Tag Archives: #writing
[image courtesy of Google Images]
Quite simply, the macabre fascinates me
my readers know and perchance the future too
My words are the actors and your mind the stage
As my parents I too ventured to entertain
albeit in a more sadistically tortured way
The life of a writer is indeed isolation and
the fantasies and cravings of fear and hope
intermingle into a tapestry of literary lies
But therein a nugget of truth between things
as fiction and fact — what is life if not
fact and fiction? We proceed along our path
as though only truth resides on the corporeal
plane. To defy light-of-day reality is to
exist in a world of one’s own fashioned by
bravery, instinct, and honesty.
I wish the future the very best but feel
the cloak of humanity shall do us all in
eventually.
Am I right? Tis so I do believe, yes.
I do.
:: 02-14-2014 ::
Leave a comment | tags: #fictional dialogue, #life, #literary character, #poem, #poetry, #society, #writing | posted in Art, Life, Poetry, Writing
(c) e.p.robles 2011
I gesticulate a birth poem
bottom third trimester
dilation my wish-so
and born soon for the world
such words pleasing to you
a mother is proud but sore
and weakness a strength
how i wish to born prose
before time consumes
but life begs patience
rhythm breath contraction
pushing primal need aside
a course for life words
cry pain release love
exhausting pleases me
rest kiss hand forehead
our child pure touch
eternal love beyond
poetry born in cradle
:: 02-12-2014 ::
Leave a comment | tags: #birth, #life, #living word, #poet, #poetry, #trimester, #writers, #writing | posted in Life, Love
(c) E.P. Robles 2013
II
thinking with my organic something is unappeal
how to enjoy the meal life gives bland stove-top petrify indoctrination gadget
infused miniaturization of ghastly do-little meat puppets chatting nonsense
when weather is fair.
regardless of my attire my organic something always dresses in emperors
clothing and secret eyes admire from afar the fine tailoring of that 3.5 pound
of mystery meat whose function I could care less about unless it’s under a
scalpel in bright lit operatic stage
i am the audience and the play and refusal to say my preordained lines is an
orgasmic neurotic sensation that mostly only a God can know — save me
Please…save me, okay?
and when that musty wind glass shatter beneath carpet-burned boney knee I am
very pleased as the pain is affirmation that my knee still alive but the rest
of the husk of a carbon-based brilliant animal is walking dead beneath sodium
vapor light abandoned roads leading nowhere but that spot you sleep and wake
and dream and shit and eat and copulate upon.
that spot…dirty isn’t it?
my refusal to admit or decree a sacred source
but flowers toil and the soil is moist
a perfect spot for this organic something
a depth of six feet south
:: 02-08-2014 ::
2 Comments | tags: #death, #eternal, #poem, #poet, #poetry, #realization, #writers, #writing | posted in Death, Dreams, Eternity, Life, Poetry
(c) E.P. Robles 2011
And when did you forget
living is for those
that trust feelings
and shed a tear or two
the fields are dry
and the crows cry
scare be that heart
a husk bleached bone
one never owned
it is the end of winter
and I fear your Spring
more than late in coming
:: 02-05-2014 ::
Leave a comment | tags: #fear, #hard, #life, #poem, #poet, #poetry, #rock heart, #seasons, #sorrow, #writers, #writing | posted in Life, Love, Pain, Poetry
(c) E.P. Robles 2013
SISTER who did this to you?
What I am is less than zero
Sister give me his name
I am just a ghost in flesh
Sister stay focused with me
What’s that saying about life?
Life, and Death, and Giants [Dickinson]
I pray for you and me
and what does that say about us all?
I don’t care about everyone else
I just want to be me
I want to tear apart his face
and take back the jewel of my heart
Sometimes I want to rip out his throat
Just to make him as vulnerable as me
Do you hear what I am saying daddy?
What does that say about me…
:: 02-04-2014 ::
Leave a comment | tags: #family, #fear, #poem, #poet, #poetry, #secrets, #shame, #vunerable, #writers, #writing | posted in Uncategorized
(c) E.P. Robles 2013
Crazy is not such a bad thing
it grabs people’s attention
and brings them back to reality
:: 02-04-2014 ::
2 Comments | tags: #crazy, #poem, #poet, #poetry, #wake the fuck up, #writers, #writing | posted in Awareness, Poetry
(c) E.P. Robles 2012
WE’RE tripping upon daisies
laughing in the light of sun
not a care how crazy
love seems to be for us
I’m taking care of my business
tending to the woman I love
and she is protected by a heart
who knows where it’s taking her
We’re going to visit lovely Cupid
I hear he has a righteous house
full of flowers and scents
and cookie dough fences
I’m taking care of my woman
she has flowers within her hair
and a spark upon her lips
lights me up when we touch
We’re floating up toward skies
full of marshmallow eyes
be speckled in chocolate kisses
Let me eat the sweets so lovely
:: 02-04-2014 ::
Leave a comment | tags: #eternal, #flowers, #heads over heels, #life, #love, #passion, #poem, #poet, #poetry, #romantic, #sun, #writer, #writing | posted in Love, Poetry, Romance
(c) E.P. Robles 2013
I dare hate
to fight love
One will punch
— the other a kiss
and love will arrest
the beast called fear
:: 02-03-2014 ::
Leave a comment | tags: #hate, #poem, #poet, #poetry, #power of love, #quote, #writers, #writing | posted in Fear, Love
IT has been the same since birth
first the traumatic life of entrance
into such tenderly love…
both of mother and loving mate
followed by horrific separation
such we humans suffer in fate
:: 02-03-2014 ::
Leave a comment | tags: #birth, #death, #love, #mate, #mother, #separation, #writers, #writing | posted in Death, Divorce, Horror, Life, Love, Pain, Poetry, Sorrow
LOVE has stalked me
thrice with its cunning
and more than once
has slay with its fangs
such a hunter is it
I fear it will not abate
and in the end I fear
first a mate then the end
:: 02-03-2014 ::
Leave a comment | tags: #dark, #fear, #love, #poem, #poet, #poetry, #stalker, #writers, #writing | posted in Horror, Pain, Poetry, Sorrow
E.P. Robles | Poetry 
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