Author: poetryfest

In time, confidence always Trumps competence.
Not a skill—
But in spectacle.

Crown the loudest bravado.
Stomp on clouds tomorrow,
Diamond scaffolds cannot break,
Even those built on lies and stakes.

With just enough competence
to hire the confident.

And one day
Be surrounded by
Nothing but
Confidence.

What happened to those with the competence?
They lack confidence.

So they refine competence.
Accrue confidence
Until reality becomes conscience.
Competence always embraces competence,
Secretly craving—
The answers of confidence.

Press in—then
Ring—break the scene.
A comes before C,
Fire first—then define the dream.

So which reality do we live in?
A world where confidence crowns the throne,
While competence builds the castle—
never allow to own.

In the depths of despair, suffering does reside,
A shadow that follows, where hope cannot hide.
It lurks in the darkness, like a cunning thief,
Stealing peace and joy, causing endless grief.
It haunts the broken hearts, with its icy touch,
Leaving scars and wounds, that hurt so much.
It wears down the spirit, with relentless force,
Draining all strength, leaving no remorse.
Suffering, a silent companion in our strife,
Testing our resilience on the journey of life.
It comes in many forms, like a cruel disguise,
A relentless storm, where tears fall from our eyes.
In times of hardship, suffering seems endless,
A relentless tide, an abyss so bottomless.
But within each trial, there lies a hidden thread,
A glimmer of strength, waiting to be fed.
For suffering teaches, in its own painful way,
To cherish the sunshine, on the darkest day.
It builds resilience, hones our inner might,
Transforming us into warriors who embrace the fight.
So let us not cower, or let suffering define,
But rise up with courage, love as our lifeline.
For in the depths of struggle, we learn to rise,
With hearts that are stronger, and eyes that are wise.
Suffering may linger, but it does not define,
The essence within us that’s forever divine.
With hope as our ally, and love as our guide,
We’ll conquer the suffering that tries to hide.

Words have power, soft or strong,
They build you up or do you wrong.
A love letter, sweet, tender, and true,
Or sharpest lines that cut right through.

For years they’ve travelled, far and wide,
Through ancient scrolls and kingdoms’ pride.
They crowned a king, or declared a war,
They whispered peace, they opened doors.

A telegram, so short yet deep,
Could bring you joy or make you weep.
Edicts sealed in wax and gold,
Shaped the fate of young and old.

Words can sing, they shout, they dance,
A poet’s voice, a lover’s glance.
A battle cry, a leader’s stand,
Or wisdom passed from hand to hand.

They help us learn, they help us grow,
From childhood days to all we know.
Through Shakespeare’s quill and well-known songs,
Their echoes still are loud and strong.

Words have taught us to express,
In every tongue, with no redress.
From Latin prose to samurai code,
They paved the paths that history rode.

Words unite us, near and far,
Through stormy skies or shining stars.
The speeches bold, the letters penned,
Could forge a bond or spark an end.

Words have been with us since time began,
Through wars and choices made by man.
The cries of freedom, lines of peace,
Or tales of battles that never cease.

Words have shaped the books we read,
The films we love, the thoughts we breed.
From stories told to lines we see,
Words have even made you and me.

And in one moment, swift and true,
A single word can change our views

We’re dying of heat in a church in Australia,
pamphlets fan our faces.
A flower wilts through the space between our fingers,
and we walk by faith, not by sight, so
Guilty.

Well, we know the cashmere of time:
Antarctic kangaroos,
a rumble of the plates,
drinking a glass of lukewarm water, cold once,
but forgotten.

What he once called a song
bright with breath,
a flame in the chest
now rasps from lips
loosened by years.

My mom used to say hair holds memory
Because it grows on face
And face holds memory even better
Her face remembers the smile
Tight cheeks. Practiced teeth.
A laugh too thin
to hold.

Is it a howl?
A wail?
He cannot say.
Still, he laughs
though nothing is funny.

The bed beneath them
stiffens with cold.
Pillows bloom
with someone else’s heat.
They lie like strangers
trained in sleep
chins lifted,
elbows sealed,
eyes stitched
to the ceiling’s dark.

Silence swells.
Not loud
but thick
as wool.
It has been
thirty years.

In the other room,
a dress hangs still.
Once white,
now rust.

It does not weep.
It does not fade.
It gloats
in stillness,
smug with memory.

She no longer turns to it.
He forgot it long ago.

Their knees
do not touch.
The air between them
aches —
with weight.
With memory
that has no mouth.

They grow cold.

Teeth do not chatter.
Words do not stir.

And still —
their knees
do not touch.

My son, I have a presentiment that your education
Would somehow be to deny the existence of God
But I could confirm you; at least it is not scientific
To repudiate the existence of that omniscient Lord
We can’t confirm or deny, to say all above board
True scientists can only say, “He is still undiscovered.”
They merit the ignorance, limitations, and Undiscovery
And their faith in incessant yet persistent ingenuity
But they’d ne’er say, “Since we have not found God
For we reject, for certain; mere existence of this sort.”

Pseudoscientists or expositors, ascertain that denial
Core of their business lies in dismissing His survival
Just as pastors or preachers ascertain as mortal-coil
They need people to be blindfolded, ask them to toil;
I, for, cannot confirm or deny the existence, as Goder
But I can certainly tell you what I’d possibly discover.

GOD POSSIBLY is the
Connections withal permutations and combinations
And combined among different shades of the limits
Tenuous connections among point(s) and infinities
Tangible and intangible connections among those
Things and nothingness that can never be defined
Connections among the humanelies and beasties–
Richers and paupers, pain-givers and pain-takers
Connection with all classes; between you, me, and them–
Despite, we ever or never go to temple(s) and proclaim.

It is how people ever or would never find their Gods
You’re no exception, should also not give up giving it shots
Everyone finds his God, least for ones, when even hope is at stakes
The meanings would be different, even the matters, and the shapes
He possibly exists even before gestations or even after deaths;
Just remain steadfast, eternally inquisitive, and persistent in quests.

See! One who sins is a slave of his sins, for he’d feel pride in sinnings
Pride is enigma instilled by God as power to connect all his winnings
Then the values of acknowledging one’s worth exceed all their lim-its
Becoming supercilious and leading to one’s inglorious records in its;
Then He becomes as a faith in ignominy, ruling the masses to His accord
Ignominious as begetter of magnanimity, fall of pride the one can afford;
God possibly is a touch, even eternal, as the smaller than the smallest points
Who survives in everyone as a transient beauty, connecting quiescent joints
No one is perfect, nothing ever could be; all are sinful in some way or other
Even writing this poem, a platitude, could be a sin; given my faith gets ove

Would it be safe enough to say I miss you?
Even tho you’re gone, I still feel as if you
We’re still here with me, But even tho you’re gone

I still can’t picture life without you, and what I mean
By that, is that every time someone asks me how many cousins
I have, I always say five instead of four, or when my
Parents tell me we’re going to your house

I always picture you at the door with the warmest smile
And your arms are wide open for a hug, just waiting for us to arrive
But… it’s all an illusion that I make for myself
But the problem is that… it hurts me more
To pretend that you’re still here, then to just accept the fact that
your gone

I know I’m being repetitive, but what else can I say?
That I’m sad that you left me all alone?
Or maybe that I’m mad that I can’t erase your face from all the family photos
I’m mad because the doctors couldn’t do anything to help you
Or maybe that I’m angry because you didn’t tell me?
Or that I’m angry because you thought
It was no big deal

But no, I’m not angry…I’m hurt.
I’m hurt at the fact that it makes me angry
Because it wasn’t your fault..

It just happened, and everything happens
For a reason, right?
And its always gonna be an if never a when or you will
Like if you had lived, you would have become
The most famous comic creator, as you would put it
Or if you had lived, you would have been there on my
Special day when I turned fifteen with your fancy suit that you had bought
Months before you died, we would have danced and laughed together
As I always imagined

But no..instead I was stuck with looking at the entrance
Waiting for something that was never going to come
I was stuck at the front door of your house, waiting for the
Embrace that was never going to happen
I was stuck…waiting at your room door..waiting for you…
But in reality, I was waiting for nothing
I would just stand outside your room, looking at the white door

waiting…

But its been years since your passing
And I’m still outside that white door
Just waiting for you…

Because even tho its been years
I still cant go past and let it go
So ill keep waiting
And ill keep writing about you
Because I miss…
you

– Valeria Moreno

It arrives between heartbeats—no tolling bell, no whispered omen. Only weight, ancient as the first silence, curling inside your ribs, prying them apart as rust devours steel.

It does not strike. Striking would be mercy. Instead, it dismantles. Piece by fragile piece, it unspools you— thread by trembling thread, nerve by burning nerve.

It does not hurry. It lingers. It tastes. Patient as floodwaters swallowing cities, certain as gravity’s pull on falling leaves— it knows what time knows: all things yield.

A scream rises—pure instinct, not defiance— shattering like prayer against indifferent stars. Breath. It steals that first. It threads through marrow like moonlight through water— beautiful, almost, if beauty could drown, if grace could suffocate.

And when you plead—for you will plead— it listens. Not from mercy, but from appetite. It savors your terror like aged wine, rolling it across its tongue, measuring each tremor.

Then, with cruel precision, it resumes. Slower now. More deliberate.

Until you are hollowed— until silence hums in the chamber where your soul once dwelled, until even the echo forgets your name.

Until silence is the only thing that remembers.

I’ve started looking around more oen, looking, as in, observing everything around me. We seem to ignore the mundane things, but fascination and mystery are present, in the mundane and in the present. It pains me that screens and constant stimulation rob us of our capabilities, and snatch our curiosity away.

and so I wrote:
are the sparkles trying to tell us something?
open to interpretation-
maybe the flow of nature
is a sign in itself,
a privilege reserved only for an observer.
an observer who obsesses over
inexplicable patterns;
how the rays shine on water
scattered diamonds below the half-sun
or how they escape the leaves
imprinting a shadowy artwork
or how they have this power
to light and enlighten
a soul with a void
to let it feel it’s warmth
as it plays with the surface of bodies of nature
whispering and speaking
conveying something.

Oh, how times are not the same!
So am I, so are you.
I used to be indifferent to my outfits.
Now, my stories say, “OOTD, looking fresh, looking new.”

Chocolate used to be my favorite flavor.
But you liked vanilla more.
Now, I like matcha, and yours is blueberry current.
That too, from a Pinterest store

Oh, how times are not the same!
So am I, so are you.
I started writing unfinished rhymes on a paper
But with time it morphed into something new.

So, I think it used to be better back then.
When we were held responsible for our moods
But now if we throw a tantrum, make a mess.
That is depression, anxiety, and stress.

Oh, how times have changed!
Oh, how times are not the same!
So am I, so are you.
But I think it used to be better back then.
And you think that’s how the world grew.
But who am I to blame?
You always liked it better.
When everything’s all new