Speech can be a masterpiece of artistic creation,

Elegant calligraphy, decorated with the odd heart-flutter flourish,

Fingers working, dancing, pounding on ivory keys, 

The smoke from a handsome mouth drifting through mahogany halls

As though from a fired gun. Dust settling after an earthquake. 


I cast myself in my plays, 

Too immersed to retract from the action, 

Too selfish to watch another fertilise the seeds, 

Too inflated to see my words applauded to another, 

"That's the theatre!" "That's life!"


People care little for Mona herself, 

Only for her master, his talent unbound. 

We praise not sunflowers, but their gardener insane. 

Shakespeare was lucky, the devil of devices, 

But the new world has eyes, not ears. Not brains!


I cannot see the target but for dazzling light, 

Heat and heart working furiously to fuel those pretty-penned words, 

I'm dashing or thrashing, whichever is box-office smashing, 

The multi-skilled wonder man of paper-in-hand, 

I love the stage and I love my plays, 

In most, I play the devil.

Untitled Repose



Untitled Repose

Because I am an emotional man,                                                                                                                                                                 Who has it in his head that emotions are irrational,                                                                                                                                     And whom in the absurdity of this misery,                                                                                                                                              Prefers to hold the hand of these abstractions,


So then as my pen touches down on paper,                                                                                                                                                      I am made whole and then released to roam.

Thus it is to be,                                                                                                                                                                                             That the young and growing poets dream,                                                                                                                                                                  Is ever to remain alive in the hungry heart,                                                                                                                                                     Of said endless illusion.



On the whiteness of this page,                                                                                                                                                                      Past the singular threads bleached black,



Lays the grunt of the imagination grazing on the plane of our reality,

And in this native hue of resolution,

~Like Others Past~

I am none the less:



“Sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought’’

And all my sins remembered,



Author's Notes/Comments: 

This maybe the only one I post in this folder, I'll store the rest. Perhaps next summer I will get around to posting them.

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Can't go back

A simple Gaze
A short meeting of eyes
A simple haze
Morality's demise
It is I who I despise  
Save my soul
Make me try
If I could just walk around your head for a day
Would I turn into stone or clay?
Does it even matter?
Daft thoughts
Created by factory chairs




Lizbeth wants
more to love


than the once
a day glimpse


or quick meet
on the field


with her love


during their
lunch recess


with hardly
time to talk


or to kiss
while prefect's


not watching
she wants to


be able
to make love


(at least try
what she'd read


in that book
the big girl


had shown her
and loaned her)


she wants now
to feel him


enter her
(as the book


had described)
to be one


in body
and in heart


to sense his
lips on hers


and other


secret parts
to feel him


kiss her bits

inner thighs


lids of eyes

her small tits


but in class
during maths


bored to tears
she thinks on


whose warm lips


had met hers
in the gym


during lunch


he shyly
not tonguing


just kissing
holding her


close to him
she sensing


his kisses
wanted more


making love
on the floor


but the bell
rang its chime


no more time
just the caught


of what they


did and not
leaving her

bored and hot.

View dadio's Full Portfolio

Still love again


I mean.

Once in awhile.

Now and then.

I wish that I could-

Wash away the days

and the years.

I knew it was a riot.

I'd like to see the sunlight-

Creep slowly down your face.



It frightens me to admit.

My love was never made in vain.

Despite your change in faith.

I hope you'd still love-

Once more.


It's hard to be the one-

To say goodbye.

View evietravieallie's Full Portfolio

Down Pour

Although I'm far gone.

Seas away.

You're my savior now.


I'd love to be in your arms right now.

I want to feel the night, the noon, the day.

Could never touch someone.

A thousand miles away.

I'd keep you here.

Standing in this down pour.

I'll hold your hand-

Slowly feeding the flame.

Breathe you in. 

Consuming your vibe-

You soak in. 




Blood...will never ravage my lands and steal my freedom!

Only evil minds using espionage, hiding the plot...

Making money off of human lives....


Mankind needs to be

on the same level.

Every country needs enough money.


Money isn't the answer to the trick!

It's peace and love and arithmetic. 

We've been blinded by these man-made rules for hundreds of years...

waiting in fear.

Now thousands of years of minds being bred for death,

fighting and killing for what they believe in...

Won't be changed in one night.

Can you hear the echoes from the afterlife??


Mankind needs to be

on the same level.

Every country needs enough money...

Lets end this war...

Once and for all.

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December Sky

When the bitter December air blows and the girl

screams on the street corner, a Christmas list of dreams and demands

in her unrelenting grip, a bit homesick, though she is young,

wishing her poppa hadn't drifted so far

from who he was when she was born.


When at school the boy had day dreamed of staying home

and keeping the door closed--

now amidst his mother's disillusioned cries to be understood

and the solace of the radio in his room,

he imagines himself singing "Blue Christmas" like Elvis

and impressing all the kids at school.


When the young woman pulls a tray of chocolate chip cookies

from the oven and turns on the television,

wishing there was someone there to share them

and so she opens the window and smells the night,

the snow approaching with the wind from beyond the moonlight.


And the young man strikes the guitar strings with fingers

cold to the bone, a tragic tale sung in every note

but his heart beats warmly and echoes up the street

along the cool walls of every home

in search of something kind


underneath the December sky.  

Dream Girl

I wonder what it would feel like,

with a lover's heart beating against mine,

the natural sweetness of the oils in her hair,

her hand, perhaps with one scar or another

and chipped nail paint--touching my cheek,

and her breath alive and endearing

with warm air, petite lungs breathing easily,

and maybe with a reflexive glance upward to me

flashing brilliantly beautiful

in a brief moment of thoughtlessness where the reality is

she's surrendered her very being

without intending to and without regret,

for she feels safe enough not to hold her heart

in her own hands, and I safe enough

to let her hold mine, and I tell her

that I've known no greater joy than to give her

everything I am.


It must be so much more beautiful

than wrapping my fingers around the hand of a fantasy,

which in my desperate grip crumples

like the paper on which I drafted


her every perfect detail.

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