Best Persona Poems
Her persona is like
a portrait
of picturesque perfection,
embalmed in
bittersweet lavender,
unseen within depths
of tributaries of elixir.
If only they knew
the chaos that flows,
constrained in
a confined
gallery of grief.
Not everyone is
a master painter.
Some brush with brutal
bruised strokes,
provoking timeless
streams of
implicit secrets,
from crimson stains
on ivory satin,
where scents of juniper
evoke phases of
unpredicted phenomenons,
oblivious to chronicles
of forsaken tales,
which hide
beneath barriers,
many have struggled
to venture within.
But there is an artist
with a
pastel on his palette,
that can correct
her disfigured pigment.
He holds cryptic
calligraphic engravings,
veiled behind the inflamed
chamber of her heart.
He understands that her
spirit drowns when
winds are forceful.
How her
delicateness has
been sleeping
on withered roses,
wilted by
cruelest rays of a
summer
mourning
morning star,
Where bedtime stories
were puppeteered
by hurricanes
feeding on
fenceless vulnerabilities.
yet when
sleepless silence sings,
it can disturb
in reverberating
heavy metal screams.
So she echoes her trauma
through hurtful hisses,
poisoning with
vicious venom.
Her aura alters in
acrimonious attitudes
from serene sunshine
to furious gales.
She remains without
a grip on untamable
seasons of
unholy torture,
Only he knows the poem
in her eyes is the
last train home,
so he calms her
tempest temperament,
enabling hidden rainbows
in her mind to reappear.
He is a soothing
gemini night-flower,
even with outcries
of midnight thunder,
his patience resembles
raining jasmine water,
purifying
her murky waters,
into a crystallised milky-way
of kyanite desires,
guiding her
to swirl and swoon
into
whirlwinds of closure.
Love is a swooshing whirlpool,
swirling, twirling and whirling -
intensifying porcelain emotions.
Floating helplessly,
like bubbles in a tepid breeze.
There are still flashbacks
an unforgettable memory,
where poets, painters and musicians,
rushed to liberate their excited muses.
Her
diamond droplet eyes dazzled,
embellishing her emerald dress.
A vision of clarity, curing sadness.
A solution to end solitude.
An unsung song, an unheard poem,
an unfinished masterpiece.
Who's pastels and lyrics were
hidden deep within my heart.
Ivory piano keys,
craving hands sought to touch.
Poised like a pristine soulful harp -
waiting to be stroked by
composed, elegant enchanted fingertips.
A persona delicately designed
in an angelic silhouette.
Radiant innocence, illuminating through
eyes manifesting heavenly hues.
Many infatuated suitors,
hungered to taste the last sip
from her untouched chalice.
Their tongues remained blowing embers.
In the backdrop of cupidity,
metaphorical arrow magnetised her bow.
Succulence of her lips, now forever moisten,
tenderness of her chest, endlessly soothes.
The Silent One
19 August 2020
When my heart could no longer illuminate,
I gazed towards horizons shrouded in blurry blackness,
revealing the agony of my sorrows to the moon.
Wondering if it would gift me a beloved
that reflects within my heart like an effervescent lamp.
One that would recognise my voice,
leading me to my dream world.
Suddenly a jewel from the sky descended like sunset.
I followed its path of sparkling stardust upon malachite meadows,
so I could have a glimpse of this unseen artistry.
I will never forget the first time she called my name,
nor the tingling sensations of an abundance of internal butterflies.
There she was, an untouched treasure.
Was she the one to endow me with pleasure?
Her precious persona enticed my sullen demeanour,
as it beamed like a billion streetlights,
reminding me of an unfinished song,
where the silence in between heartbeats was her name -
the last lyric to an omitted chorus.
Sapphire skies reappeared
bringing back absent sunshine,
Its radiant rays glowing upon her shadow.
Her eyes dazzled like bronze gems.
Her ruby red lips revealed a smile
brighter than a million pearls.
Her golden locks of hair glistened,
gently blowing in the aura of her magnificence.
I'll never forget the first time she cried,
her diamond tears trickled upon my chest,
like little stars glittering in her gloom,
concluding our unwritten poem,
memorised within the backstreets of our minds.
I can still savour the taste in my mouth -
She said her mascara was waterproof,
yet it's engraved within my soul
like an eternal tattoo.
The Silent One
21 February 2022
In the absence of complication,
trials and tribulations become distant memories.
Above sapphire skies delight sanguine eyes -
inspiring forthcoming musings of the mind.
Words flow like rivers kissing mouths of the sea,
where an aubade of dawn creates waves of serenity.
In the purity of silence, I hear the heartbeat of nature,
a tranquil symphonic percussion of harmonic breaths.
A veneer of coolness refreshes my sensitive skin,
as my persona resembles a semblance of peace.
Positive thoughts create a carnival of colours,
as neon crayons illuminate the canvas of my life.
I am content in being lost in ripples of Earth's lullabies,
as life is a balance between rainy days and sunny horizons.
Today, footfalls of autumn acorns annoy like wayward winter winds,
but I know tomorrow, lavender spring air will bring rows of tulips.
This pomegranate heart
dreams to travel upon
a periwinkle path which
leads to the province,
where her royal majestic
persona resembles
papillon emperors,
floating under
mauveine skies,
adored by radiant rays from
the plummeting plum sun.
Serene clouds drift under
her lepidolite lilac gaze,
holding morning glory
amethyst raindrops,
ready to soothe her
fervid velvet petals.
A plethora of heather shelters
a rare rose dressed in violet,
flourishing under an
enigmatic Jacaranda tree,
surrounded by lush lilies,
infatuating irises alongside
opulent orchids,
blossoms infused with the
allure of musky ambience.
Tranquil twilight paints the
horizons in lavender hues,
stars appear like raisins
under magenta moonlight.
Her desires flow like rivers
of sangria and Syrah waterfalls,
bursting vibrantly through
mulberry mountains over
blueberry hills.
I have no desire
to reside in a place where
burgundy is too red
and indigo is too blue -
only in her unique aura
of heavenly purple shades.
in the desolate
solitary hours
when fear trickles down my spine
time is my jailor
closing me behind its doors
isolating my heartbeats
distant from yours
drips following a storm
ping a pattern of rubies
upon my flesh
heat carved runes
tell of lovers set aside
long ago
riddles on the wind
answers unfound
my present twists
into a knotted conflagration
higher
hotter than before
voices from the past rise
and resonate:
‘your heart-pain
bleeds from your words
that love is the umbrella
under which these wounds fester
is that much worse
untangle your heart-threads
from their prison bars
the landscape of your life
must evolve
immerse yourself
and know freedom’
my quest begins now
How do I explain
That my emotions are painful
That happiness is euphoria
That anger is blinded rage
That love borders obsession
How do I explain
That my emotions are my enemy
That sadness is suicidal thoughts
That pain is an agonizing fire that consumes me
That emotions are a hurricane
That merged with a tornado and tear away at my body from the inside out
And eventually, reach the people around me
How do I explain
That my actions aren’t always under my control
That the only thing I can feel
Without wanting to break
Is the pain of my own doing
How do I explain
That everyone leaves when I break
Because if you’re in my vicinity
And don’t head my warnings to leave me alone
I lash out with hurtful words and actions
That’ll hurt and break you down
Only for me to regret them soon after
And take it all out on myself
How do I explain
That being alone when I don’t want to be
Turns into an intense battle
A vicious war with myself
To not break and lash out at the ones I love
And to instead remember to stop and breathe
To process reality rationally
How do I explain
That I can’t do things like everyone else
That the simplest task
Become a life or death situation
That it makes me want to scream
How do I explain
That my mind is broken
And I hope you don’t leave
Because the monsters in me are terrible
And I’m still learning to control them
How do I explain
That I fear the love I’m shown
Even though I crave it
That part of me trusts the people close to me
And another part can’t believe a word they tell me
Tell me how do I explain
The mind that is ruled by different personalities
That all feel the pain of a single disorder
That’s so stigmatized by the world
How do I explain
Borderline Personality Disorder
Seductive tones filter the slumbered night
swashes of seda fill up an accented view
swirls of honeysuckle flicker in the breeze
and again the beauty of you is inhaled
Strip down low to the bare essentials
drench your soul in the waters of me
embrace fully in the arms of self content
and unleash chaos holding a being at bay
Enter into my entranced persona offering
let sacred dreams spill over silent borders
unburden that heavy heart hidden away
guarded, we are not who we say we are
Poet Destroyer what a peculiar name
A protective layer of sorts
Reader beware, stay at a distance see the parts she wishes you to see
I look beyond the shock and awe to the woman beneath the words
The girl named Linda with a heart of gold
I wonder who has hurt her, bruised that tender heart
Creating a mixture
Intensity, Passion, Love
The layers innumerable, a dove in eagle feathers
Capable of great heights
A predator persona with an angel heart
Striving for connection yet holding back some parts
If you look closely you will see a tender hearted girl draped in mystery
A hugger a unicorn lover
She loves to laugh and she longs to be free
Poet Destroyer still Linda to me
Appreciation in honor of Pd
Written May 13, 2013
Under The Cover.
.
You can never ever
Tell a book by it’s cover
As I was later to discover
The Lady in the Nursing home
The old man across the way
All have a story to tell
Hidden away
.
Some people I’ve known for years
Have suddenly touched my heart
And left me in tears
When they reviled their past
And nightmares and fears
.
Like my own dear Father
Shot and wounded
A prisoner of war
With only a tiny piece of bread to eat
And nothing more
.
The sweet old Lady I talked to
In Worksop in a store
Who told me she was the last surviving victim
Of Dachau in the war
.
The old man down our street
A nicer man you could ever meet
A rear Lancaster tail gunner
Or the hardship of a devoted Mother
Her husband left her for another
Someone who lost their family
And had no other
.
Those who suffered in the blitz
Those who lost a loved one
Aboard a ship
Never found always missed
The nurse who gave her all and put others
Before herself
To help the sick
.
The Pals sent to die in another far off land
The luckier who returned
Minus a leg or no hand
The coal miner unground
Who kept the home fires burning
The Steelworkers who gave their all
To keep England’s wheel turning
.
The bomb disposal and mine clearer's
The lifeguard on the bay
The emergency services and law enforcers
Who put their life in danger for us every day
.
The one who gives
But doesn’t seek recognition or reward
The one who fights for justice and war to cease
And silently prays for peace
.
A million stories left untold
Of unsung heroes young and old
No one should judge anyone
Like a book by their cover
For we all have a story
And who knows what we might discover.
.
Peter Dome©2020.
A mental disorder caused by watching too many Transformer movies. In the first stage of the disease, the afflicted will experience lethargy, loss of speech, appetite, and sense of impending doom. The second, or hallucinatory stage, is characterized by irrational fear of Japanese cars, cell phone towers, TA Truck Stops, Swiss Army pocket knives, and vacuum cleaners with multiple attachments. In the third and final stage, the afflicted will take on the persona of a rogue FBI agent and insist that the truth is out there.
Forty days and forty nights in lock down
Breathless for inhaling my own air ad infinitum
Could be worse if I was left out to dry in the desert
Isolation in my own four walls in solitude
Puffing and panting from the magic scented flacon
Fragrant innocence of lost childhood in terminal decline
Slimming down expectations for a slice on the road to Nirvana
I light sandalwood from a candle of flickering dreams
Perfumed ideation adamantly adheres to waxen resolve
It's only over when the slim lady sung a tune of lifting reprieve
I hope that she has been told when to bow for applause
And that the virus chokes on the curtain of epical demands
Like a bat out of hell I run round in circles along my four walls
Loose count of repetitions as I pace an eclipse of boredom
Enact biblical scenes with a teddy bear and ragged dolls
Lego figures dance a concert of doom with swift ballerinas
Trinkets on the mantlepiece rejoice in prominent position
Count their blessings and have their day in the lime light
Super powers of alien invasion penetrate my face mask
Order my persona to reveal resilience and count down
The apocalypse for when the gloves are off and insanity ends
03rd April 2020
Coffin lungs unhinge a chest open bare,
fragile skin ripping thin as bat membrane-
flutter in waves of vapor, from the heart that beats itself,
exhuming an illusive space...
defined by all that never was.
The only promise left unbroken,
held against all petty wills,
is the nothingness that eclipses the tangible-
contoured by chaos, it stands tall and futile,
leaving no shade for the shelter of lost dreams.
And so let the old void fill the new,
where Only Hope's clumsy shadow filters in,
and Fear blows every breath of whim,
Asphyxiating in this open cage,
for too long I chose to stay and wait
for empty promises to take,
and take,
and take.
"We are moving fast towards an age where people will be lovers of self, lovers of
money, self-seeking. Self-gratifying, laying aside morality, spirituality, family
values, and God, for self-preservation, self-gratification, and a cheap thrill.
2 Timothy 3:1-5
Beautiful, Black, Precious, and Complicated
Nothing else like it has ever been fabricated because the recipe stated the
ingredients are outdated. And the original chef barely got credit when He made it.
So without sounding antiquated, let me tell you how I'm rated:
My Beauty is my quality that offers pleasure to the mind or senses. It gives me a
conspicuous essence to remonstrate the world's false pretenses. My temple
becomes a domineering visual aspect of grace, radiating a Saint's best quality
on a child-like face.
I'm Bold, Black, and Original of course. I stand with full force and demonstrate my
strength with no remorse. It's a color of authority and power as stylish and
timeless as an extraordinary and eloquent flower.
I am Precious, Gentle, Sweet, and Simple. I make all my flaws seem accidental.
A treasured soul that can't become nothing less than monumental. It only makes
sense that my ingredients are kept confidential.
Sophisticated and Complicated I remain, yet such a *****, audacious bird.
Professionally e-nun-ci-a-ting every word and ar-ti-cu-la-ting every verb. Inquiring
about uncanny intellect which remains unheard.
My aura and my persona suggests Royalty among most high. Promising me a
productive future and a thrill of a ride. So the next time you happen to stumble
across me, the child of a King, I prefer to be referred to as MISS QUEEN in your
dialect of linguistic strings.
You earned it
The right to
Stand out
To show your true colors
To go by the name
That best represents
The real authentic you
The you you’ve grown into
Select your pen name
With utmost care
Flaunt your uniqueness
Divulge your true colors
AP: Honorable Mention 2021