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Ana Wa Poem
Within the cage, that which surrounds the core
There is much to behold
Muscles, ire, veins, blood
And one eternal liver
Selfishly withholding a wisdom that very few reach
Burrowed there, betwixt skin and bone,
Like an aesthetic for solely the inquisitive to admire
Worldly standards hold no weight to that which is concealed in the flesh
It is a flowing existence with no true shape or form
Yet the beauty in it is generous in kind
As blood is something we all possess
Still, it strikes a desolate fear in the hearts of us all
But those born of a much stronger seed embrace the warmth of this life bearing crimson
They show their appreciation with the blow of a dull blade
And a grin that exceeds past the teeth
Copyright © Ana Wa | Year Posted 2024
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Ana Wa Poem
Underneath the blazing sun
horror widens it’s gape
A merciless ploy to encapsulate gullible minds
It knows you are familiar
and yet you abandon your truth on the tightrope above
Trying to maintain your balance
But it’s tongue threatens to swallow you whole
A relentless abomination with a thousand heads
screams for you to tumble through the needle's eye
So you make do with illusions
because if you were to fail, madness would take its toll
And though you jest, there still remains a man
behind the clown
One who proves his certainty with beasts full of air
and a smile that could easily be smeared
Copyright © Ana Wa | Year Posted 2024
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Ana Wa Poem
The enormity of my kindness has swallowed this callous thing alive
No longer will it’s stains of red be left behind
For so long, I have proved as docile as the smallest mutt
Sealing my nervous growls within my chest
Still, this body remains a horror
Harboring rage at the very neck of my teeth
These fangs of mine grow wildly like a mother of millions
A point indefinitely filed to a blunt end
Retracting my tongue
I will remain kind
Speaking only the softest of words
I cure my taste for conflict once more
Copyright © Ana Wa | Year Posted 2024
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Ana Wa Poem
A ruinous filth spills onto the page
Like sap from a trees rotting heart
Hands covered in black
The speaker of my memories
Smooth and razor thin
An emissary of ink
I envy the pen and it’s melan-written spiels
Armored with a voiceless vignette
It is its only way to prove that it’s master is alive
Feverishly pushing its point to a fading death
Is this the fate of all who pick up a pen,
or am I the unlucky who withers among the living
Buried and fossilized beneath a healthy pink tongue
Are my words not memorable ?
Will my efforts be admired?
Have I not earned a meaningful epilogue?
Copyright © Ana Wa | Year Posted 2024
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