Poem | |
You keep going down like rain,
A wishing star in disguise,
You cry bloody murder, my face in disgrace
Your lips forever stain,
A smooth dance of manipulation,
Your eyes, hide the truth, like an unseen domain in space
Darling, however, that will never cut what bleeds from a mother's heart
My precious darling, your feathers are in mourning like a flightless dove
Is this to be love, standing there, while I fall apart
Our younger years, display nothing but love,
Like the wonder years, you will remain more precious than a stone
From one betrayal, right after another, a heart colder than winters zone
That never counts as a failure, when it comes to unconditional love
Darling, this pain and secrets were never yours to absorb alone
"My sweet darling, Let me hold you once more!"
My beautiful girl, the nights grow random like sin
Your mind's fast at switching grapes on a vine
Fault, from a mother to son, too much exposure from the sun
Insanity and sin remain, from a mother to daughter
Soaking in salt, that protects me from your loaded gun
A shameful way, to sunbathe your skin like a shooting star
My beautiful daughter, you put my heart behind bars
My dearest cry baby, you're all grown up, these days
Sweetheart, I don't see you running home no more,
These towels will not dry,
The feeling of fresh pepper, floats from the center of my core
Your man made drama, spread out every window and doorway
Leaving the light to reach the floor
-- Once again the sun, has revealed your Judas like tan
Your tears have fallen, one too many times
Here we are, covering every bruise
Raising every brow, in hope everything's gone
Darling, no one will love you, like I do
I still whisper your name, and wish life had nothing to lose
Sweet darling, your eyes are rolling like dice
A small roll of dominoes misleading everyone the wrong way
This time I can't cover your mistake with a blanket,
My little darling, you have gone too far
Your paper dolls aren't cutting smiles from this frown
I've always known your the Iscariot,
Selling your soul for a simple quarter
These tears, were never yours to sell, for at the end,
Our sins, will have more weight than a thousand pounds of gold
My beautiful darling, I forgive you, every day,
I want you to know, I'm Sorry about the things I had to say
I don't understand how easily you trampled our bed of roses
Posing over the moon, in your treason white gown
Darling, Mommy wants you to understand,
My voice, was for your own good,
The knife, in my back's all rusted,
The father clock, continues to stand still,
Sweet child, the allusion you left behind faded long ago
Contradicting your life, with your infamous pretty face logo
My dearest cry baby!
Why the tan lotion, where's your sense of guilt?
Is this another game of child's play?
Darling, it's time to put them toys away,
In the name of Jesus, I pray!
"My Sweet Darling, I need to hold you once more."
Poem | |
A man’s tale
With mind control there he was,
A man for sale…
Hearing the vocal sound from this wordsmith,
A man in his own tale…
Currently he was sitting and calling upon the earth.
Prior rumors about his love for the Queen.
Yet to come would be a bard singing for Her Majesty-
A fool wrapped in a cowardly way.
Flowers and scars sat on his floor.
A torn heart, making its way out the door.
He caresses the image of her in his mind.
This man, this bard, sang a song for the blind.
Releasing a soft note, she turns towards the sun.
Forgetting the ferocious rage of the king.
The man kneels with the light flashing in his face.
He drinks with his eyes, one moment of glee.
His head lands under the moon's winter space.
Never again, will he spend his days thinking.
Never again, will he feel the shivers when calling upon the earth and her beauty.
Never will he know, he was the tune that eased her thirst.
A man’s tale always ends under a woman’s spell.
Poem | |
SLEEPING WITH THE ENEMY
See what you want to see.
Don't Look at me!
You are staring you are watching;
Eat what you can't be..
Come sleep by my side.
The whole world is our playground..
Don't make a sound..
Stop clowning around
In the mist of the night,
You keep me from crying
I wipe off the taste of your lips.
You kiss me starting at my inner hips.
You broke me in a way..
I hate to say your love is better every day
I deny you, the one thing I can't say.
You are my pillow..
Where I rest my legs,
Can you feel me~
This moment feels right
I just want to die here,
Die here ~
Die here by your side..
I sleep with my eyes wide open,
I sleep with the enemy by my side
Come here and hold me..
After you watched my worlds collide..
Come here and love me..
I'm yours till the end of time...
You can rock me!
Under the moon and its rhyme..
I put it all to a side, how I hate you inside.
I can't let go,,
I just want you to know,
I'm a fool in love with you..
Even if it doesn't show!
12- 7- 10
Poem | |
You thought you’d make a fool of me
I was so blind but now I see
So now you’ve had your little joke
Guess I’m just warning other folk
You’d look at me with those bedroom eyes
But your tender words I now despise
You broke my heart through and through
Well honey I’ve got news for you
Your designer clothes are now in rags
Packed up inside black plastic bags
Your cars been scratched and it’s got a dent
Your names been taken off the rent
You love to flirt, but you’re a cheat
You’re just like a dog on heat
But I’m now aware of your little game
No man will hurt me ever again
Don’t get taken in by charming men
They use you and just start again
From now on I am in control
Hey man you’re just an asshole
24th July 2014
Poem | |
"All Children Are Beautiful"
His heart of white deep, shallow wells, yet beautiful
He smirks a grin, with an ego that won't let me in' -he's beautiful
Bastard, of beauty, running ashes without a name
A face with no claim, a young man pounding from shame
What is his sin, he's beautiful!
I want to breathe from his ashes, swim through his veins
I want him to come inside my light, like a good dame
I sing and tell a tale, A Bastard through the night
His eyes, I waged, I was young and poor, I was saved
Lying down, in the arms of my white knight
My hair, he caressed, he came in my light
The furnace burned, the night was fast becoming trite
A lover, he did it well, then went back to his wife
A moment so golden, the ages live, his son is born
Another Bastard brought into this world
Poem | |
You ripped me
One word at a time
Shredded my smile
Pulled at my sensitivity
I was never strong enough
To pull back my paper heart
You took the pieces of me
Arranged them in your perfect order
I prayed for the wind to come
Hoping I would be carried away
Flutter to a new more loving home
Instead, I endured your paper cuts
I became your paper mâché
Shaped into the image of you
Glued with your inconsistancies
Coated in your endless smoke
Sarcasm and beer
I marinated in your endless tears
You painted me with a retarded label
Your stupid failure of a son
Forced to endure that brush
It was with your eyes I learned to see
Everyone else was better than me
I was a failure times three
My inside empty
I became light as air
As time went on I ceased to care
It happend slowly you weren't aware
Until one day I floated past your stare
No longer raw and bare
I clawed and ripped
Rewrote my page
coming of age
Not your puppet on a stage
Contorted by your rage
I have lost you to your death
The air much clearer, still I feel your breath
Within my doubts your lies still hide
Yet within me a new strength resides
Your image of me no longer applies
Doubt and fear reduced in size
No longer your "DUMMY"
On faith I rise
For Charlotte's contest, heart and soul confessional.
Written, September 1st 2014.
Poem | |
I have little tolerance for tolerant people.
Those that will endure the corruption of
the truth, the erosion of meaning. While at
the same time being intolerant of your
opinions, thoughts, and level of tolerance.
There is a quote attributed to Voltaire:
“I disapprove of what you say, but I will
defend to the death your right to say it.”
How many of the “tolerant” would be willing
to fight for our right to “disapprove of what
they say”? Hush the crowd so that we might
be heard? Unblock their ears and hearts and listen?
Does the present day “tolerance”
lack tolerance, lack understanding,
lack the ability to endure a voice that
is not in tune, does not sing the same
song, does not pray the same prayer?
Or do they tolerate, put up with, the “fool”,
while denying acceptance of his opinions,
his beliefs. Perhaps the fool is more tolerant than they.
Listening to what they say, watching how they
carry themselves, interact with those “different”
For they think him a “fool”, because they do
not know that he thinks, what he thinks,
and most sadly, they do not care to know.
They will tolerate his presence but not allow
him to be present, listen to his voice yet hear
nothing, speak of equality while lauding their
position, education, power over him.
For they are tolerant only of themselves,
of their ideas, their thoughts, their peers,
their alleged - equals.
They disapprove of us, and what we say,
and will defend their right to keep it so.
John G. Lawless – 6/9/2014
Poem | |
Why, Momma, why?
Was I not deserving
Was I not good?
Was I too frail?
Did you send me away
Because your own life
Why, Momma, why
Do I still secretly wail?
Asking myself what did I do so
wrong? How did I fail?
What you called rebelliousness
Was the only way I knew how
to stay strong sometimes, I'd
stay up all night looking after you
Got banged and bruised so that
he wouldn't hurt you
No one else did that
Isn't it true?
Did you ever think about my wounds
That was the only way I knew to
Instead of helping me
You banished me through lies,
Stripped me from my home,
My siblings, my life
Withheld your love
Because I tried to take my own life
But did you ever stop and think that
Perhaps something in me wasn't right?
Why, momma, why?
Does your absence whisper in me
A forever sorrowful lullaby and
Although, I miss you I love you more
each day that goes by
I forgive you wholeheartedly
Despite that yesterday, I cried
I wouldn't hesitate to wipe
The tears from your eyes if they
ever again were to meet with mine
Poem | |
I’ll not be the mask of your madness
I’ll not be the whip of your demands
I’ll not be the drug of your habit
I’ll not be the dough in your hands
I’ll not be the doll that’s your play thing
I’ll not be the container of your need
I’ll not be the victim of your anger
I’ll not be the object of your greed
I’ll the bread that he feeds on
I’ll be the water that he drinks
I’ll be the cloud that he walks on
I’ll be the thoughts that he thinks
I’ll be the tent that he dwells in
I’ll be the heaven that he dreams
I’ll be the angel that he wants
I’ll be the sparkle in his stream
I'll be the star that he follows
I'll be the sun’s warmth on his chest
I'll be the moon that allures him
I'll be the treasure of his quest
I'll be the fairy of his woodland
I'll be the seductress of his need
I'll be the breast that he lies on
I'll be the dogma of his creed
I’ll be the honey that he savors
I’ll be the dessert that he craves
I’ll be the sea that he dips in
I’ll be the virgin he enslaves
I would have been all that to you
I gladly would have made you king
But you gave all that to another
Now you must taste my bitter sting
You must watch his hands caress me
You must see his mouth devour
You must hear my sighs of pleasure
You must curse the betrayal hour
Eileen Manassian Ghali
Poem | |
She was a grand piano: grand in structure, grand in beauty, grand in quality
of sound. She had captured the heart of every pianist who had come to play in
the great hall. Once they touched her keys…they fell in love with the
celestial sounds that resonated from her core.
He was a grand musician, adept at playing several instruments. Music was
what made him come to life…his passion seen in the swaying of his body as he
became enraptured in the sounds. He came looking for her, having heard of
her perfection, and once he touched her, he was captivated.
Night after night the hall was packed with music lovers who came to hear him
play, but they also came to feast their eyes for when he sat there at the
piano…it was almost as if he were in the throes of passion. She made him
pour and release his inner soul in notes that vibrated and pulsated within
every listener’s heart. Passion redefined.
His fame spread. He spent hours every day…sitting there on the stage,
caressing her keys, making her do his bidding…moving her to a forte
crescendo…and then another, soothing her with pianissimo after the
storm of passion was spent.
When did it happen? When had the restlessness taken hold? He couldn’t
remember a specific moment, but at night…after the concerts were over, and
he was there in his room, he would dream of traveling again, and he’d think of
the Stradivarius he had seen for sale in the most renowned music store in
Europe, a store right beside the grand hall. She was a beauty…sleek,
streamlined, shapely, and after he had touched and fondled her, heard the
noise he could bring to life with his flexible fingers, he knew…the time had
come to say goodbye.
All his savings and more went into purchasing that Stradivarius that fit
snuggly under his chin. He could travel with her. She was…lightweight, easy to
carry. She was not stationary.....heavy.
It was the last concert, and he gave that piano his all. The audience sensed a
difference in the man. The room was electrified with the notes of a passion in
bursting from the fusion of man and instrument. The piano had never sounded
so angelic, sweet, replete with every nuance of a lover’s dream. Something
seemed to be tugging at the pianist's heart for before he took his bow, they
saw his eyes wet with tears.
Years passed, his fame grew. He was now known as the master violinist....the
shining star among his contemporaries...one of a kind. He was happy and
famous. He was traveling….light. His Stradivarius was his to finger and play
with every night, a perfect mistress, a perfect muse, yet why…why did he find
himself back in the hall after all this time? He stood there aghast, for all he
could see on the stage was the old janitor, sweeping the floor. “Where is she?”
The janitor squinted at him, trying to remember, and then he gave a sad
smile. “Why…didn’t you hear? It was in all the papers. After you left,
something went terribly wrong with that grand piano. All the notes kept
coming out wrong. It didn’t matter who sat down to play, and to tell you the
truth, some of those pianists were even better than you, or so I heard said.
Nothing sounded right. They brought professional tuners. Everything seemed
alright, but…the music, the music lacked….life. She couldn’t get fixed and so,
in the end….she was sold for scrap pieces to a carpenter who hacked her into
pieces to use for firewood.”
The musician stood there, tears streaming down his face. She had been
heavy, her maintenance difficult, her stationary heart, unmovable. He had
longed to travel light…to relish minimum maintenance demands, to travel far
and wide, like a feather on the breeze…airy and light…oh, so light, but could
someone be found who could explain to him the extreme leaded heaviness in
his heart that rooted him, immovable, to the spot where once a beautiful
grand piano had stood.