The red on your lips
gives me chills.
The red in my eyes
taunts you, it haunts,
the feeling it kills.
Yet, this void nothing fills.
She wears unusual clothes, I think she is Bohemian
A witch from where? We wondered, a former nun?
She wore patchwork skirts, and tinted her broom.
Putting sparkles of light in the evening gloom.
Who is this witch? What is she about?
The cats are prancing, she’s brought some doubt.
Not one of us, we dress in black and gray.
Her loud bright colors are too danged gay.
Careful—what you hear
is not truly what mind heard;
bias wears a voice
we sort the world by its sound—
kinship hums in tone and tongue.
Talk sounds funny—strange,
not what you're used to hearing
through your native ears
guardrails narrow to constrain
how you render each word's sound.
Hearing listens first
for cadence, tone, inflection—
truth dressed in accents;
one voice rises, one falls through,
judged before the words arrive.
A child chooses friends—
not for faces, but a voice
that feels like their own;
in accents they speak at home
echoing inheritance.
As youths grow older
their speech bends towards the room,
softly converging—
to belonging in the crowd
with a learned change in accent.
Careful—he might hear
you—not as you fully are
mutual bias
is voiced in accented sounds—
kinship strummed in scope and tone.
butterfly buddha
the lotus flower revered ~
she wears external
Demetri, designer Dracula was not fond of orange at all
He has consulted fashion giants since ten years ago last fall
Armani never wrote him back, McQueen gave him some tips
He dresses in pink and black, his shiny shoes are tie, not slips
The other Dracula relatives make fun of him I guess
But the murder of crows and bat colonies love him, I confess
They invite him to their festivals, where he is the fashion king
He does not care about his relatives, using adjectives obscene
she came downstairs dressed for the dance
her daddy could not stop looking at her over-the-top makeup
a wise man, he said nothing until she left
to his wife
She looked younger tonight than she has looked since she was six
his wife agreed
and silly, she suggested
They both were a bit gleeful
thinking how crazy she looked with all that make up
like a second grader
Raw fury embellishes the soul,
Of a cold cruel world
They watch black burn -
Not a stomach churned
Evil is too kind a word,
For the mentally disturbed
Countless black lives suffer -
All in the name of projection
The hate they feel is the hate we receive
No amount of explanation could fathom any reason
Yet they claim it is, we, that deserves treason
Our skin classified as a crime against humanity
The real crime - their uninhibited savagery
Freedom cost nothing,
Yet they market it as a luxury
Only the white man is afforded
We aren’t even afforded the right to be seen as,
Treated as -
Human
Even the oxygen we breathe is a sparsity
Stealing the air we breathe becomes their favourite hobby,
They treat our lungs like it’s their property
And yet somehow they’ve convinced the world that we are the enemy
Death wears blue
Hollowed eyes
Sleepy grin
Twisted mouth
Smiled at me
As her voice
In my dreams
Between his rattle
And her breath
Silently screams
You're killing me
In the dance of conscious life, death wears its silver mask,
And beneath the veil of darkness, a hidden life flickers softly,
If we closed our eyes, blindness would be a sublime gift,
We'd see how we fight for subtle, ephemeral illusions.
In the silence that embraces us, reality unveils in the dark,
A vast and profound universe, beyond our petty dreams,
Where light no longer penetrates, truth is born from chaos,
And we see how we've lived for chimeras, for faceless shadows.
The mind's eye opens only when the light dims slowly,
And in the absence of brilliance, we see the essence we always missed,
In the eternal night, we find answers to unasked questions,
For only in darkness is the magic of unknown, pure life born.
Thus, in the flow of consciousness, we lose ourselves in unexplored depths,
We find a profound calm, a peace born from obscurity,
And in this secret silence, we discover we're more
Than mere shadows dancing on the stage of the fleeting world.
who wears short shorts?
WE WEAR SHORT SHORTS!
four really pretty teen girls.
A happy singing commercial created in the eighties.
I was stunned by their enthusiastic joy and prettiness.
I cannot remember what they were selling.
Maybe panty hose?
But I still sing their jingle fifty years later.
Why is my face split in two?
A twin I call her
Confident and beautiful
Funny and entertaining
Her smiles light up every room.
A life of the party
Excellent in every word.
A frown I like to wear
I leave the smiles to her
It suits just one of us.
I think I'm not that pretty
The face we share says different
And even when people tell me
I think they speak of her.
I hate when people see me
They want me to be her
They expect charm and charisma
And then my jokes fall flat.
I'm in my head a lot
Thinking how to become her.
Never together we are
Always one at every time.
I cannot talk about her
And she herself can't too
Cause then people would notice
She's one and I'm the same.
A person I created
To make myself feel safe
But then she turned out
Better than I ever was.
But only in her shadows
I find the solace I seek.
And I hope that maybe someday
She's all that I'll become.
My Trauma Wears Crocs
My trauma wears Crocs—
bright yellow, with stickers peeling off.
It doesn’t care how serious you want life to look.
It clomps into therapy,
kicks its feet,
asks if there’s snacks.
It’s loud at the wrong time,
laughs when I’m crying,
sits beside me on the floor and says,
“We’re not going anywhere, are we?”
I thought healing would wear silk.
Turns out, it just wants comfort.
-whenthesunsets
Muhonja n
#w
Love and sorrow walk as one, A bond unbroken, never undone.
For every kiss, a tear will fall, A whispered ache, a lover’s call.
The heart that loves must bear the weight, Of joy entwined with sorrow’s fate.
For love is cruel, it does not spare, It lingers long, yet leaves despair.
It wears a veil, it hums a tune, A melody of love and ruin.
Its hands are silk, its lips are fire, It sings of hope, then buries desire.
A lover’s touch, a mourner’s cry, A love that lives, yet begs to die.
It carves its name in skin and stone, It builds a throne, then sits alone.
For every vow, a wound is made, A promise carved, a price unpaid.
Yet in the dark where sorrow stays, Love still lingers, love still sways.
It wears a veil, it hums a tune, A melody of love and ruin.
morning meets a nurse of caring
for many years,
an aide who's burying
some unknown fears,
a neighbor's kitten
Nova left strewn
said--bury in--garden
where Pansy's grew-in.
life's roads all lives got
when life forgot and ought not
life's care for lives share
Truth be told
In every tick
Minutes morph into hours
Every tick alters a part of our lives
Wheels of change will halt not
Every passing moment drags us closer
As if we are ensnared in time's chains
Regardless of how slow one goes
Surely, like the clothes we own, we worn
Undoubtedly, it's with this flow we all go
So, let's embrace the fact, we are slaves
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