Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Posts Tagged ‘read’

If you came here

to read my poems to rhyme,

you’ll be disappointed.

 

I do not offer a life

nor its manicured rhyme

but a disjointed rhythms

of words. Of thoughts

messed around misaligned

tensions of surviving

to live and exist.

 

I am not ashamed- to speak

the painful answers to questions

yet some are eager to clarify

the vagueness of the person-

and his art of illusion.  I do not

 

offer a solution to a malady

but I am willing to bare

the broken bones.

There is no guilt

 

for a man who stand

for what he is

and would offer no

facelift to his present

circumstance.

 

If you came here

to read my poems to rhyme,

you’ll be disappointed.

I will not offer a story

fit for a fairytale.

Advertisements

Read Full Post »

What started out as an occasional tryst

with printed words began an insatiable desire

to eavesdrop some imaginary lives on pages.

 

There must be a fine line between the reader

and the writer as to dreams is to eloquence

of the pen. Drifting to lucid spaces, shelf upon shelf

I began to shuffle it between my fingers. Skim-read

passages and clues  I wonder-

where to find you.

 

A character much ideal in my mind.

Read Full Post »

I read what you have written.

I watch how you exist everyday.

I listen to what you have to say.

In silence I understand and

in the way of silence will I respond.

I may disagree with you

but I thank you for what you are,

in respect to the way you live

your truth. I may have biases

and pre-conditioned opinion

of how it was with my side of story.

But I do not beg you to listen,

nor to watch and read these lines.

For I know you will afford to respect

the unwritten code of tolerance.

Measure for measure. We swap

vantages and viewfinders.

We have a choice whether to see

things clearly in detail

or  the bigger picture.

We do not need to hide

the arguments on intellectual

acrobatics nor choose to mislead

honesty in fallacy. It is not

in the amount of words nor

the eloquence of the language,

but in this fraternal bond

that even in disagreement

we thrive in peace.

Read Full Post »

How long would you hide your true feelings?

You wish to say something but the words swerved

to its opposite direction-sugarcoating the angst

frothing bittersweet at your mouth verbalizing

 

euphemism.

 

Say what you really mean.  Look me

in the eye and cut through your razor

sharp, spine-tingling voice into my face.

Don’t let me read between the lines.

 

Just to make your point mark deep

into the recesses of my consciousness.

Leave me bleeding. You’re the best

pretender that I have seen.

Read Full Post »

My hands crawled into these keys

tapping words out into the world

extricating molecules of loneliness.

 

You read between the lines,

you pick the signals you want

magnet attracts the opposite.

 

I could be good more than I should.

Perhaps, angling for a thrill

a joyride of sorts, of lies…

 

Praise you a little, and I got you

on my hook, another gullible chum.

You never know what will hit you.

 

Let’s burn the hours

under the opium of disguise,

it’s good to wax poetic with egos.

Read Full Post »

I can talk about my universe

like picking a good book

from the bookshelves and pretend.

As if my mind can fill the spaces

left as a void and of dusts

collecting at the edges.

Since the day I had let

somebody in.

 

I could leave good pictures

about art. About dance.

About the food and the drinks.

Of nice and pretty things

while you won’t discover

how tricky it is to conceal.

How easy it is to speak

about the avant-garde. 

The dead writers. The music.

 

I won’t show you the bookmarks.

The synopsis of chapters.

The highlighted paragraphs

almost torn to the leaf

where the watermarks

from my tears had faded.

I won’t let you read it.

 

I will let the cultured noise

suffocate me in silence

on something that begin

to reveal themselves.

Leaving handprints

and start mending

the pages of my heart.

I won’t let you do it.

Read Full Post »

He stares at the frosted window,

dreaming of pigeons in flight.

Probing shadows in his oblivion

while the neighborhood is asleep

on this night bathed in blue light.

 

His heart refuses to surrender

to someone else’s handwriting.

 

He’s an outsider, perhaps a victim.

No one knows how he spent hours

imagining a beautiful world.

Unable to express, struggling

for a line to be understood.

 

An empty love bleeding sentences

that can never be written.

 

Such beauty, a flower in the field

belonging to some lucky bee.

Jealousy hits his innocence

like a knife to a man’s desiring,

leaving his wounds unhealed.

 

For the lady who reads letters

from some scented envelopes.

 

There is blood in the trash bin

and it does belong to him.

Among the crumpled sheets,

the fingerprints and drops of ink-

a memory of his scarred sanity.

 

How he endured the paper cuts;

this man’s life in blank pages.

 

The postman didn’t come today

and the letters were undelivered.

No one has foreseen death’s coming-

such as his knocking on doors

and opening of mailboxes, each morning.

 

They found a fountain pen in his hand,

motionless and still- in cold blood.

Read Full Post »

Older Posts »