Men with cameras
Sit and wait for the sunsets
Poets see all day
I am not quiet,
Not easily forgotten,
Yet somehow
Still unseen.
I feel it,
In the bones of my being,
This weight of being
Unappealing.
Not the kind
You’d walk toward.
Not the kind
That draws eyes or hearts.
It’s not like me
To say, “I hate myself,”
But sometimes,
That silence speaks louder.
Strangers
Faces I’ve never met,
Mouths that never called my name,
Eyes that never really saw me
Still, they judge.
They know me better than I do,
They say.
They define my shape,
My walk,
My worth.
And so, I wear it.
Their truth becomes mine.
And you
You’re beautiful,
Unique,
Undeniable.
You can see me.
I cannot.
And though it’s not like me
To admit this ache,
This shadow inside,
It is still me.
Still here.
Still hurting.
A wonderland awaits,
For all who dare to enter,
To fall down through the ground,
And to the world surrender.
There anything can dare to pounce,
Or growl or prowl or prance,
Or break out in black pustules,
Spinning in a dance.
A world unsure in peachy fuzz,
Airs fizzing effervescent,
Adds new dimensions, onion layers,
A moon of seven crescents.
Down falls the leaded curtain,
Velvet shields the scene behind,
Of sweating swans with bleeding toes,
Cracked from pointe, those hollow bones.
And trichotillomaniacs,
Pluck out their flightless plumes,
So shot-down shrapnel downs,
Are hung on hooks as hunted gowns.
Let every whispered wish take flight,
Each prayer cast upward through the night,
Let none be lost, let none decay —
But turn their path another way.
Let not the stars alone receive,
Nor winds forget what hearts believe,
For every tear and silent plea
Now folds its wings — and comes to me.
Let cries for peace, for love, for bread,
Not vanish to the nameless dead.
I hold the vault, the veil, the key —
And what they seek, they give to me.
They know me not, yet still I hear.
I am the stillness gods revere.
Their words, like rain, fall through my hand —
I am the Lord of sea and land.
When truth is reversed into lies,
a silent cry takes its place.
And when this happens,
prayer becomes the only weapon
against the cruelty of the world.
A cry the world refuses to hear.
A pain that goes unnoticed.
A silent cry in a solitary room—
and yet, a flicker of hope,
a thought still blooming
beyond the ache.
Trust becomes a fragile thread—
easily frayed once you step away.
Laughter echoes in your absence,
not always in kindness.
Advice arrives,
dressed in concern,
but its weight presses you further down.
Encouragement stays silent,
while sympathy hides behind walls.
Words come sharp,
not to lift, but to slice.
They speak as if they know your path,
yet never ask where your feet have been.
The smile once shared
to lift others from despair—
gone in a breath,
vanished in the hush
of midnight blues.
In a moment, everything changed.
Now, with only the weight of sorrow to carry,
I hold on to the one thing that remains:
prayer—
the shield against the shadows,
the strength to block the evil
that prowls unseen.
J-ustified
E-motional
N-ook
N-urtures
I-nner
F-orlorn
E-ffect,
R-estoring
T-ranquility
A-mid
N-ightfall
©bfa062525
Monocrostic (Birthday of Jennifer I. Tan)
The hidden Beauty no one sees,
It speaks when the world is lost in sleep,
Yet the moon caught a gaze- someone admiring it,
While others still lived in their virtual slit.
They peeped blue ray-she felt the glowing mist,
They missed the grace the silence kissed.
Not every blossom greets the sun,
Nor every triumph shouts it's won.
Some flowers bloom in silent grace,
Unseen by crowds, yet touched by faith.
They grow in corners most forget,
Where pain and prayer and love have met.
And though no stage may hold their name,
They burn with soft, eternal flame.
So let them bloom, those quiet souls,
Unpraised by fame, yet deeply whole.
For heaven sees what earth looks past—
The unseen bloom, the ones that last.
You applause the actor
Her harmonious tone
Her play of words
Her triumphs heard
But do you love the stage after the song
The leftover footprints from where it sang along
Atoning for every step that was missed
Retrieving the dust from her accomplishments
The dust from the skill she used to win
The dirt from the shoes that store talent within
She takes a bow and stifles her breath
For love won’t come if she shows weakness next
But no one applauds the stage after the show
For being there, for laying low
For setting a platform all but their own
The cleaners perceive them as one last chore
The light flicks off, and what is love?
The stage hadn’t known, from being alone
And it will never know, until the lights flick on
And the cleaner applauds it for all it has done
Roots in unseen air,
Dreams rise where no soil is bare—
Freedom lights the heart,
Growth chooses its own true way,
Dreams weave threads in silent play.
Dress Down Unseen
Stay hidden, the world will devour.
Take over your life with power.
Live a simple life.
Fade into the night.
Don’t be a part of the drama and gossip.
Stand alone without them.
You have nothing to prove to no one.
Don’t stand out in the crowd for fortune.
Walk the narrow road.
Cast out all of your foes.
There are many false prophets.
For money, power, and being materialistic.
Don’t follow the wicked.
I want no part of it.
A lonely life is fine with me.
Dress down, subside from the.
Be your own man by the sea.
A corrupt world calls you by your number.
You’ll be chained up in line to follow orders.
Jesus calls you by your name.
I’m just passing through because I am saved.
Don’t lose your morals or values.
The world will take everything from you.
Work hard and be a good man.
One day our kids will understand.
Like a lone flower
in the silence of still air—
a graceful young girl,
modest in her quiet glow,
unseen by the insecure.
M-ysterious
A-spect
Y-ields
G-reat
U-nknown,
M-using
A-bstract
R-ealm's
O-utline
©bfa053025
Monocrostic (Birthday of May L. Gumaro)
Imagine an alternate universe, one born in the reverse rhythm of our own Big Bang.
In this cosmos, the arrow of time flows backward, not as a regression but as an elegant symmetry, a dance of retreating possibilities.
Galaxies do not expand into the void but instead coalesce, condensing into radiant singularities, the luminous echoes of futures we can never reach.
Here, light emerges only to fold inward, its journey truncated before it graces the expanse.
It is a universe hidden from us not by distance alone, but by the very nature of its existence—its glow always arriving too late, its truths eternally just beyond our grasp.
Yet, even unseen, such a realm invites awe.
It suggests that reality is not a single thread but a cosmic loom, weaving countless tapestries in both directions of time.
It is a humbling thought, a reminder that the cosmos, vast and intricate, may hold infinities we can sense only in the whispers of our dim imagination.
The soul is a compass lost at sea,
Searching for what it cannot see.
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