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Looking In The Mirror After Crying

I was never a pretty cryer-like movie scenes depict
They weep beautiful tears-I weep until I am sick
I scream and curse and sob and yell
Until my head throbs and my eyes swell

I curl up under blankets-they feel friendly on my face
I nest myself in my bed-there seems to be no better place
I sniffle, and sigh and feel sorry for myself
I sneak a roll of toilet paper and leave it on my shelf

Finally I leave my nest-to see if this tree will tip
I peep out into the world-and it is as I remember it
I look in the mirror and gasp at what I see
Everything is spilling out all over me

I guess it makes sense-I wear my feelings on my face
Though I'd much rather it not be the case
I was never skilled at the trick of concealing
And so I'm cursed with everyone knowing what I'm feeling

poem by Aria Siren
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A 'Trip' To Babble On

Why is it,
That those who are most likely to become offended...
By someone else's interpretation of God,
And the way they depict their reciting of quoted scriptures...
Seem to be those who are hypocrities.
Who are quick to say what they know.
To even take a 'trip' to babble on,
In 'tongues' as if to impress.

And yet,
The evidence they show to be exposed...
Is meager in the delivery of its existence.
But they will tell anyone within listening distance,
What it is from others God wishes.
And they live lives completely exempt from this.
But will quote in a minute,
Something they have read but not digested.

To then say...
'I too have difficulty maintaining my faith.'

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Fed On Antiquated Qualities

He is his lover,
Yes.
That she is a lesbian...
No one yet of that has guessed.

Lives lived to be happy,
Isn't for them to confess.
What they have between them,
Is for them that is best.

He sees himself as strong and brave.
And she respects that.
Having her own path to pave.
And both are independent.
Defending the choices they've made.

Emotionally,
They have been freed from sexual conflicts.
To live in a society...
Breast fed on antiquated qualities.

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Taught To Hate

How many valued relationships,
Have been destroyed...
By those professing to be innocent,
As they depict themselves as victims.

How many are quick to listen,
To those who lie?
Unknowing the ones who do this...
Are seeking more attention yet deceive.

How many are easily duped,
To awaken to learn they have been fools?
And how many discover it is too late,
To appreciate the ones they have been taught to hate.

And...
How many of those who have been hated,
Have turned their backs...
On those who now each other attack?

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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There Will Always Be Crime

As long as there are excuses made to keep it...
There will always be crime.
As long as it is identified,
And left untreated.
There will always be crime.
As long as there is a system that feeds it...
With statistics gathered,
As if score cards are needed.
And as long as what is being done,
Is taught to those young!
There will always be crime.
And those who make a living to pocket from it!

Crime as it has been flourished to become known...
Will always be a part of greed and its existence!
Giving those who are employed to define it,
A reason to depict it and where to keep it fed!
Just like maintaining a sickness,
To overcrowd hospitals...
To fill folks with illnesses to strap them to beds.

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Preferences Listed

If someone has come,
Willing to apply an undeniable love.
One that another can identify as true.
Why should the affect felt from it,
Be determine as an inspected prerequisite...
One let sits to decide if it fits.

Why can't the origin of love be accepted?
With the intentions of it meant that were sent.
As an unconditional love that is present.
Coming as it does,
Without complications of a document...
Written in fine confusing print.

Preferences listed,
Often change to forget.

If someone has come,
Willing to apply an undeniable love.
One that another can identify as true.

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Feeling Freer To Smile With Less Suspicion

If people listened to comprehend,
With an understanding to exchange...
There would be fewer people observed,
Using an assortment of crutches...
Walking sticks and adjustable canes.
To depict with assistance...
Their daily ailments felt to share.
With a validation of opinions given by others.
While doing their best to limp through life,
Re-creating what they believe...
Is an acceptable performance to be approved.
There then would be more people on the scene,
Feeling freer to smile with less suspicion.
And, enjoying their lives too.

'Yes.
Good morning to you.
I'd like to have a cup of coffee with cream and sugar.
A slice of cake.
And if I may...

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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In Grandma's Homemade Fruit Cake

One has to live a life to know what it is like,
To experience the quality of diversified injustices.
It seems many have been fed to believe,
A feeding digested upon a variety of twisted images.

And those judging another's appearance,
As if the act of it is not felt or seen...
Expose instantly their lack of comprehension.
Although those physically judged,
Are expected to express their gratitude....
For the opportunity to be subjected to the process.

Especially...
If those judging and sitting as jurors,
Are quick to depict themselves...
As the creators of the Sun, Moon, Stars and Earth.
And the givers of life as a way to show they are,
Well...
Nuttier than all the nuts found,
In grandma's homemade fruit cake.

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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I Heard You Spelling My Name

I oddly heard you spelling my name
I answered in the winter winds
the winds blamed my voice still -
your words, a gray cumulus became.

A thunder roar, a storm advent
a message to the gods, dim, latent
my souls depict a thunder's wrath
as I expiate in rain drops thrust.

Not an allusion of a Zeus lightning
all there is real, a force blinding
Athermanous, wet flesh enthralled
and rain-scattered feelings exposed.

I love those drops that kiss my face,
in my esteem, a diamonds edge to trace,
accepts the kindness of this storm,
and this adoration becomes a thorn.

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poem by Giorgio Veneto
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What Did You Say To Me? What Did You Say?

A growing significance to prevent,
An appearance of one's unlimited intelligence...
Often is tried to document,
With applying of chemicals invented to test minds picked...
As if scientists can depict what makes human beings tick.

And as a device to intervene,
Manipulation is used to wedge between...
Those riding in the back seats of a bus.
With minds already addicted and messed up,
Fussing and cussing to disrupt.
And the ones running behind it trying to catch up,
To gossip with others who have become offended...
By anyone who knows exactly where that bus goes!

'If there is one thing I can't 'stand',
Is someone who thinks they know everything.'

~I am the driver.
Did you signal me to stop?

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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