Cynthia Buhain-baello Poems

Writing is not about the volume or length of words
But about the sense and meaning a poem accords.

It is like painting on the canvas of a blank page
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Oh my, trolls are having a heyday
Pestering here with comments!
Idiotic as usual in what they say,
Ignorance displayed in statements.
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The past year's almost over but it was incredible.
It went by so fast I could hardly believe it.
This year is the best and it is so memorable!
It's the year my aunt gave me some wealth to inherit!
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There was a young man named Giovani
Who lived in the land of Italy,
His cute wife could not cook
Though he bought her a book,
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Rhyme is to a poem as melody is to a song.
It's the sweet music to which written words belong.

Rhymes with meter makes the poem musical,
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My body has just implied
Its parts are used up, weak.
And though my will is strong inside,
I gasp for strength even as I speak.
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"There is no God" the fool says in his heart,
And brazenly mock Him with unthinkable lies.
Even in writing it is falsehood he imparts
With no fear nor regard for the God he denies.
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Love was sweeter when it was new
So full of promises like a blooming rose.
But Time had tested it if it was true
And why it's gone now, no one knows.
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Our words
Define and draw
On life's canvas the truth
Of who we are and what's inside
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Through the Door of Words

Through The Door Of Words
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