team, Emerica Skate

Posted: April 5, 2008

i write poems

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strokes

a tail of a horse is dipped in a paint that portrays a crimson blood,
it is stroked and striked on a canvas so thin,
marking the mans feelings,
he speaks with his brush things he sees and feels,
for his artwork will take him a lifetime,
for he visuals his life on a vast canvas,
he paints today,
a day so dull like an aged dagger,
he strokes a figure of a former lover,
fitted in a crimson dress,
bearing what she wore on a day so dim,
that she deprived him of his love,
leaving him a naked man,
with only a brush, paint, and canvas in hand.

Victor Villafane

untitled
i open my eyes to hear,
to hear the dew trickle off the blades of grass,
that sit and grow on my front lawn,
i think to myself the troubles of man,
what grabs and pulls him by the hair?
and how he gets the world to let go of him,
i know what he think first,
the wrong choice he will decide,
but what must he think to find what is right?
for violence is not the answer,
when young men fight for anothers opionons and words,
when the blind claim it's their freemdom they're fighting for,
for bells in america will always ring freedom,
our grass is not green though,
it's issues,
for we cannot stand no more in this country with pride,
knowing the wrongs deeds hiding inside,
of the ones we call noble and respected,
for they have fallen with the heinous,
and we cry,
who will lead our side?

victor villafane

untitled

hanging by a crescent floss,
i gaze at the horizon pondering,
pondering of details of my life,
and yours,
for your rough vocals give you pain,
and the crows cry out that night in sorrow,
wishing death from the start.

and the old claims what is his,
his war with himself,
but sends off american youth,
for his bones will rattle our soil,
and his thoughts will spill blood for years.

moons wake you in the night,
and suns put you to sleep in the morning,
i ask why,
and if only your voice wasn't filled with lies,
i could possibly know.

while woman who testifys your words of truth,
she rejects the idea of herself with society,
so the dust collects on the porch,
as the years stroll by.

you watch your breeder die in his bed,
yet you feel no emotions,
and you are stripped of your rights,
due to your actions.

so wisely choose your words,
and you will bring good deeds on yourself,
for the sinful shall die inside from thier injustice,
quitely we sleep in peace.

victor villafane

what we say

pigeons chat and people chirp,
pacing the sidewalk of a charcoaled town,
the creativy no longer depicts in us,
for that creativity left long ago on a lorry,
thus in front of our cemetary gates sits a woman on her porch,
fiddling away a forgotten tune,
and in her kitchen sits a bewildered girl,
who speaks of the dark gossip of our town,
and it is the things she says that troubles them,
the truthful ones who we are to respect and honor,
while two years fly like a feather in the dust,
they hang by the thread to cast her off,
and its these things that we do and say,
that can harm one another and ourselves as human benes,
like the older men who call for war,
and sends the youth away to fight,
to fight for the old mans problems with him self and america,
how they say to respect our elders really troubles us at times,
that a respected figure can call himself a man,
while lives have been lost due to him.

victor villafane