Who is holy?
He who emulates God
For God is Holy
And how to do so?
Do what He does
Visit the sick, comfort the bereaved
Lift up the downtrodden, free the captive
Take in the orphan, the widow,
the poor and the stranger
Shun life in cloistered ivory towers
Holiness demands our God-given powers
Mary, mary (with melody) even our bodies are built on sacrifice. Have you ever seen an organism of the opposite sex that not only lets you enter it but also expands to make room for you and bleeds? We need to play the dead in this world and wake up in some fig tree bark. Those who've never been wounded mock the wounded. In the end, they long to find a solace in an untouched maghony box, scattering their rotten figs into a very box they ruthlessly worn down. Time of leaving came, spring that hides into autumn turned to winter. I left the life that I entered quietly, left my unfaithful partner at the last junction. Wave sounds inside me was loud enough to suppress the noises of cascades. Couldn't hear the people who love me inside that mess. Feeding a baby all of sudden, I'm about to recognize...
That's the baby I cuddled under that fig tree; carrying tiny blue light on her eyelashes. Waves shutted down.
08/03/2026
Off the land and into the pit, September rolls around.
Simple days have long since gone upon the family ground.
Stolen pride-dignity.
Gossip hounds' voices sound like trumpets to the games.
I'm in the pit, grease to my neck, not hearing the marching band.
But thoughts intrude, they are so vain, adding layers to the pain.
My dream is muddled in murky grey as the selfish look for more.
Holding on till morning light, body spent, truth ignored.
I'm but a serf upon my land, the devil has the upper hand.
So as September rolls on through, my thoughts no longer good.
Purple bands upon our hands, the grease hides all the pain.
Dreams alive for those who stare, not a clue of something wrong.
For in this pit and man-made hell, I'm struggling to hold on.
Stress like devil's electric pain, the blood beats through my veins.
Beats of heart like coffin nails erase the final stand.
In the box the farmer goes, absent from the land.
Rob a farmer of his love, you steal his soul.
There's nothing left, they're asking why, but refuse to understand.
Putting all our effort,
Into building ourselves a fort,
Will few problems sort,
If unlocking the gate does not seem worth the effort,
When others won't come out of their fort,
Afraid to trust anyone to guard their port,
When they leave their fort
To drink our port,
And toast another good sort.
Two people that I love the most Are standing on two different shores, And I am stranded in between, Trying to mend a quiet war.
Avery looks me in the eyes And tells me , "You shouldn't have to be in the middle of this." But how can I just walk away And pretend that I am blind, When every harsh and heavy word Leaves both of them behind?
Liyah feels the distance grow, She thinks that Avery’s moved along, Traded years of memories For a place where he belongs. She sees him take up all the space, She feels forgotten in the shade, Watching from a step behind At every plan they ever made.
I know the truth of how it goes— I’ve seen how Avery tries to reach, Inviting her to come along, To walk beside us in the halls. But when he shows up in the frame, The distance starts to slowly grow Avery drifts into his pace, And Liyah lets her footsteps slow.
It’s not as simple as a fault, It’s heavy feelings misaligned. I want to protect Liyah's heart, So I keep what I see inside. I cannot pick a side to take, I cannot turn and walk away, So I will stand right in the middle, Hoping love will find a way.
I was sitting in sub-zero temperatures in the Northern Arctic
As one does when you're a Swedish spy
Caught between conflicting ethical codes...
Stuck in my tent I stumbled upon a poem
Pondering the experience of Hot British Tea.
The poem was long and decorous with adjectives.
My lips were stuck and frosted together in parts
As I murmured along with teeth chattering
With the rhythm of an African cheetah.
Though the words buttered into my soul.
"Steep," "simmering," "piping," and "warming"
Warmed my innards and radiated outward,
The imagination muscling forth the reality.
"SNIP!"
"SNIP!"
"SNIP!"
Crikey. Long-ranged silencers. I've been found.
(Hungarians.)
"SNIP!"
"SNIP!"
the broken camera in my hand,
the burnt film in yours,
is this our end?
what if i still want more?
the shards of glass fallen down,
i see my reflection torn,
the sadness turns to a frown,
where to have you gone?
colours are everywhere,
lights and fireworks,
Oh! such a beautiful stare,
but why suddenly this dark?
this swallowing sadness,
please save me, i'm lost,
an inescapable deep abyss,
it feels cold, as empty as trust.
is this me inside?
is this inside me?
i have no where to go,
where are the colours i once held onto?
it's all in monotone,
maybe black, maybe white,
i want to explore,
but i can't see any hope or light.
i see a little me who is vibrant,
what a pleasant sight,
i feel something vibrate,
and i wake up, with tears in my eyes.
-V.S
Things the eye should be kept from.
Dear sentry, with your own!
Of its brightness wrapped above
For that being of Love.
Shameless, for naked horrors
All feel meant for trapped in.
For worlds, vilest, sectioned off as
Hate's stalked through morass.
Falsete and Fach
---------------------------------
octaves play a crucial
structural and
stylistic role
lowest notes fall below
the 20 Hz threshold
of human hearing and
can only be
measured with instruments
12 semitones
Sound frequencies range
from about 20 Hz to
20,000 Hz, which covers
roughly 10 distinct
octaves of audible sound
There are 7 full octaves
plus 3 extra low keys
, totaling 88 keys that
span about 7.25 octaves
------------------------------------
Mastretta De Sa' Sopranista
------------------------------------
-E per quanto riguarda le possibilità
passando a un approccio
basato sui problemi?
traditions start somewhere
doing things for a reason is
often the right thing
to do
looking toward
our goales
budgeting our endeavor
profiting
and profit sharing
to create healthy
long lasting
relationships
that are meaningful
and complimentary
-----------------------------
The tabby sits back with his cigarette,
smoke curling like a lazy question
over the white cat stretched on a pillow.
He taps his Injecta pen,
studying her pale tail, her unmarked back,
as if imagining stripes is half the art.
Some identities are borrowed, he thinks,
a little ink, a little imitation~
nothing too serious, just a soft suggestion
of who we might become.
He draws slow lines,
letting his own bold markings guide him,
letting admiration slip into mimicry
the way cats copy each other’s confidence.
The white cat doesn’t mind.
She purrs at the attention,
at the small reinvention blooming on her fur,
at the notion that change can be chosen
or simply offered by someone
who believes nature can be nudged.
He leans back, his cigarette glowing,
and wonders if every creature
carries a stripe or two
inked by someone else~
or added just for fun.
She walked into the room without any word, and with familiars eyes staring through her whispering a silent, "Why "?
And then walked past every mirror, hoping her reflection somehow change, become lighter figure.
A little more acceptable to a world that taught to fade when they were born to be seen?
And then she think why did society neglected the darker kids with a fade figure?
Then she stopped and looked at herself.
"I'm beautiful in every way. "
I'm just beautiful in the way I carry myself, ln the way I stand
In the way i represent my self without asking permission to take up space.
Brown skin are natural Tan
Glows with the every kiss the sun leaves upon me.
And my thick hair it is my mink coat, a crown of richness not everyone can afford .
I am the girl
Who learned to love her reflection, the girl who turned her scars into petals _
And the strongest flowers and the ones that“bloom through every season”
How should I tell them?
Tell them who I really am-
How I feel,
How I act.
Will they still love me?
Will they still care for me?
Will they be there for me?
Something I will never know.
Something lost out there.
Something I will probably never see.
That part of me is hidden.
Buried so deep,
other wounds are already piled
on top of it.
A mystery
Through space and time,
A puzzle that riddles minds.
Hope without despair,
Here but never there,
A voice within the air
Heard from everywhere.
Soft, but hardened too;
A nail without the glue;
A shadow in the flame;
A spark without a name.
Truth that can’t be bind,
Left burning in the mind.
Poetry is what I do;
I am ETW
I opened the bedroom door
a voice from inside says
"wait...not yet"
Gave me goosebumps and chills
Without moving for three seconds ... 1-2-3
the room was empty
A meeting with the spirit world
it is impossible to say
- incapable of solution
I knew you before you blossomed,
When each of us was still a child.
Before you wore the face of a beauty queen;
Before your curves started driving me wild.
I knew you before we could tie our shoes,
You were the girl who lived next door.
I knew back then I would never choose
Another girl I could ever love more.
I sat beside you on our first school bus ride,
For the next thirteen years we sat side by side.
My feelings for you I never could hide
Everybody already knew you were going to be my bride.
I danced with you at the school sock-hop,
Wishing the music never would stop.
When I took you to the senior prom
I was awestruck by the beauty holding my arm.
We got married right after high school
Much, of course, to nobody's surprise.
Then enjoyed fifty years worth of mornings,
Together watching the new sunrise.
I can't remember a day without you;
Not that that is something I would ever try.
If ever I said I wanted to be alone,
You would know that I had told a lie.
I was five years old the first day that I swore,
I was going to marry the girl who lives next door.
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