Hello, My Old Friends
It’s going to be a relatively easy process of digging out my mediocre poetry from high school and very early college years.  I’m not going to try to make any of it reasonable to read because I don’t want to make the time.  This is what you get from Pisaries Creator when she was in a very different place.  If I write current poetry, it will definitely be notated.


our land
they say we don’t belong here. 
they claim to know.
they think they know.
they presume to know us.
us, a people scattered all over.
they don’t know.
the only people that know is ourselves.
we have walked this planet many times.
our influence has made existence continue.
our power has made the earth open up.
our sacrifice has not been forgotten.
simply we will not go away.
our blood will continue to thrive.
the last day of existence, we will be here.
this is our land.
we were here first.
we are the chosen people.
we took it upon ourselves to uphold the law.
everyone else turned their backs.
step to the plate, we did.
embraced the laws of the land, we followed.
all of this makes us strong.
we continue to be present.
this is our land.

Pluck Away

They steal
My petals
One by one
Two by seven
Yields quicker
They prolong
My death
To pluck
I still remain
Ghost Unknown
This is my ghost
You exist in my dreams
A savior from hell
Not seen by others
You come to take me away
My beating heart
Not quite the same
Moving on after you left
Your face is still real
Imprinted on my brain
Cycling over and over
You have not visited me lately
This fantasy has turned into misery
I do not feel safe
Only harsh echoes from afar
This is not fair
I did not ask for this punishment
You do not love me anymore
This replacement is not good enough
I have become too scary for you
Now I have become the ghost to you


Inner Demons
I hate you when you intrude upon my sleep.
My mind swirls around your shadow.
How you bring me down by telling me lies.
And make up for it by giving me sweet kisses.
You are the force that tempts me into hell.       
My body wants to move beyond you.
But I am still spinning around your shadow.
You are plucking at my heartstrings.
Must I be your fancy guitar.


Tribute to my Journals
To the empty pages before me,
I apologize for poisoning your whiteness
With my blood and sweat,
With my sorrow and fears,
With my crying, hurt, and anger.
Please do not be upset with me
When I fill your whiteness with my words.
You save me from future insanity,
The only one non-judgmental of my actions and thoughts,
Giving me so much in return when I ask of nothing.
If it weren’t for you, no one would truly listen,
And the gift you have of responding is impeccable,
Which teaches me how to live to the fullest.
You have done something for me.
I cannot ever repay.
The Meaning
You must look beyond this page.
Go past the words.
Go through the words,
Go into the words.
Let it penetrate your heart.
Let it infect your veins.
Swallow the meaning like food.
Use the energy to move forward.
Pump your body with its exhilaration.
Take it in completely and honestly.
Know it intimately.
Don’t over think.
The mind is not yours.
It cannot be controlled.
It cannot be kept.
It belongs to someone else.


The Kill
With an arched back, I saw him whip the cowboy around with all his might.
This muscular creature was not going to give up even if it meant death.
The crowd was cheering the cowboy to stay with the brute.
The cowboy was giving his all for the audience.
He wanted the spectators to have their money’s worth, and they got it.
After a few minutes of this power struggle, I saw the bull losing ground.
His body wasn’t bucking as forcefully in the beginning.
I thought to myself, this beast is faltering.
The crowd was not on his side.
They wanted to see a fight, but got much more.
This was not a game for the cowboy, but a particular war of survival.
His eyes were like blades cutting thick barbed wire.
Audience members had to know the end was near.
I saw blood oozing onto the ground.
A large puddle of blood had onlookers gasping.
They could not tell if it was coming from the bull or the cowboy.
The continued fight had me standing with great anticipation.
My heart was pumping hard. 
In between my heavy breaths, I knew in my heart one was near death.
The cowboy’s hat was on the ground, and the bull was visibly bleeding.
As quick as a blink of an eye, the performance was over.
Blood squirted out of the cowboy’s mouth as he fell down.
He lay there crumpled like a useless piece of paper.
A hole the size of a horn was gouged into his stomach.
The audience members would have to figure it out themselves.
They did not know what I knew before the battle even started.
A trapped beast will never be tame.
© 1994-2017 Pisaries Creator