Teresita Blanco's Poems: What do you see? , Sewing, and Old Wounds Version 3 & 4

Teresita Blanco's Poems: What do you see? , Sewing, and Old Wounds Version 3 & 4

What do You see? is part of my series of mirror poems. At first, I did not know much about the wizard. To make matters worse, bro kept putting doubts and intrigues between us. Thus, the mirror helped me write new poems and explore new kinds of metaphors. The Sewing poems is about a painting I saw in my art class. It was said that sewing was a kind of busywork meant to keep maidens from sinning. Thus, I wrote a poem about that. Old Wounds is another poem that I like a lot. I keep rewriting it, over and over. I simple use the first stanza to build the rest. Each version, comes out better than the last. In any case, these new poems of mine are 5 stars worthy. I hope that you like them a lot.

What do you see?
by Teresita Blanco

Look past the mirror,

What do you see?

Behind those cold eyes,

Behind your philosophy?

Such arrogance disgust me!

I cannot bear to look at you,

My eyes shine within you.

Look past the mirror…

What do you see?

The same desire,

The same ire.

Forget it, Discard it!

It’s not a part of me!

Your face disgust me!

Your face is all repugnance,

Look past your vengeance,

What do you see? 

Sewing
by Teresita Blanco

Hands are busy,

Busy, busy,

Busywork.

I don’t hear him,

He is not calling,

Busy, busy,

Busywork.

Hear the wheel,

It keeps spinning,

Busy, busy,

There it goes.

Hands are busy,

He is not calling,

Must stay busy,

Busy, Busy,

Or else do His work.

 

Old Wound Version 3
by Teresita Blanco

Sometimes old wounds

Bleed forth with time,

So many woes,

So many lies.

If I could see him,

One last time,

Maybe then, I could ask him why…

See him walk forth, breathe and die,

Even now I see him, wither…

Such a memory

Makes me shiver,

I guess time

Never healed that wound.

Old Wounds Version 4
by Teresita Blanco

Lately old wounds

Bleed forth with time,

So many woes,

So many lies.

If I could sing

I would soon die.

My last song

Is my forlorn.

Death whispers softly,

“It’s time”.

 Her sweet embrace

Stills my chase.

It would be easy

To lay down and die,

Only then true rest,

Would not be jest.

 

Copyright Teresita Blanco

You do not have permission to use my poems without my express written consent.