Poems

The pretty painting, The pretty girl

by E.D.P.

She was a pretty girl,
Left behind.

Unseen as a pearl,
Sunken in the sea.

While she had been born
With paint.
No one had seen the pretty girl.

Created with joy and cries,
Deferred and loved.
Along the strokes of pen

She was not perfect;
She was not pristine;
She was not happy.

As for the pretty girl,
Was not pretty

With mistakes of brush.
She created with love.

But hated by the artist.
Yet as promised to the pretty girl,
She would not give up her beauty.

While hours of disasters fell;
Woes, mischief,
Melancholy; along with her flaws.

As vowed to. The pretty girl,
Mesmerized many pupils,
Whom starred in aw.

Along them,
The creator herself.

Us Knew

by E.D.P. 

  I am guessing you don't know,

  I am guessing that you can not see

  What I can see.

  That I thought that you knew 

  That I knew,

  That I had felt different. 

  I was guessing that

  in those moments--

  we had shared

  and share. 

  we had lived

  and live.

  --we have had something in common.

  I believed you had felt different, 

  And I had felt different.

  I believed you knew,

  And I knew, 

  But we both knew--

  the controversies

  and the complications.

  The absence of heart,

  and the absence of soul

   --we have had nothing in common. 

  The guesses

  And the thoughts,

  That you thought that I knew

  That you knew,

  That you had felt different.

  But us both, did not know.

At the Surface of the Ocean

by E.D.P.

There was not much I could do,

And I was content with that.

My body on the surface, drifting 

away along the waves-- 

the warm, enchanting waves--

Turquoise it was 

A beautiful color that I 

submerged myself into.

Where peace exist:

Along every fish

Along every rock

Along every reflection

The natural formation of the ocean,

So beautiful and so old,

Unchanged.

I can understand why I drifted

along with the waves that day.

I too, wanted to be

like the ocean.

Fishing in the Caribbean

by E.D.P.

I have never fished in the Caribbean. 

What is it like?

It is saddening enough to fish in cold water, 

What about warm water?

To fish away the colors of the sea,

What is it like?

A Tree For You

by E.D.P.

I will grow a tree for you.

I will grow a tree that will birth flowers.

Flowers that equal the resemblance of happiness. 

Happiness that will bring each other some peace. 

Peace that will soothe both of our souls.

Souls that will forever more grow.

Grow like the tree,

I have planted, 

For you.

Where Should I Go?

by E.D.P.

A colorless trap, within the amazon of misconceptions.

A lined stripe buried underneath the other

Like minutes and hours,

Like letters and words

Stripe, Stripe, Stripe.

To cover the uncovered

Stripe, Stripe, Stripe.

To bury the unburied

While nobody knows what was beneath each line

To hide the unhidden.

As if one could cast themselves away beneath them.

You are nice. You are really really nice.

by E.D.P

You are really nice.

And although you might not differentiate it.

I will remind you through this poem.

A piece of literature,

born from mutual scenarios. 

You are really nice.

Everything you do is great,

no one can take that spot.

And others who are selfish, differentiate them.

Some joke, others do not.

You are really nice,

-do not let it make you a fool-

take my word for it.

And despite, the ups and downs. 

the keenness of your soul,

A treasure to other's hearts.

And while the selfish talk, 

casting you for your great differences,

You are nice.

You are really really nice.

Without Words

by E.D.P    

("December 19, 2018 at 7:35 PM")

I am speechless,

The unbelievable yet realistically 

enough to be believed.

Radically possible in only this 

one dimension

Why?

Contemplating, unreasonably 

stuck in an impossible reality

that is real

Surrounded by those from my

past, present, and future.

Unavoidable, and I, 

in the middle of it all

And off in the distance of other

voices interfering,

I could hear you

And the gaze,

Which did not seem to disappear

It was all there

A mysterious day,

predictable

A sudden cross of paths

The unthinkable of the

thinkable

Why?

And with much regret

The words that were not spoken

from me, to you

Were left hanging,

on my mind

Forever more.

The halo of the Night

by E.D.P.

("February 4, 2019 at 10:21 PM")

Your crystalline eyes

With a continuous yearn

A deep blue fire

That started my heart

An engine with no doubt,

mentioned to continue life until the last beat

I do not yearn for a life like yours,

I do not want it 

And yet without you I seem to 

have sunken deeply in the halo 

of the night

But what for? when life is given 

to see forth a day,

Like the clouds that drift apart.

We will no longer be

Thus I do, no longer seek

The deep blue fire

that started my heart

I no longer seek your yearning

Crystalline eyes

I only for seek, the deep halo

of the night

Which will sunk me, 

Until I beat no more.

The Muse

by: E.D.P.

("December 12, 2019 at 11:30 PM")

To an Artist,

Falling in love is not a bad idea.

After all, 

They find their muse. The One thing that inspires them.

To a person falling in love isn’t too bad, 

They meet a certain someone, 

Fall in love, 

Then move on. 

A cycle. For them.

Constantly repeated.

To an Artist,

A muse is only One-

No matter how many times the Artist ‘falls in love’ there will only be  One  muse-

One  that will  inspire them forever. 

And though the muse becomes the person they love,

It is only One.

Because the muse will ‘love’ in their own way.

And  inspire. And move on.

And show the artist,

Things he or she has never   seen or felt before. 

The Morning Song

by: E.D.P.("April 4, 2020 at 4:54 AM")

Have you ever heard the clear

singing of the morning bird?

The one that changes tune

four different times

And wakes up early before the 

sunrises,

The morning bird that sounds

like a lonely bird, sitting on a 

branch

Waiting for the cry of his lover?

Have you heard a single car

pass by, breaking through the 

noise of the morning light?

Or the chirping of what seems

the descendants of a distant

family

who hangs from a tree,

simply on sticks

and featherless?

The voices of a new day,

at four in the morning. 

The ones who get to meet the

world,

before anybody else.

When Sadness Turns Into Sorrow

By: E.D.P.

("April 6, 2020 at sometime in the middle of the night")

I wish I could have been more attentive.

I wish I could have been there for you.

And now there's no turning back.

You've been hurt, from other's actions

and I couldn't consoul you.

My friend.

A horrible monster I am,

one who doesn't ask.

Instead forgets

You-my friend.

And now, you are broken,

like a cup of tea

that falls on the cold hard ground,

shattering and losing its shape,

whom which will never be the same.

And I, who never consoled your scars,

when they pained you the most,

Have returned-

Left to console the tears

that have dried up.

And what was once your sadness,

has turned into what is now

My sorrow.