Written By: D. Collins 7/4/25
It's said that writers don't read, and readers don't write.
That may be true because I've done this for most of my life.
It gives me ultimate pleasure putting a pen to a pad.
Documenting all the things I want and wish I had.
Just be the man you think you are.
Lay down your stuff like a shining star.
Project positivity if you do nothing else.
Know exactly who you are inside yourself.
It gives it moment to just stop life in time.
Never having to look back and hit rewind.
Knowing what you're for and came to do.
Put forth the blessing God gave to you.
J-uggernaut
O-f
V-icious
E-rror
N-ever
C-rushes
I-nner
A-ccuracy,
L-etting
A-uthenticity
D-o
E-very
R-ighteous
A-ct
©bfa060125
Monocrostic (Birthday of Jovencia Ladera)
The time has come
Another change to comb
Letting go of previous
To the new wonders initially with fears
Perceptions generated
Experiences to be liberated
Challenging the norms
Which come in all forms
But in reality
Overcoming internal hereditary
Clearing the misty misconception
Of clinging to the mistaken passion
By letting go
Freedom unfold
internal music
the best unwritten poems,
the pure nature sounds
the tranquility within
one self-calm peaceably talk
No referee
to be seen in blood-soaked arena.
Both fierce gladiators;
my heart versus my mind.
I wait with suspended breath to see
which colossus emerges victorious.
I'm torn across axis yet to exist,
Or had once been, since been replaced,
By a sense of self and lack thereof,
When we, by they encased.
Cleavage adorned in modest terms,
Abreast as if more than one.
Still less than two, duplicitous you,
Less I divide by hegemon.
Senses shook, a daily wage,
Of war: be both me and we?
An ancient oath neither new nor folk,
Balanced in breath and breathe.
But neath the solemn sour safety,
Of comfort feigning folly's fiction.
Forces fractured by focused fascists,
Portent predative predilection.
Between divides by you and I,
A smaller font you'll find.
Who's letters miss the passerby,
But slip into the mind.
Conquered race and gender lines,
Further feathered along behaviors;
Soaked in Sun Tsu solar signs,
Matrimony meets our savior.
Boots worn by oceans born,
Mediterranean leather-flavor;
Curing gold from suckled horn,
Mammalian mouths may never savor.
Viral loads in swarming codes,
Placental detriment,
Tossed up population nodes,
Waning wax and excrement.
I walked into the door,
Shut it hind before the shore;
Horus hocus pocus drawer,
Before I knew internal roar.
Kitsch, give me a
Sign
To go
It’s kinda funny how
life
goes on
While you sit in a corner
all
alone
The saturday blues are real,
To
Your
Shoes
Weighing
You down like stones
On your foot
And the
Crinkle cuts of the eyes
Are a beshrew
Aging, as they call it,
In action,
A sequence
“Folds aren’t good for you”
yesterday's dreams drop by,waving goodbye,lost in a sigh
Thinking, deciding, and cuddling all muddle flow.
I'm not a wiz; I solve, yet my riddles, I know
My thoughts and deeds, like an artists', are creative.
My reflecting and planning are liberative.
Should dews of hope be erased by beams of despair?
Should my compassion change as per seasonal air?
There are unconscious courses in my mind and soul.
Like webs that fuse each fleck and speck into a whole
Nightmares that slaughter peace within the inner shrine's core
Feeling that, like birds, above the skies of mind sore
Impulsive admiration of flimsy beauty
All this progress as though a soon-to-do duty
Love, happiness, forgiveness, compassion, and trust
Collide with loneliness, helplessness, and disgust
Self-awareness, like a breeze between tempests, struggles
Between beliefs and doubts, there are silent rubbles.
While sour dualities of good and bad exist
Isn't there, between each straight-seeming path, a twist?
A jolt of trembling steel—
a crack that doesn’t shatter,
but ripples,
sending storms into every silent corner.
Cries fold in on themselves,
tight, suffocating strands,
all tangled too deep to get air.
This is the weight of love unreturned:
a death that breathes,
a life that drifts—
distilled by sorrow so pure
it makes its escape past the body’s treachery,
wetting the memory of the quiet erosion of tears.
Every time you slammed the door
Every time you dropped the call
Every time you yell at me through and through
I get tired too.
Every time you passed before me
Every time complaints ring upon me
Every time murmurs being me
I get tired too.
Am I your emotions punching bag?
Am I your stress reliever?
Am I your eyes strainer?
Can’t take it anymore
I wanna flee faraway
Hiding in mountains, caves and valleys
Where shadows are no more
Pissing me off I can’t control
Every time I was criticized
Every time I was embarrassed
Every time I’m manipulated
Underrated, I get tired too.
Most of the time you frown
Tantrums hit the ground
The reasons are unknown I got mixed emotions
I wanna stay away
For toxics just have pure fun with me
Seizing my right to be me
Seeing me as a piece of prey
I get tired, I am tired I am exhausted
I am frustrated
Getting messed with you
I wanna fight back with you
But it’s not necessary for I love you so
Strangled by the bond that cannot be taken
It’s not mistaken, it’s purely original
Don’t know how can this be shaken
My life is not optimal
This internal conflict
Holding all my secrets inside
Is affecting the way I am externally seen
Reacting to unknown insecurities in secret
Because uneducated people
Stigmatize everything
I gotta hide all the parts of me
They deemed as socially unacceptable
To the standards of
An unaccepting society
But I'd be a misfit and
labeled psychotic
If I opened the door up
to all the parts of me
It's hiding
It's quite the dilemma
Inside of me I'm trying to write it on the wall
So it's obvious for others to see
Maybe outline opinions
That were once outside, with breath now inside me
Opinionated, alive
Death has fallen upon them
Due to judgment from everyone else about how I am supposed to be inside and
I guess I can mark down opinions as the cause of death
On the autopsy:
"Young woman detached from any attachment to this society".
More recently, l’ve romanticized the idea of falling in love through silence.
Maybe it's because my mother pushes love on me through her tongue.
Maybe it's because I prefer the inner monologue of myself rather than what I think others perceive me as.
I don't want to faze the mind of whom
I desire by saying I do not wish to be loved by my exterior at all (in both appearance and demeanor). Although I find that,
according to my standards,
consciousness is more amusingly complex, and therefore more significant.
My dilemma: submission to another mind.
To truly know someone, do I have to force
my mind's sermon out of its cocoon?
If my comfort only ranges to falling in love
in silence, how important can my words be?
The easy answer may be to ignore the statement made about either account,
although my soul does not let me.
Tragic.
It may be impossible to find
another to be happily desolate with.
Note: Falling in love does not equal the concepts of marriage, sex, or romance.
In my version of equality, a blink of an eye
might cast the same spell.
PARODY
pithy never uncouth with a short bitter truth
perhaps ironic & or a little sardonic
a satire of which many never will tire
'
Jealous Jillian meets zealous Philip at Arby’s.
With ONE green eye she spies his double-order curly fries,
No FUN when his French dip starts to drip on her Barbies.
She cleans them off and leans close in to his plate
SNEAKING a meager handful while eager Phil tries
to confess for the FREAKING mess he’s made of their date.
She orders Smokehouse Brisket; he GETS a gravy/biscuit.
PLUS as a “to go” surprise, IT’S two apple pies.
THUS Phil walks Jill home. A goodnight kiss? will he risk it?
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