RoseAnn V. Shawiak Poems

Sitting, trying to collect myself,
because I've been broken into millions
of pieces and cannot see to put myself
together again.
...

Rocking into the next century,
full flavors of rhythm taking
steps into aisles of musical
ability.
...

Smiling interiorly as music and it's rhythm calms and soothes my brain.
Releasing feelings stressing me is a wonderful euphoria to my intellect and soul where wisdom lies in anticipation.
Gently, laid to rest, no more hopes or dreams, just tones of rhythm keeping me in a quiet, serene atmosphere that no one can interfere with no matter how loud or insistent they happen to be.
...

Talking into eternity,
watching for signs of peaceful acquiescence.
Traipsing down avenues of secluded loneliness,
finding particles of anticipation lying around,
...

Wind shivering through trees, shaking them, mercilessly without reprieve, hoping to find some sense in what they're doing on earth's shores.
Listlessly tantalizing unusual feelings, touching upon severe tensions hiding within, wanting to be released and sent away.
Noting that only bits of stress are released at a time, evenly keeping time with adjusting beats of rhythms in yesterday's melodies.
...

Silently investigating questions of life-long ambitions as they are felt indefinitely in places of intellect.
Always questioning, pushing away, pulling self afar - keeping distance from authority so I can be myself and independent all days of my life.
...

Staring into space, looking around for something to jump out and enter a poem of insatiable delight.
Interior fervor inviting special schemes of differences to appear in unorderly sequences of reprieve, unduly represented by inordinate details, chasing pictures on a screen, while thinking in abstracts for time eternal.
...

Thinking back, relaxing in a revelry of imagination, dreaming of extraordinary feats of intense soliloquy, pretending to be interested in a quality of interior essences.
Yet, really lolling around, waiting to find an escape into a land of wonder and fulfillment under the guise of writing.
Lilting tones, managing to filter into scores of notes as they play unendingly in my mind.
...

Torrid affairs of the heart, breaking in two, pieces left over from another day when young and restless.
Offering options on ranges of antagonistic realms, interring bodies of fallen ashes, spreading their only meanings throughout mountainous cliffs and ledges, leading to jagged ideas, falling down into canyons of waking death.
...