"wittness" poems - Hello Poetry

Writing is my only escape, craving for more and more, to get over my endless sore, to write about things I adore, like sitting next the shore watching the blue waves come and go, I've printed my hands on the scattered sand to feel the bareable heat, and watch the people while their having a seat, to wittness such a beautiful scene gave me hope, the truth that must be spread and read that we write for our passionate souls, some things ruled our lives rolled our dice, chains that bordered us must be broken, our wide, pretty not fake smiles should be drawn in our pale faces, chased by the flashbacks of the past, today we are here to wittness the wonders of the wonderful inventions to feel that we are blessed with most wanted life.

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Jul 25, 2013

Jul 25, 2013 at 7:36 AM UTC

mockingbird

Escape

Writing is my only escape, craving for more and more, to get over my endless sore, to write about things I adore, like sitting next the shore watching the blue waves come and go, I've printed my hands on the scattered sand to feel the bareable heat, and watch the people while their having a seat, to wittness such a beautiful scene gave me hope, the truth that must be spread and read that we write for our passionate souls, some things ruled our lives rolled our dice, chains that bordered us must be broken, our wide, pretty not fake smiles should be drawn in our pale faces, chased by the flashbacks of the past, today we are here to wittness the wonders of the wonderful inventions to feel that we are blessed with most wanted life.

1

For the low low price of just being within' earshot, the conversation analyst will run a full diagnostic on your conversation. You know how that perfect comeback feels, three weeks after You didn't say it? In training, representatives for Inbound sales listen to recordings of their own phone calls and critique them like Art majors in a studio class. Our conversation analyst. Looks at you like a shoe on the wall. Unlike the psychology major, the conversation analyst will never share his results. He'll just judge you. Silently. He doesn't speak. His fourth grade english teacher taught him that the carpenters house is never finished. She was referring to her husband, the carpenter, not finishing the renovations on their new home, but the conversation analyst heard it as a metaphor, and adopted it as a universal truth. Much like a painting controls the path your eye travels the canvas, or the scientific process that goes into composing music, the way you build rapport is one of those things that people don't realize can be an art form until they wittness it professionally. Our conversation analyst considers himself Socio-passionate. Which amuses him, when he deducts points from your conversation for not empathizing correctly. Or not giving effective compliments by asking a relevant question afterwards. The conversation analyst is not always mute. On special occasions such as first impressions he is a fine conversationalist. You can meet the conversation analyst for the first time, as many times as you want. If the carpenters house is never finished. The conversation analyst exemplar at listening, Will never hear you.

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Feb 5, 2018

Feb 5, 2018 at 6:26 PM UTC

Baby, as ancient as you are your naivety worries me, or is it my own? Thinking I could ever have you again. Oh but how I wish, pray, on knees again to set eyes upon glory of man named Antonio Guadi, his Sagrada De Familia. Is he finished with you yet? Will he ever be? Would I want it so? Artisans carving sanctity to sky, what have you chisseled in my absense? Is God's work ever done? Do, continue on forever, give me chance to return. Ah to bask on shore of San Sebastian, with pollished rellics of former architecture found in his beaten grains. I long to melt there once more, in awe of noon on Mediterranian Sea. My eyes taking witness to painted Catalonian women, ******* with holy devotion dipping faithful fingers into your waters, and signing the cross before dipping into blueness. Good Catholic girls they are. And handsome Gods about, oiling each other and bearing wittness as well. The ice cream boy, is he grown now? Does he walk by open mouthed still, where we left such imprint in the sand for all to see? When? If, I arrive again, will we walk Las Ramblas, stare at human statues, dance with gypsies, drink Absinthe and be taken by spell of Green Fairy? Will we then not care that pretty pick-pockets rob us blind? Oh, for the hallucinatory love of it all! Hold me in your fortress walls forever, should I ever, return. My Barcelona Baby, take me back. PJ Poesy p.s. I never left you.

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Mar 17, 2016

Mar 17, 2016 at 12:10 PM UTC

pj-poesy

Dear Lover Barcelona,

Baby, as ancient as you are your naivety worries me, or is it my own? Thinking I could ever have you again. Oh but how I wish, pray, on knees again to set eyes upon glory of man named Antonio Guadi, his Sagrada De Familia. Is he finished with you yet? Will he ever be? Would I want it so? Artisans carving sanctity to sky, what have you chisseled in my absense? Is God's work ever done? Do, continue on forever, give me chance to return. Ah to bask on shore of San Sebastian, with pollished rellics of former architecture found in his beaten grains. I long to melt there once more, in awe of noon on Mediterranian Sea. My eyes taking witness to painted Catalonian women, ******* with holy devotion dipping faithful fingers into your waters, and signing the cross before dipping into blueness. Good Catholic girls they are. And handsome Gods about, oiling each other and bearing wittness as well. The ice cream boy, is he grown now? Does he walk by open mouthed still, where we left such imprint in the sand for all to see? When? If, I arrive again, will we walk Las Ramblas, stare at human statues, dance with gypsies, drink Absinthe and be taken by spell of Green Fairy? Will we then not care that pretty pick-pockets rob us blind? Oh, for the hallucinatory love of it all! Hold me in your fortress walls forever, should I ever, return. My Barcelona Baby, take me back. PJ Poesy p.s. I never left you.

42

A thousand times I should've known I should have felt The thousand times without. For the misplaced faith in a wraith I couldn't doubt... My own feeling left me reeling For me to tell the one story, I'd left untold And I can never know - if I was right... I dreamt a hundred lives And in each time I never saw your face... You were here with me from the beginning Maybe a reflection of my ghost Or I was too young for me to place you. On and on. But I chased you well. I told the stories In poems, songs, in visions In theories, in ev'ry mis-decision I keep you alive in every lie In every breath that claims that I I believe Did you know that I drowned... Twice? You are my hidden face Wittness to my unveiled disgrace I was once asked in all my songs Who were "you" My unseen mistress My forgiveness, My implacabal Agressive shadow My insecure insignificant My insight Myself deplorable An adorable A beautiful disaster And we slept So many nights In each other's comforting arms And I invited you in Without a fight But thats all you left in me ... the FIGHT My disgraceful, irreplaceable My exoneration, my desperation, my displacement, my revelations... My whimsical Mystical, quixiotical My enervation... Disgraceful, irreplaceable, it's not just distrust, Its ireedemable You're my, Captivated, and one day they'll maybe see You've always been me My inescapable "you"

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May 25, 2023

May 25, 2023 at 10:42 PM UTC

brass-knuckles-mike

Who You Should've Been, Maybe Me.

A thousand times I should've known I should have felt The thousand times without. For the misplaced faith in a wraith I couldn't doubt... My own feeling left me reeling For me to tell the one story, I'd left untold And I can never know - if I was right... I dreamt a hundred lives And in each time I never saw your face... You were here with me from the beginning Maybe a reflection of my ghost Or I was too young for me to place you. On and on. But I chased you well. I told the stories In poems, songs, in visions In theories, in ev'ry mis-decision I keep you alive in every lie In every breath that claims that I I believe Did you know that I drowned... Twice? You are my hidden face Wittness to my unveiled disgrace I was once asked in all my songs Who were "you" My unseen mistress My forgiveness, My implacabal Agressive shadow My insecure insignificant My insight Myself deplorable An adorable A beautiful disaster And we slept So many nights In each other's comforting arms And I invited you in Without a fight But thats all you left in me ... the FIGHT My disgraceful, irreplaceable My exoneration, my desperation, my displacement, my revelations... My whimsical Mystical, quixiotical My enervation... Disgraceful, irreplaceable, it's not just distrust, Its ireedemable You're my, Captivated, and one day they'll maybe see You've always been me My inescapable "you"

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