#justpoems

Victors can't be born,

They are raised.

Victors are calm in the mid of disaster.

Praising, in the midst of a storm right after.

Victors rival through their prayers,

Not with their haters.

Victors are what they are, not what you make'em.

Victors will always survive among the hate,

Because they know God always make a way

At the end of the day.

Victors battle contempt,

Because they struggle the thoughts in their head

That make them repent.

For they know at the end of the day,

That is what they'll get.

Victors are called what they are called for a reason.

Hell can't bound them

Demons can't bend them, brake them,

Or overcome them.

Because God made the depths of hell

To not shake them.

I think Anonymity is a double-edged sword Yes, it does not hinder the delivery of true word Perhaps, it allows to express the unwanted and bottled In it we may find our true selves unshackled.

The moon is tired for it looks so pale. But still it smiles its sweetest to me.

The moon is tired for it sleeps draped by the night sky. It shows, it hides.

The moon is tired for it is alone looking after the stars distant to its throne.

The moon is tired for it lets itself be swallowed by the morning sky.

The moon is tired for I see it no more. The moon is tired. Morning wakes.  

She ogled back with piercing yet sad eyes.

She smiled like a demon is with her, inside her.

“I am you.

You are me.

We are one.”

Choked and drowned with these words Never will stop to clock’s end To the grave will they be staying The corpse with words not spoken

Diagnosed with love, a syringe fitted with a needle injected into the vein 

       “Where exactly does this drug go, Doc?         Will this heal the pain?”

In the wounded feet afraid of touching the ground 

        after miles of endless running         to chase him, the man         to beg of him to never leave         the feet that did not stop until he was out of sight,         out of my life. In the hand that never wanted to let go

        forever intertwined to his         the hand he cut off then buried with tears         of no ring to mean forever         with nothing to hold on. In the eyes blinded with the color of his love

        witnessed his onset and conclusion         now no beauty to behold         nothing to witness but the resentment         in the entirety of existence. In the ears that heard every beating of his heart

        accustomed to his deep voice and little talks         received the wounding goodbye         deafened by the absence of his sound         never again to hear his music,         my music.

In the skin with his smell remained

        longing for his sweet caress and touch         the gentle kisses that felt like raindrops         naked with only misery to cover         to cover from agony

Should I wait or should I not to the love that might not be? To take the risk, to take the fall Should I wait or should I move on?

Like a ghost you came unwanted hunted my soul, frightened my all Like a spirit you left at once brought me to darkness and beyond

Left me with nothing but despair, blotted paper with tears that fell For who am I to wait for you? Who am I for you to love so?