and with depicting the atrocities of war that I am still haunted by certain images), the characters of the story are what makes it all the more realistic. Though Hollywood has done a stunningly good job in masking the shocking reality of the fact that these are children - aged twelve through eighteen, innocent casualties paying for the adults' mistakes; children forced into prostitution, fake relationships, children forced into maneuvering through a world of corruption, media brain-washing and propaganda.

Consider Katniss. She is a person of color (olive-skinned, black-haired, gray -eyed, fight me if you will but she is not a white person), disabled (partially deaf, PTSD-sufferer, malnourished), falling somewhere in the gray spectrum both sexually and romantically. As far as representation goes, Katniss is one of the most diverse characters in literature, period. Consider Peeta, his prosthetic leg (which, together with Katniss's deafness, has been conveniently left out of the movies) and his mental trauma in the third book. Consider Annie's mental disability. Consider Beetie in his wheelchair. Consider all the people of color, as well as the fact that people in the Capitol seem to have neglected all sorts of gender stereotypes (e.g. all the men are wearing makeup). There is absolutely no doubt that the series is the most diverse piece of literature out there. Consider this: the typical roles are reversed and Peeta is the damsel in distress whereas Katniss does all the saving.

Furthermore, the alarming lack of religion (in a brutal society reliant on the slaughter of children God serves no purpose), as well as several other factors, such as the undisputed position of authority of President Snow, is suspiciously reminiscent of the already familiar model of a totalitarian society.

The Hunger Games, in other words, is revolutionary in its message, in its diversity, in the execution of its idea, in its universality. I mentioned Harry Potter in the subtitle. While this other series has played a vital role in the shaping of my character, it has gradually receded to the back line for several reasons, one of which is how problematic it actually is. This, though, is a problem for another day. (The Hunger Games is virtually unproblematic and while it may be argued that the LGBTQ society is underrepresented, a momentary counterargument is that *** has a role too insignificant in the general picture of the story to be necessary to be delved into this supposed problem). Where I was going with this is that, at the end of the day, Harry Potter, while largely enjoyed by adults and children alike, is a children's book and contains a moral code for children, it was devised to serve as a moral compass for the generation it was to bring up. The Hunger Games, on the other hand, requires you to already have a moral compass installed in order to understand its message. It is, as I already said, a straightforward critique of a dysfunctional society, aimed at those aware and intelligent enough to pick on it.

As for its aesthetic qualities, the series is written, ominously, in the present tense, tersely and concisely, yet at the same time in a particularly detailed and eloquent manner. It lacks the pretentious prose to which I am usually drawn, yet captivates precisely with the simplicity of its wording, which I believe is a deliberate choice, made so as to anchor the story to the mundane reality of the actual world that surrounds us.

That being said, I would like to sum up that The Hunger Games is, to my mind, perhaps the most successful portrayal of the world nowadays, a book series that should be read with an open mind and a keen sense of social awareness.
Spike Harper Aug 2018
I usually begin these rants with a question.
But i find myself lacking in just this instance.
For whom can say.
Anything more
When ash refuses to respond.
No message can be relayed.
Just more things that i silently promise.
As i figuratively toast to a memory that will never do you justice.
Is it disrespectful to take words so literal.
To the point.
That looking down gun barrels and beer bottles.
Turned into a ****** routine that pride would boast.
Only there was no smile in my smile.
Inhaling disappointment.
As the years of missed visits and substance abuse.
Led me here.
At your deathbed.
wishing my words could reach beyond.
Without worry of a certain spectres blade in my shadow.
Then somehow.
I made my word.
The only thing worth asking about.
Because allowing the past to weave around the last routine we shared.
Would force everything that i have come to embody.  
To null
Et fin.
But no.
Your gift was ever changing.
Trading a jack for skills.
While masking scars that only those with them would know of.
And in the darkest moments did i find a crystal.
Clear.
Resolve.
To struggle onward.
Tears wont spell the revisions we seek.
and i was taught to always look my best, no matter the destination.
Everything that i am.
Came from you.
It didn't come from a book nor a Professor.
I can only hope to pass on your wisdom.
Although cryptic at times.
Will remain in my heart.
So even though I will forever be thinking of a new metaphor.
A penny will sit in my pocket.
Until the day that I can place it in your palm.
Rest easy Pop. We all love you and you will be sorely missed. no matter how many days pass
My father passed at 10:37p.m. August 15 2018 just a couple weeks after his birthday on the third from cancer... He was 58. We barely knew about his condition for less than 3 months before that night.
Nylee Apr 2018
In depth
there's only fear and disbelief
deeper you will find nothing else
just void

the courage
is only the drop on the surface
wearing it like my favourite dress
not many times

there is rage
it intensifies how I feel
using every other emotions as fuel
it burns them

After the fire
Tired enough not to think much
and in a bad situation as such
I fall asleep

Waking the regret
funnily it keeps on returning
the cycle ongoing
bury it within

I am emotionless
with too many emotions dancing
improved a lot in masking
happy with my newfound skill.
THEY all want to play Hamlet.
They have not exactly seen their fathers killed
Nor their mothers in a frame-up to ****,
Nor an Ophelia dying with a dust gagging the heart,
Not exactly the spinning circles of singing golden spiders,
Not exactly this have they got at nor the meaning of flowers-O flowers, flowers slung by a dancing girl-in the saddest play the inkfish, Shakespeare, ever wrote;
Yet they all want to play Hamlet because it is sad like all actors are sad and to stand by an open grave with a joker's skull in the hand and then to say over slow and say over slow wise, keen, beautiful words masking a heart that's breaking, breaking,
This is something that calls and calls to their blood.
They are acting when they talk about it and they know it is acting to be particular about it and yet: They all want to play Hamlet.
Silence is a hard thing to understand. It has a wide vocabulary, and sometimes rings out so loudly, as if a choir of confusion, that it is nearly impossible to translate. Sometimes it is so void of life that one cannot even hear one’s own heart beating. Silence is never the same twice, for it comes with different emotions and circumstances each time, even if seemingly the same, and it always has something new to unravel, whether it is what we need to hear, what we refuse to hear, or what we’ve been waiting to show, or trying not to show, ourselves or another, all along. Silence can be an ever changing friend, or an unrelenting enemy. No matter the form or fashion, silence is, and will forever remain, the most welcome and unwanted part of our lives.

It is an often overlooked truth that silence can be anything but. The voices echoing within the vastness between one ear and the next are still far more audible than anything exhaled amidst a mixture of lips, teeth, and tongue, so that even when we are not speaking our mind, the mind is speaking, even if only to the soul attached to it, speaking volumes silently as they translate into emotion and action, or the lack thereof, creating a vocabulary of gesture and expression, but also of stillness and blankness, woven together in both intricacy and complication, losing nothing in translation of language, but sometimes losing much in the heart’s translation of emotion to and from a soul other than its own.

Emotions are each a different language in themselves, for each has their own gestures, expressions, and blank stillness. The mind learns new languages by hearing and reading and teaches the mouth and fingers to translate from thought to spoken or written word, and it depends upon the exposure and the depth of study and experience in any given language as to which we become more or less fluent in, both in speaking and in understanding. It is much the same with the heart. It learns each new language of emotion by the experience of feeling, and depending on the depth and experience with each, the heart becomes more fluent in some over others, and sometimes one over any other. But, it is the relationship between the mind and the heart that truly allows us to understand these feelings, in others as well as in ourselves.

We say that it is the heart that guides us. We say to follow our heart. We say that our heart has been broken, or that it has been made whole. We say that our heart hurts, our heart leaps, skips a beat, races, that is swells and that it grows cold, or one of any other descriptive analogies. It is often what we feel inside our chest that dictates what we decide upon in our minds in any given thing of emotional importance. Poetry, literature, art, everyday speak, and even actions and expressions project and profess what it is that we feel in our hearts at any given instance or in any given circumstance. But, this is merely the hearts reaction to what our minds perceive in any given emotion of circumstance.

It is the depth of the understanding of any given thought or idea, fact or fiction, that ties into the emotional in any way or on any level for each of us individually. Depending upon what we think and believe about any given thing, it will have a different reaction in each of us depending on how important or unimportant it may be to each of us based on our individual way of thinking. The differences between what each of us considers important or unimportant has an influence on how each of us feels about any given thing or circumstance. It is our feelings about what and how we think and what we understand (or sometimes believe we understand) that are the basis, the origins, and the essence of our emotions.

The mind could not function if not for the heart performing its own function. In turn, the heart could not function if not for the mind. They are dependent upon one another. They are slave to one another. As long as the two continue to function together in any conscious state of awareness (or in some unconscious states), the mind literally controls the heart and the heart literally sustains and obeys the mind. The mind may decipher and understand what the heart feels in reaction to its thoughts, but it is the heart that feels it. This is why we speak of the heart and not the mind in almost every instance of emotion. This, however, does not mean that everyone’s mind understands the heart's obedience to the emotions created by the thoughts it produces, just as most do not realize it is the heart’s physical reaction in emotion that the mind relates its thoughts and feelings to unknowingly and descriptively. This lack of understanding applies more to the emotions emanating from others, be they audible or silent, than they do to the emotions we feel ourselves the greater percentage of the time.

How can this be so? How is it that the majority of the time, we misread, ignore, or completely overlook the emotions emanating from others when we feel those same emotions ourselves, and often express them in the same ways, whether more or less often, and whether we show our emotions deliberately, or they show despite our failed attempts at masking or hiding them? How is it that we fail to understand, or understand more fully, the torment or elation anyone other than ourselves can be going through at any given moment when we, ourselves, have been through the same or similar circumstances? Even when we have not been through the same circumstances bringing about such emotions in others, how is it that we have such a hard time understanding that the same emotions we experience can be brought about in others by completely different circumstances?

Maybe it is the amount of people who fake emotions to gain for themselves something from another in ill begotten ways so often that it becomes hard to believe what so many try to show or hide from us emotionally. Maybe it is that we are so often trying to understand those things in and for ourselves that we fail to see how those emotions affect others in their interactions with us and in their own lives. Maybe it is where some of the circumstances that bring about the same emotions for others are not quite the same circumstances that bring them about for us at times. Maybe it is where we are in a different state of emotion at times than the person or people we are interacting with, and our absorption in our own emotions takes our sight and understanding away from theirs at any given moment. It could be any one or more of these reasons, or even that we have had our own emotions misread and disregarded so many times that our own emotions have become so deep and ominous at times that we cannot see through the shadows that surround us or the elation we feel for ourselves in those moments. There are so many reasons that could be factors.

Even if we don’t feel the same emotions at the same exact time as someone else, or for the same exact reasons, we still feel the same emotions as everyone else, for despite each emotion being a different language, what we feel is universal. Despite the false witnesses of emotion who seek to deceive for whatever gain or manipulation they so choose, there are still so many good people trying to understand themselves, as well as others. In emotion, regardless of race or nationality or origin, we all speak the same emotional languages, even if some of us are more fluent in some emotions over others due to our personal experiences. If more of us would try, and some of us would try harder, to understand the emotions of others, not only from the circumstances bringing them to life, but in the effect each emotion has on each person in their moments of emotion, just as we so try to understand our own, then maybe, just maybe, there would not be so much confusion, misunderstanding, and in some cases, judgment, at the differences in what others feel and experience in any moment, whether similar or the same to our own, and hearts would heal more so than being broken, and we would see similarities over differences.

Despite how we live, where we come from, and who each of us are personally, we are all the same in what we feel in our hearts and through our minds, and even in our differences, we are still one in the same. Our minds control our hearts, and our hearts control our minds. We all feel, and we all feel the same, even if at different times than one another. Even when there are no words to say, and even when our words won’t bleed upon page or screen, or our emotions will not translate to whatever medium of expression we choose, our silence still speaks just as loudly as our words, for our every thought and action is based upon the language of emotion, and in that, we all speak the same language, even in silence.

Where it is so often that silence from another, or reflected upon another, determines our own understanding and emotion in interaction with the emotions of others, we should listen and try to understand more than just cursory what those silences reflect emotionally.  Sometimes, our silences speak just as much, if not more, than words or other mediums can allow, if we would but listen as closely in others as we do in ourselves in the languages of emotion, with our hearts and minds in equal measure, instead of letting our own emotions in our own circumstances at any given time impede or disrupt how we see or hear these emotions effecting others in their own circumstances, similar or differing, for they are something we should try to relate to, not self-sidedly compare to our own in trying to self-deceptively prove that no one understands how we feel.
It is one thing to write about such things in poetry or other forms, for we are describing our own personal experiences. It is quite another thing to allow ourselves to misunderstand, misinterpret, or ignore the emotions of others for any reason, especially because we have convinced ourselves that no one can hurt like we do or suffer as we have or are suffering, and it is often the silences that have the most impact on how we understand or misunderstand others. This is a thought that rambled on in the best of my understanding.
avery Oct 2016
when i laugh
it's not because the
sadness no longer exists
i've just gotten better
at masking the pain
psychedelic Sep 2013
Desolated in the biting winter
Bitter frost masking gnarling wood
In the morning when the sun kisses our heads
Gone are the icicles with a thousand facets

Fragile emotions only whisper
Sorrows and regrets to keep you company
In your consummate solitude  
All of which juxtapose your worth

b.
Jessie Taylor H May 2017
Just a piece of metal,
That's stained with red and white.
Leading me to sweet pain,
And such a lovely high.

Flawless drops of red escaping,
While this addictive white dust is introduced to my brain.
My mind feels so beautiful,
And my whole body trembles.
Thinking of the taste of your neck,
While shivers run down my spine.

The bitter taste in my throat,
Masking the emotions I suppress.
Feelings of you keep swelling up,
So I do another line to tame them.
Your charming smile vanishing,
Replaced with lustful eyes.
Calming down my heart,
And filling up my mind.
2/8/2017
Midnight leaps into a different glory,
can you see the silence
masking the world as it changes?
If we listen to the wind
lost souls will speak of love
found within walls
where soft lips eloquently tell
of simple grace and praises.

Stop and look upon a puzzle
where no noise can be heard
but a light shines here and there
burning the same as warm champagne.
Subtle I want you’s fill the air
with smiles,
removing cries,
painting over the pain.

Watch the way satisfaction focuses
on the windowsill of beauty
then places its hope
in the experience proved.
This is when music is made for guidance
and is felt softly inside your head,
heard each time you move.

Our thirst is quenched then framed by a smile
that courageously enters
like the voice of the sun.
Existence writes notes delivered by birds
who wait to tell our story
in ways that move us into one.

Who saw midnight
when it leaped into a different glory?
Could it have been the eyes
that saw silence masking?
Masking into the tapestry
that speaks of love
found within the walls
and is ours for the asking.
© 2012 Neva Flores - Changefulstorm
Silver Wolf Jul 2014
You can’t piece people back together
With masking tape or ace bandages
Because stitches don’t hold
Time unravels faster than your own undoing
By your own hand
Bones lead back to hollow sockets
Lined with flesh
Already starting to decay
It’s not enough to patch up open wounds
Because the deeper ones hide inside
Away from prying eyes
Of people who pretend to care
Some people just don’t hold
Together
Far too broken
Bruised
Abused
Used
Forever scarred
You can’t undo the harm
You can’t erase the hurt
It lingers with you forever
Watching your every move
Until you fall again
Time after time
Coming undone all over again
Until the last time
And you don’t come back

I don’t hold up
A Watoot May 2015
I've been waiting
For a great comeback.
But you cannot supply me
With the truth I deserve.

Therefore, I
will make you a marionette-
controlled by my hands,
and make you dance

For my entertainment
and for my sake;
Because you cannot
amuse me just by
making yourself look pitiful.

Do not try masking
Things that's true
Because I know
What's been happening.

Do not even try masking
And hiding behind
switching topics and
Frequent lies.

I cannot tolerate
these things that you do.
So, I am here to pull your strings
And make you dance for all the

**Lost trust
Lose my trust. Lose your will.
For a friend that I already cut ties with.
You forgot what I can do.
Cedric McClester Apr 2015
By: Cedric McClester

I lit a candle in you memory
A simple gesture it may be
But even though my eyes are wetter
It makes me feel a little better
See I know for a fact
That nothing I do will bring you back
Though I had to do something in your memory
Some kind of expression to show what you mean to me

So I lit a candle and then I prayed
And I thanked the Lord for what He made
Someone as wonderful and real as you
And I prayed that He would see me through

I lit a candle the other day
I couldn’t believe you had passed away
Guess in between the pain joy and sorrow
We’re here today and gone tomorrow
But the memories we have can last forever
That’s something we never have to sever
Out of darkness we can find the light
And eventually we’ll be all right

So I lit a candle and then I prayed
And I thanked the Lord for what He made
Someone as wonderful and real as you
And I prayed that He would see me through

There’s no point in me masking
The pain I feel cos of your passing
But why’s the question I won’t be asking
God has a plan that’s everlasting

So I lit a candle and then I prayed
And I thanked the Lord for what He made
Someone as wonderful and real as you
And I prayed that He would see me through

I lit a candle and prayed for you
A special prayer as I often do
The difference this time is you’re not here
And I’ll never again hold you near
But here in my heart in so many ways
I’ll remember you for the rest of my days
Up until the time that we’re reunited
And our Book of Deeds is recited

There’s no point in me masking
The pain I feel cos of your passing
But why’s the question I won’t be asking
God has a plan that’s everlasting

So I lit a candle and then I prayed
And I thanked the Lord for what He made
Someone as wonderful and real as you
And I prayed that He would see me through

I lit a candle in you memory
A simple gesture it may be
But even though my eyes are wetter
It makes me feel a little better



(c) Copyright 2015, Cedric McClester.  All rights reserved.
Megan Milligan Aug 2011
“I know why the heart gets lonely
Every time you give your love away.” ()

Puts me in mind
Of a man who embodied our eternal, sometimes fruitless search
And why the heart is a lonely hunter.

John Singer, you silently sang,
Of heartbreak and devotion to someone
And the eternal search for those elusive qualities
Those missing puzzle pieces we all look for
Happiness
Acceptance
Love
Always seem out of our grasp
Like a puddle of water
On the sunbaked, summertime highway of our lives
Traveling
Always looking for something
Hunting for anything
To let us know we’re human
We’re loved
But still our lonely hearts search on

“I know why the heart gets lonely
Every time you give your love away.” (
)

The heart is a lonely hunter.
Staring out the window of the bus
Thinking about the ones I love
And wondering if it is all worth it.
I wish I could’ve sat down with you, Mr. Singer,
And compared notes through pantomimes
Written words of your struggles
Maybe I could’ve understood you better than others
Deaf and mute, you
Couldn't communicate with words,
Couldn't hear what other said,
Instead you communicated with looks of compassion
Serenity,
Composure
Masking a single-minded devotion to one person
And you let others who lean on you
Attaching what meaning they may
To the nonverbal cues you say to them.
When some of it wasn’t what you really intended.
Believe me, Mr. Singer.
I know all too well the misunderstandings
That come up in the name of simple love
Or the search for it.

“I know why the heart gets lonely
Every time you give your love away.”

You think you have something special
But does the other person really understand you?
And when others need you, and vice versa,
They fail to see behind the wall masking
Your true heart
What you’re really trying to tell them
And even with the powers of speech and hearing
Would you still have made yourself understood?
Misunderstanding, it’s so easy
Words are woefully inadequate
Because people will see what they want to anyway
They attach their own meanings to the words you say

Mister Singer, I can understand why you blew a hole in your chest
Sometimes that gaping hole is more preferable
To the gaping hole left by a broken, misunderstood heart

“I know why the heart gets lonely
Every time you give your love away.
And if you think that you are only
A shadow in the wind
Blowing around but when
You let somebody in
They might fade away.” (*)
© 6-26-2011

* lyric from "I Know Why" by Sheryl Crow
Abbie Crawford Jan 2015
My first impression of the children's hospital was how nice everything was. It was new, with fish tanks and red sofas; pastel windows which made pretty colors on the floor when the sun went through them; walls were freshly painted and everyone talked with a smile. Everything just looked so peaceful.
It wasn't until my second visit that I saw the flaws. I was sitting on one of the red couches, waiting for my name to be called, and I was looking at the fish tank. A little girl was pressed up to the glass telling her mother that she could see nemo. But when I looked closer, I saw a little fish turned over floating at the surface. A man behind the glass quickly pulled it out of the tank, but I saw. That's when I started noticing other things. Like the bloodstain on the cushion next to me. And the fact that a few tiles were missing from the floor. The wood paneling had scratches on it; one of the pastel windows was taped up; and every parent was smiling, but the little kids holding on to them kept asking what was wrong.
Maybe that's just how hospitals are. They want you to think that everything's okay; that all that goes on inside are couches and fishtanks. They think that if they write out the word HOSPITAL in bubbly pink letters people might get it into their brains that everything's okay. But that doesn't change the fact that it's a hospital. Masking pain only works for so long, until broken bits and pieces push their way through.
I think hospitals are just fish tanks. Everyone is put on display for doctors and visitors and things seem okay for a while, you know, until they aren't. When a little nemo dies, they send away his body and just replace him with another orange fish that people can look at. We are all the cracks in the pavement; elevators shut down for repair; a phantom pain that nobody wants to believe is real. If you stand far enough away; if you distance yourselves from anything close to the word hospital, you can just let yourself focus on the mask they put up. But once it's time, and you're sitting on a red couch in the lobby of the children's wing, with a kid asking you where her older brother went, you'll find yourself staring at the cracks in the facade with a single tear running down your face and with emptiness in your stomach.
for a friend
Sami Flo S Nov 2012
I want to hug you
If only for one last time.
I miss your ribs pressed against mine
In an embrace I can lean into
With you always catching me.

I miss your deep brown eyes
Whether surrounded in perfect eyeliner
Or bags painted on
From worried nights.
I miss looking into those eyes
Trying to figure out
How I can calm them.

I miss your long thin legs
Sharing a seat with me when no one else will
When there are no longer seats for me to take,
They’re there for me.
I miss how every girl was jealous of them,
I miss being jealous too.

I miss your fantasy lips,
Pointing out but softly.
With a deep valley separating it
From your nose.

The nose,
I miss that too.
I miss the way it slopes,
The tiny nostrils,
The little indent at the top.
The one that makes you slightly imperfect.

I miss your feet.
Not the feet hidden in high heels
Masking your shortness.
But the feet that wore those red sneakers
On a Halloween.
You were a ladybug.

I miss you comforting me,
If only I’m afraid of a ladybug.
I miss being able to crawl into your lap.
I miss having someone who will let me
Cry until I’m done.

I miss your curling hair.
Its confidence,
Unlike mine that is burnt everyday.
I miss its cuteness,
The way it bounces,
How for every hundred brown hairs,
There’s a blonde one.

I miss the way we can be so similar,
And the way we can be so different.
I miss your appearance of evilness,
But more,
I miss your hidden kindness.
The way when we were younger you’d grab my hand,
As soon as a teacher mentioned partners.
I miss that.
I miss you.
I have a poetry/writing blog at girlswriterschance.blogspot.com if you want to check it out!
Nicholas Mar 2019
Universal entropy,
masking it’s plan

Perceivable good and
evil, much more than so

A light waiting to be shone
beyond which we can ever comprehend

Camouflaged, patient;
wickedness one day proving itself
God’s rippling gift

And yet, the present seems bleak,
The great unknown rests
behind a curtain,
even to you

Keeping us suspended
above countless destinies below,
those realities flickering like traffic from
a private city rooftop

Our actions,
for an audience we are unaware exist
So not for naught,
do indulgences befall

Some good can come of our mistakes,
even if it's to faces we'll never know
An attempt to explore the implications of the butterfly effect and how our actions as individual, no matter how seemingly random or potentially evil they may be, may inadvertently impact people we'll never meet in some positive way.
Butch Decatoria Sep 2018
Hell is like waiting in a long line for the zoo
So this must be limbo...

Time stretches / skeleton skin skeins
The tock the tick / the clock
Sketches
Schizophrenic melancholia
Mockingly sickening
Traffic of panic / deafening
Time stales / takes Forever
A long while - in limbo
Zombie shock / mind akimbo

And loneliness is a box
This corpse sits in
As existence / outside frightful / persisting
***** and spritz-ing
Our vibrant thangs
Songs shouts to gang sign slangs
Even when the lyrics
Go deep
Six feet sorrow
Hip hopping to defeat

But we gots to love it
The life we have
The Flava and the savor this last dance .
Makes me wanna Dougie
Percolating / jump / criss cross
Vanilla bean / jump jump

But what is a song to a diminished bird
No cage more cruel than the loss of worth
Hearts depart from its soul
Jester / fools / without cheer
No cartwheels glee or clue
Happy days adieu
High times zero new
Birds to the sky / fist pump / guns
This is for the Razza
End what's done begun

Waiting to get thru
Theme parks colorfully masking
Reality's streets and truth
Inmates as we are forced to wait
Hate is quicker to arrive
Behind bars hollows Time
Takes our forever
Even waking up
Still in limbo / thirsty without a cup
Same ole system
Who's business makes slaves
Kept blind and silently afraid
Kept
In a state / of mindlessness
Now worse than before

Schitzo screaming schisms
Crazy IS the war
Fear wreaks havoc
Boom boom back to a room
In your head goes the bomb
Shrapnel wounded / half none...

Are we there yet?
Just farts in the wind
Waiting is hell / how does life begin?
Just passing by / passed away / a passerby
Yelling and complaining
Let me in ? Get me out ?
Ghost to life's boo hoo / poor you
What happens to dreams wasted
In the zoo
Eyes turned frozen
Cold uncaring
Dying and lying / lifeless stories to share
As beauty within is in despair
As beasts overcrowd the fair
Flotsam in limbo float
Alone in its killer cold
Time still passing / parole / on hold
Much hope

Where are we
If there is nothing
No penny for fairy tale wells

Wishes are dead in fountains
Rich and heavy to the bottom
With tossed currencies. Fell.
How will a coin speak
Who will ever know
If we do not paint out loud
The masterpiece of the dream?

Tell me dreamer what time do you have
Still waiting?

In this zoo...

When it always was and is
And always will be

Up to you.
Revised retitled
Tilly Apr 2013
THE SIGN* arrived, with masking tape,
stuck upon the door.
                                    TRASH BAG WARNING
it yelled
(with smiley face)
                                  ~I cannot see the floor!~

A sigh was heard
- by all the house -
the sign read ALOUD, once more.

                                               CRASH  
                                                    &
                                                BANG,
  
                                                soon followed it, as my Batgirl
                                                >slammed< her door!

And maybe,
there was a curse or two;
Beneath her breath   repeated.
But
life went on,
with nothing wrong &
the pile of stuff depleted!

Although,
it took the loudest hour,
'til Batgirl opened her door.
Trash bag tied   with masking tape
& 'the amended sign' re-applied

                                       "NB:
                                             Holy tidy rooms,
                                             Batgirls' done it!                          
                                             DONE & DUSTED

                                                                ­ 
  
                                           
                ­  Whilst         the P.S. made us both smile...                                                         ­        
                              
                         ­             (Obviously not literally dusted, Mum, 
                                        but even you, The Joker, can get the gist!)"


*For-given the prior scene of teenage devastation... Batgirls' reply had been superhero swift!
True Story...

QUESTION: What to do with One teenage daughter + too much stuff & too much revision
< No time to tidy! =  :'( when we can't find anything?
SOLUTION: Give 24hrs warning of Mum donning full chemical suit & going in to tidy.
(Rule being that anything on the floor goes in the bag)

Remember to add some humour :D

Batgirl also added an illustration, of a duster over a vat of ACID with a cheeky explanation...

"Can our caped crusaders, defeat the devilish deeds of Mummy Linda, and escape in this episode:"

Um, no, sweet child of mine... Mummy has a duster and she knows how to use it... Mwahahahaha x
Chris Mar 2016
~

So you know,
I put on a brave face too
Auntie Hosebag Nov 2010
Stage Design/American Drama


Down front on America’s stage—
awash in a universe
of light arranged by
the ultimate technician.
Come closer.  Anticipate
spectacle.

First sun-splash
on these shores fashions
fool’s gold of surf that heaves against
foam-smoothed, lobster black,
slick rock beaches of northern Maine/
bubbles about black rubber boots of men in boats—
another day, another dime,
shivered away in ancient rime—
adrift in fog on the black
                                          glass
                                                   harbor
                                                               surface.

Grand Canyon sunrise
          EXPLODES
               copper and white/
                    orange and green/
                          blood red/
over many thousand pounds
of brash brown
        dirt—
in every direction/especially down.
       Soldierly shadows armed with swords
       of slivered sunlight hack through scrub
       like so much meat, to each day’s final
       battle at the canyon’s rim/
while a mile below the torment
called the Colorado
turns silver and gold,
black, blue, and
thundering
mud.

Louisiana bayous trickle chlorophyll caramel over twisted hickory sentinels, monumental elms and sycamores—even the alligators.  More mystery here than far-flung nebulae—and everything fighting back ***** green kudzu.

The Badlands of South Dakota, striped like the surface of a ***** peppermint planet—sizzling in the sun, bone cold in the shade—knobby tan canyons wrapped in ribbons of rust that dribble sounds one can neither recall nor reproduce.

Same phenomenon frames dawn over spongy folds of tall green cilia ocean called simply The Plains.
Kansas, Nebraska, horizons so far away thunderstorms creep along like dark, threatening slugs.
Distant night fireworks laden with punishing hail hide tornadoes and winged farmhouses in the horizontal gloom.  In the morning—those sounds again.  Critters?  Wind.  Ghosts, maybe.

Spectral mists of the Great Northwest cloak clear-cut sores on Nature’s sacred,
fragrant, deep green shores, falling steep to the creamy Pacific.
Light's a plaything here.  Big Sur
renders color to gem, sparkles
down the coast
to rusty Golden Gate and grimy LA,
where the sun goes down brown
and the rain shines
like gun metal.

Georgia soil—
homicidal redheaded cousin running loose, looking for trouble—
grows swampy hardwood groves/
leaves hung limp from humidity/
masking antebellum secrets/
offering sanctuary to voodoo practitioners and moonshiners alike.
Magic, danger, ******, and ghosts
of slaughtered slaves wander tight-packed old-growth forests.
Some say the soil is red from ancient conflict,
unanswered pleas for mercy drowned
in the drenching rains
of hurricanes
strayed north from the Gulf of Mexico.
Others claim tears of countless mothers will never leave
Civil War blood completely dry.

Northern New England foliage--
master maples drunk on fresh cider/
psychedelic finger-paint exhibitionists high on
the year’s last harvest,
intoxicated by Nature’s largess/
symphonies of scarlet, tangerine, lemon, even purple--
regal birds migrate over lakes so blue
you could chip your teeth on them,
and a diehard hemlock conducts its final green opus to a sea of primary colors.

Iowa is quiet and corn, obscuring whole towns and the lives held captive therein.  All the green on Earth is planted here; all the sun, all the sapphire sky feeding knee-high-by-July crops, bleaching spare white churches, white picket fences, white-on-white generations and all their vanilla dreams.

Linger beneath Montana’s cobalt crystal canopy to know why it’s called Big Sky.
Stark, Crazy Mountains chase stuttering clouds above treeless, tumbleweed towns,
bathed in the same blues as Wyoming, blown through a wild man’s horn.

A wink of sunlight
mirrored in unseen peaks
perhaps hundreds of miles away—
snow so white/Rocky Mountains so hard and gray—
behind a universe of wheat flatness beckoning the eye to infinity, slowly,
slowly, the Continental Divide rises
from the horizon like a monster parade balloon filling with gas on another continent.
The Flat Irons--majestic stone slabs lounging against Boulder's nearby foothills--
were cursed by ancient observers.
One peek at their precarious slopes compels you to return.
Been back three times and I’m still not sure I believe it.

Southwestern deserts’ blaze,
haze, and halo—spotlights hot,
focused on towering sandstone totems.
Deep gashes of flowering canyon, adrift in the flat and barren,
rage water, mud, and death during summer storms.
Scrub and sand, dust and desolation, land unfit for demons.
Get thee behind me, Arizona.

Endless, straight, lonely two-lanes
carve the lunar landscape of west Texas
into parcels of wasteland, miles marked by
bleached carcasses of ranch animals
and their predators, some hung
on fences as a warning
that people really do
live there.

Cities have their place,
                    their places,
                    their placement--
but my heart can’t pound to the beat of traffic
like it does to waterfall spray.

Turn your back to the fire in sufficient twilight and a mountain range sharpens into a line—
coyotes prowling, howling on the perimeter.
To spy on a wild animal lost in thought.
The sight--and sound--as swans alight or leave a hidden pond.
Northern lights and swamp gas,
everywhere the stench
of Earth.

This
is what matters—
all around us—
this alone.

Not politics,
not religion,
not countries.

Just this—
stage.
This is about the fifteenth iteration of this piece.  It keeps shifting from prose to poem and back again--or worse.  I lost control of it long ago.  Please help me rein this ***** in.  Workshop?
Gwen Johnson Dec 2012
The emotions become enough
I lay down for a moment and cry
Then shut my swollen eyes
The light is then gone
Darkness in that moment
And then to lay awake
Silent cries and soundless screams
A never fading nightmare

Gone and lost
Hopeless dreams
and memories
Fighting battles
Left unwon
Timeless moment
Timeless race

Smiling is no longer
An emotion
No longer
A friendly gesture
But only
Another mask

Now everyone's become
Emotionless dolls
Playing along
To mask the past
And the time to come
Marshal Gebbie May 2016
Hint of green in amber rushing
Cold as ice in beauteous way,
Black beech towers overhead
Alpine zephyrs catch to sway.
Hint of green in boulder rapid
Morning sunshine gleans the tint
Wading forth to dangerous water
Pumping pulse in eyes that glint.

Hauling up and out with effort
Straining arms, staggered gait
Wading forth to sandy beach
With hidden prize that cannot wait.
Boulder in her amber shroud
Masking flash of emerald sheen
Pounamu in the Maori tongue
Glorious jade in turquoise green.

Treasure of high hidden mountains
Locked within exquisite glade
Birdcalls ring through wooded canyons
Reeling realisation made.
Photographs the proof of moment
Tremulous while masking pain
I caste far out this gem of Jacob
Splashing, gone, to torrent’s gain.

Tremulous I stand in wonder
Wondrous of this perfect place
I, who touched the smile of God
Now wear a happy, laughing face.*
M.
In the glorious wild river glades above Jackson Bay in the Mount Aspiring National Park, New Zealand.
I Don't belong here.
In this castle built with lies
stranded at the tallest tower
with nowhere to run
and everywhere to hide

I don't belong here
in this house of plaited gold
looking grand and innocent
the mocking oxymoron, masking
the nightmare that lay behind

I don't belong here
in this forced dream of fancy
in this perfect american family
that choked me into a whisper
complete with silent feet
and empty words

I don't belong here
stuck behind a wooden door
I closed myself
locked from the outside
with bolts of judgement
that my cowardice
won’t allow me to break

I don't belong here

So I lean my back against the gold,
and the stone and the wood
shut my eyes as tight as I could
and fought the instinct of flight
then I wished and wished with all my might
to live in the rose colored cliche
and wake to a golden carriage
with a price knocking at my door
ready to whisk me away
because I don't belong here
I’ve never belonged here
standing in plaited gold.
untitled May 2015
An everyday masquerade
Where each person dons
A different façade,
Yet are all the same
Because it's all
A feigned version
Of the real,
True being inside.

A sea of faces,
Pressuring you,
To be alike;
You have to be
One of a kind,
Yet those who are
Are outcasted in
Everyday life.

So all wear the
Same mask,
Masking the flaws,
The rawness of it all;
Because of the
Social biases.
A place where
No one can be their
Honest self is
"Society".

A society,
Which in definition
Is a community
Of peoples,
Is no longer so.
There are only
One type of person,
Which all souls
Take host in.
Katelyn Jan 2014
i am not good
with words i should not be speaking
the wind is better at whispering
sweet nothings than my hands are
at comforting and i'm afraid
it is all my fault
i am not good
at masking things without tape
and a pair of pants
clear cardboard cutouts of home
i dream of you every night and i'm afraid
i wont stop
i am not good at
stopping myself from talking before
thinking about why i am in the first place
taking my hands and placing them
on the corners of my face
is just routine
i am nothing but good at
swimming in oceans of my own tears
and creating more storms than
sunshine inside of me
i am nothing but good at
sitting shaking in the dark
alone without wind to whisper
back to me
"you are worthless"
i am nothing but good
at being nothing but horrible
blankpoems Aug 2013
You're so beautiful darling,
your words can move mountains even when you think
they can't touch an anthill.
You are a rebel with a cause and the cause is me.
You are Janis Joplin in the evening, without the ******.
"Darling, I love you"
"I love you, darling" and there was no need to say "too"
Three words were enough to throw a curveball in a hockey rink,
to ride horses in a car race, to love someone at night
and even more in the morning.
You are an earthquake, I know you'll break my heart but I welcome it.
It would be such an honor to be broken by you.
You are my guilty pleasure and all of my proud ones.
I want to tattoo you on my skin in places only I can see
so that every time I take off my sweater and my tshirt and everything
masking my scars and tree rings of age, I will always be surprised to find you.
I want to hold you in the crevice of my elbow like a baby and never ever let you go.
Darling, you're a willow tree that I write poems under.
In the most poetic way, I found you in hallways, always.
In my high school where I hid in the bathrooms, Jane loves John
and everything else scribbled in hearts in bad ninth grade writing.
I found you there. I find you here, in my heart.
You are filled with blood, you are 72% water that I would gladly drown in.
I think if I kissed you you'd poison me with your lips.
You are the forked tongue of desire.
I want to talk to you about dreams, I want to be your sweetest nightmare.
I don't want you to question reality but if you do, think you're lucid dreaming.
Because I want you to want me around; even when you're sleeping.
You are 2am with the lights on and the music loud.
You are a five hour time difference dancing inside of me like a storm.
If my knees wouldn't give out, I would run to you.
And when they did, I would crawl to you.
My hands scraped from debris from car crashes, you are electric.
You are heat lightning. You give me flashes of hope on a humid day.
You are a winter breeze through a cracked window in all of the glorious ways that could be glorious.
I will whisper to you that I don't know why I'm whispering,
there is nobody home, "I love you" sounds better in hushed tones.
You're so beautiful, Darling.
The prettiest pictures you'll ever take will be self-portraits.
Don't argue with me, I know you're stubborn.
It's written in the stars.
You can move me like a mountain or an anthill
because your strength is a blood diamond permanently placed on my left hand.
I did, I do, I will.
You are forever.
Janine Jacobs Jul 2015
everyone has a story.
some, beautifully written.
others with torn pages and blotched ink.
you read, absorb, comprehend.
you learn
the fears and hopes and well hidden pain
the mountain of anger and regrets
the beautiful smiles masking lonely hearts.
after awhile you realise
that empathy,
in its cold uncomfortableness,
hurts if you give too much.
still you grow,
strong enough to love the world
yet empty enough to dine with its demons.
Aditya Oct 2018
A teary farewell at the Airport,
Fake 'good'bye's from heavy Hearts,
Bags filled with memories from the Past,
Cruising over the seven Seas,
A new journey with emotions Galore.

A land promising a colorful Future,
fulfilling every need and Desire,
In exchange of a simple Contract,
Unlearn the ways of the land I Belong,
For I am the square peg in the round Hole.

Burning the midnight Oil,
Stale bread and a cup Noodles,
Celebrating festivals through a tiny screen,
a fake smile masking every tear,
Where's the silver lining amid the toil ?

Oh how the hard work has flourished,
certified successful as defined by society,
smiling at the acquired Possessions,
To realize materials never smiled back,
I am now the round peg without a Soul.
While the term global citizen is frequently used by millions who live abroad, how meaningful is this term really ?
Is there genuine acceptance of thought, culture, race, ***, religion, beliefs or is it merely disregarded based on one's nationality ?

While it's a beautiful experience when one moves across the seven seas to learn and adapt to new ways of living, but it sometimes also entails a complete unlearning of the past. 

Let's stop the labeling and try to live in a world where borders exist only for the maps, not for the hearts !
Ellis Reyes Oct 2014
Unforgiving heat
Cool drink
Giraffe,
Hippo,
Wildebeest,
Gazelle
Sip muddy water hole
Crouching low.

Unforgiving heat
Cool drink
Texans
Sip fridge-cooled Camelbacks
Crouching low.

Light breeze
Eggplant skies
Tall savannah grass
Sways
Masking movement.
Predators travel
Unseen.

Guns ready
trophies sighted
Giraffe
Hippo
Wildebeest
Gazelle

Bullet chambered
Trigger finger
trophies....

Running?

Cheetahs pouncing
Texans screaming
Law of Nature
End of Story.
This poem is the product of a poetry challenge laid down my 6th grade English students. The gave me the words, Giraffe, Hippo, Fridge, Eggplant, and Texas. My assignment was to create a poem that included surprise or astonishment and incorporated all of the given words. This poem is the product of that challenge.
Sea Nov 2014
My surrender was a spicy-chicken sandwich. No lettuce.
I placed it on the kitchen island:
a white flag, asking for forgiveness.

There was no smile. Quiet acceptance.
My wallet would grow thin
with the make-up gifts.

If only we could have solved it
rather than masking the issues
with the scent of mediocre fast-food.

— The End —