Series soon to come

I’ve recently submitted an idea to “spillwords.com” a series of 8 poems to start, called “voices on skin” a glimpse into the lives of those touched by a failing economy. 

I’ve lived and grown up in Connecticut. I’m watching poverty and hardships fall upon many. There’s so much that ppl don’t say but they carry this voice upon them. 

Throughout this series, I will be talking and meeting with several different ppl, writing their stories. 

This will be first for me. I’ve never explored this part of me as a writer. Time to branch out. 

I’m unable to post the series here but I will provide a link for people to read the pieces. 

I hope everyone knows, I do my best to follow everyone back, you all write so beautiful, I’m privileged to watch all you grow as writers. I’m grateful for all of your support. Things may be alittle busy but this blog will not be neglected. Thank you dosent seem to be enough, but my sincere thank you to all of you. 

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Sweet lies

A lie carries sweet aromas, taking captive lonely affections. Slowly colors of love begin to weep.” 

  

A tongue of whispers, exhales sweet languages.

Aromas blanket lonely affections. 

The hearer, hears with lusts of chosen selection. 

Lullabies softly sung, take captive colors, 

                                 colors of love, enlayed with demons, sihilouetes carefully crafted, 

                              colors, 

 have now begun to weep, over stale artistries of seducing passions.  

The reflection you see

  “Thunder mumbles riddles and rhymes of what the eye refuses to see.” 

    The voice of natures warning, a sudden crack of thunder, deafening the ear, the eye of lust captivated by beauty, storms, unable to see.

    The warning of poverty is near, adds one more laborious hour driven by fear, only to hear a knock upon the door, unable to see, confined by cycles, paralyzed by fear, adds one more as poverty draws near. 

    Left by nature to see, a leaf upon a tree, brown and dying, refusing to leave for there is still need, afraid to see, the leaf remains awhile longer, for death cannot be. 

    For you see, I am you, this leaf upon the tree, afraid to leave, of what will no longer be. 

    For you see, I am you, poverty’s cycle standing on the street, searching for one more hour. Broken in cycles and lost of what will no longer be. 

    For you see, I am you, thunder cracking, lonely and maddened by riddeles and rhymes, for the eye refuses to see what will no longer be. 

    So you see, you are me, the crow soring above the trees, reflecting the desire to be free, of me, the reflection you see and what may no longer be. 

    Reflections speak, “I am the you, you refuse to see.”

Maddened 

Maddened within by changing rhymes. 

Heartbeats irregular, thoughts as rags, lay themselves against barren skies. 

I close my eyes to see within, the poet searching for a scar to bleed through. 

 http://spillwords.com/author/bethtremaglio/

Excerpts from a poem. Any voting on this poem greatly appreciated. Any favor I can do in return, let me know. 

The point of this poem is to show, within all of us lay words, verses starved for more expression, starved for attention that these may write their story and maddened within shows itself through beautiful languages.