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Marcela: Unfiltered

~ living out loud…

Marcela: Unfiltered

Monthly Archives: July 2015

The Aff; by any other name… is still, not a toad.

29 Wednesday Jul 2015

Posted by ~MyLa in Poetry, The 'L' Word, Unfettered

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Tags

Heros, Love, Poetry, Relationships, Self

 

 

 

 

 

 

Be still my heart
drilled by the dart
of the man called Dieter
nothing sweeter,
than this curt curmudgeon
with truth he doth bludgeon
the remnants of trolls
stealers of souls,
nurses the valve
no conditions as salve
for a heart left bleeding
leaves me conceding
I am but a babe
in the woods,
of love.

Of Nibelungen fame
he sports a grand middle name
Siegfried at center
this soul he did enter
pierced the protection
raised by the rejection
of mangy mongrels
insipid scoundrels
(anal)ytically real
his nerve endings of steel
(re)awaken the fury
leaves this child in a hurry
to grow,
the fuck
up.

One Aff-and-a-half
message often a gaffe
comes from far-a-field
a shining sword he does wield
rips a wound in my oh-so-sensitive-spirit
his points ever-and-always laden with merit
their intent is assistant
for this girl’s e’er and persistent
fear of succeed/fear of fail
constant-companions (mis)read threats to bail
his words the tick tock
an alarm on the clock
of my life and our time
rise’n shine cutie-pie, this love is:
real.

Cleverest one of them all
walks all handsome’n tall
a bowl of bodacious banter
he’s a righteous ranter
full of hysterical hijinks
in an Absinthe-esque labyrinth
caused a cacophonous conniption
defying description
tends to and mends with the roar of a lion
safeguards (t)his damsel with fists and love made of iron
hysterical hyena
reminds that I’m Xena
or just me…
his sweet and sca(r)red, warrior;
Princess.

Yours always and with all the love I have;

~ The Yve to your Aff; and also fully Marcela; unfiltered, and duly undone by this thing called love.

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Forty-four…

01 Wednesday Jul 2015

Tags

Life, Love, Personal Power, Truth

CzechChick-HardCore

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A queen licks her wound
intensely attuned
to the fury and wrath
of one psychopath
or…
another.

Heart reaches again
wounded not slain
core splits asunder
pillage and plunder
truth…
hers.

Intuition screams loudly
alarm bells warn soundly
bent but not broken
words left unspoken
deafening…
silence.

No over just through
sight-lines slightly askew
vision is hazy
dense fog of crazy
welcome…
back.

Times Forty-four
her tally and score
of moves close and more distant
this ache is persistent
ground-less…
again?

Footing precarious
from deeds so nefarious
calculated to maim
not knowing this dame
breathes…
fire.

Bohemian lore
A Czech-chick hard-core
stretches her wings
flies higher on swings
than even…
dragons.

No guts no glory
this is the story
of a girl with she-ballz
a glued porcelain doll
making pigs…
fly.

Unabashedly human, and fully unfettered:

~Myla.

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Posted by ~MyLa | Filed under Poetry

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