All because of that single decision
To grasp that grate and breathe in the ethereal skies above
Rather than
To let go of that grate and suffocate in the foul sewage below
Because of what he chose
This is what he is
Independent
Not
Incarcerated
Whole
Not
Wounded
Confident
Not
Confused
Slipping off of the rusted edge, on which side will he land?
Brilliant
Not
Bleak
Courageous
Not
Cowardly
Relieved
Not
Remorseful
This is what he is
Because of what he chose
To grasp that grate and breathe in the ethereal skies above
Rather than
To let go of that grate and suffocate in the foul sewage below
All because of that single decision
Now, what if he wasn’t resolved in his decision?
Simply read the poem in reverse.
you weave a cushion
to what might've been a free fall
dragging each tumble
into elongated bounce
gentle—over trampoline
instead of one splat
letting my body shatter
flipping narrative
providing a fluffy cloud
unable to hold my body weight
sort of metaphor
easiest to decipher
if seeking what's flipped
is what you have been after
not a murder with knife's back
Everything I do is for you forever and always not because I love you but because I'm constantly walking on eggshells waiting for the other shoe to drop just for you.
The sun here burns without speaking.
In *Sta. Magdalena, even the wind gossips,
even the silence sits beside you
and calls you **"padaba."
But Riyadh?
Riyadh listens too much.
And when I speak,
my voice comes out wrapped in plastic.
I eat beside men with vanished names,
we all have families blurred behind remittance,
eyes trained not to blink at machines,
hearts trained not to shatter
at the sound of our children
saying “Papa” from a screen.
I have made peace with white tiles,
hallways scrubbed of joy.
The mosque’s call is the only breath
that cuts through this mechanical sleep.
I do not pray—
I bargain with God.
One more year, I say.
One more ***bago umuwi.
And in my bed,
I curl around the ghost of my own dialect.
I am learning to cry
without leaving a trace
on my pillow.
*Sta. Magdalena, Sorsogon, Philippines
**beloved
***before home, finally.
The job is done
Bruises and broken bones
He will live to see another day
"Just end him already" chants the crowd
F*cking psychopaths
Poor guy got what he deserved
Lucky him I made up my mind already
How sick you have got to be
To yell like that for a blood bath
He made his mistakes like everyone else
And yet, people act like judges
His kite really got struck by a sudden gust
A bulge on the side of his hip caught my eye
It was his perfectly polished and cocked back pistol
Unfortunately for him, his string was fragile
His Beretta had a glare
Shiny enough to change my mind...
In spring we come out to see life,
out from our long cold winter's nap.
Bears are so loving not wildlife.
Love can be grand.
I am your big fun bear asap,
you are my fury playful wife,
I love to see you in gift-wrap.
Tonight we need some fun nightlife,
eating fish not from a flytrap,
using my big claws not a knife,
Love can be grand.
A knife lie in her bed, her hand rests atop the hilt.
The satin maple bed frame lie bare beneath her fingers,
And the aliferous knife lie skin warm in the cradle of her hand.
A pile of gossamer shavings grow on her sheets,
Surrounded by splinters near her pillow-
concealed by soft down.
She awaits the conception of a fish,
Sat in the pillar of her crib.
She pictures she’s an old wiseman, with an Appalachian drawl
Widdleing on his back porch- rocking on a pine chair
The bones of her fish turn crimson-
A red herring
The laceration in her thumb lolls a bright serum
She was stopped by worry, but then she recalled-
That’s what the knife was for anyways
The canvas waits beneath a tempered blade.
A pale silver knife, not forged for war, I wield.
I paint the silence that the wounds betrayed.
The sky lies torn in strokes of celeste shade,
each slash more raw, no truth left unrevealed—
the canvas waits beneath a tempered blade.
No brush can bruise the dark the way I’ve flayed
these hues loose, their former grace repealed.
I paint the silence that the wounds betrayed.
My muse—half shadow, half cascade—
emerges from each mark I will not shield.
The canvas waits beneath a tempered blade.
No line stays; no form can be obeyed.
I seek what's felt, not what can be concealed.
I paint the silence that the wounds betrayed.
She stares back now, the shape that art mislaid—
a scar turned sycamore across the field.
The canvas waits beneath a tempered blade.
I paint the silence that the wounds betrayed.
You held the knife.
All along I thought it was fine because you held the knife
But apparently everything was wrong
I was wrong
Wrong about you and all that I thought you could be
I thought I could trust you.
But no.
You held the knife facing me
Waiting for your chance
Holding the handle with all you might
As it sits in my back
It was always her
Why couldn’t it be me?
Am I that bad? Tell me
Why am I always 2nd place?
At least I made 2nd place with you…
The heather weeps, a purple bruise,
Across the glens, the chilling news.
No bagpipes drone a mournful sound,
But sirens wail on hallowed ground.
A thistle bleeds, its prickling crown,
As innocence is stricken down.
Young eyes, once bright with Highland fire,
Now gleam with something dark and dire.
The steel they flash, a twisted boast,
A stolen childhood, dearly lost.
Each shadowed lane, a whispered fear,
Of blades that gleam and futures near,
Consumed by rage, a hollow pride,
Where youthful dreams have gone to hide.
Parents clutch, with hearts ablaze,
Afraid to loose in this iron maze.
The ancient stones, they stand and stare,
At broken vows and whispered prayer.
Can Scotland rise, her spirit mend,
And teach these children how to bend,
The steel to craft, the hands to heal,
And learn the wounds are truly real?
To trade the blade for open hand,
And reclaim peace within the land.
Ollie onion had never been this mad in his life
He turned all his anger on the kitchen knife
How dare you try to peel me, you interloper, he said.
The knife was embarrassed, his face turned red.
I did not know that you were alive, he admitted.
No one told me this, I am confused, he spitted.
Ollie was not in the forgiving mood at all.
He sent that knife packing, down the hall.
Golly, gee willikers, gee whiz
My punch lines have lost all their fizz ~
Where has that fizz gone
It’s missing since dawn ~
Critics say: ‘Tis what ‘tis what ‘tis
i guess you don't know
i have the butter knife
and i know what's in your closet
clueless fools
you, my mom - your wife
living in some other world
you know nothing of
my life
the butter knife
is more than fantasy
it is the key
to open up the closet door
maybe
i won't be here
anymore
I can not explain it,
from another shore
you know what's in your closet
maybe
i'll blow out my brain
no longer feeling any pain
you knew nothing of
my life
Cut throat
Cut knife
Its double edged life
Blood drips
Life slips
Whispers gone away
Nothing to say
Young lives losts
Souls gone forever
All because people think there clever
Brainwashed into senselessness
Adding to there so called cleverness
Innocent angels
Dirty devils
The sense of all evil
Big or small
Should have no knives at all
Bring in a license to use
Up the age limit
Use a permit
Lets save lives
Don’t use knives
A knife on the desk
"To be or not to be" says
The intrusive thoughts
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