Collected Poems vol. 1

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This is, quite literally, my collected poetry, from very short to very long, All about emotions and stuff. I also snuck some descriptions of what I was thinking for each of these so no one is lost.

Pilar Batista Moure
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Collected Poems

Collected Poems vol. 1

These are not in any particular order (not even date) and are what I consider to be my better poetry. Most of this is VERY MUCH about my feelings in some way or another (unless stated otherwise), or what I felt at the time it was written (check the dates) so it was difficult for me to talk myself into sharing it, but what the hell, right.
Let’s just do it.


(This one is loosely about something that happened when I was a teen, made to sound more like song lyrics I guess. I was listening to a lot of Professional Widow by Tori Amos at the time and it made me want to write something, anything, so I wrote this. It’s a great song, btw if you never listened to it. They say it’s about Courtney Love. I believe that.)

I entered the room

There was a woman sitting down
Calm, collected
Regal, unusual
She sat with a cup of tea
She turned and looked at me

It smelled like Chamomile there
I swear I can still feel it...
It smelled like Chamomile

I opened my mouth
I looked into her eyes

She told me she hated
The tea and the leaves
But oh, she had to do it

She had to reek of Chamomile
Sweet Chamomile
She had to reek of Chamomile

I closed my teeth
And smiled
Took everything in me
To linger
Stay awhile

Sweet Chamomile...

She smelled like Chamomile.

[June 9, 2019]

Seventeen through Nineteen

(Written about how I felt in the distant past and about someone I’m not in love with anymore. Although I was reluctant in sharing, I still think this is some of my better work and in seeing my life in retrospect is always eye opening. It’s very Anne Sexton-y as well, I was reading a lot of her poetry back in the day, even though I am definitely NOT the biggest fan of her person. You, Doctor Martin is still one of my favorite poems, but this is probably more of a Sleeping Beauty vibe, even though that poem is waaay heavy. Trigger warning on that one FOR SURE. Also on this one maybe because I was REALLY going through it so if you’re sensitive, don’t read it.)

All of our past actions affect the future.
I look at myself in the mirror thinking:
“Once I was seventeen and free
Now I’m nineteen, and trapped”

I let myself get entangled, it’s true,
Sinking more and more into the story
And less and less into the world around me.
I look outside my window no more.
The country is dying around me.

I turn on the TV. What’s there to see?
Death, but not the common kind.
It’s subtle death.
It’s death people don’t notice until it knocks on your door
And takes your soul away.

I hope to escape before that.

I wake up in a sort of melancholic trance and look around.
I write my dreams down but there’s no use.
None of them are about you.

I look at my cards and think of asking
But ask what? It’s fruitless.
They have given me all the answers already.

I listen for my sister, in the other room
Hoping she’s awake, in vain.
It’s 6am
I’m an early bird, what can I say.

I got used to it, the loneliness.
Eventually you fall into some sort of routine.

My days go by looking the same:

I wake up, I write down my dream, I get up and I talk to my parents
I talk to my friends, I eat lunch
I sleep in the afternoon, I wake up at noon, still tired

And still without you.

I go downstairs to the kitchen
I talk to my sister
We laugh for ten minutes
And then no more.

I go back to my bedroom, patiently
I lay down in bed and distract myself the best way I can.
Then I go to sleep at midnight, hoping to dream...

But it’s no use. I never dream of you.

It’s true that I wish you were here with me.
It’s true that I think of you incessantly.
It’s true that I am hoping, but...
It’s also true that I’m scared.

When I was seventeen I wrote poems
I wrote small stories
I wrote incessant prose about what I’m feeling now, thinking it would be heaven...

...And it’s an abyss.
I can see it now, at nineteen,
Trapped in my house, like a nun
Trapped in my bed, like a prisoner

I look at myself in the mirror
And I see her.
She’s mad, writing frantically about
The abyss she longs for.
The heaven she longs for.
The love she longs for.

The ‘you’ she longs for.

[May, 2018.]

A Widow, Twice Removed

(This one is complicated. It’s about something, but it’s also about nothing in particular. I just like the concept so it’s not super feeling based. It’s also very short, I tend to write very short poetry, just like very short stories. The top two are really the longest ones, so that happens once very five years AT LEAST.)

It’s like I died with you that day.

I looked at the women who lost their husbands
I was just like one of them.
A widow, twice removed.
A woman who watched and wasn’t supposed to feel.
A woman who thought it would be alright.

A woman who didn’t know it wouldn’t.

[April 30th, 2019]

Things in Pockets

(This one is about a picture I saw on Instagram. It’s the best way I can describe it)

There is life in still life at times, breathed by the most uncommon notions -- such as things in pockets.

The implication of a long gone movement -- A ghostly hand picking up an object, the absence of a place to fit it, the thought of putting it inside the coat, the motion of the head once it’s done

The idea of seeing, alive and breathing, the movements of your lively hands, the air going into your lungs, the lights within your eyes, the life inside your soul.

[February 13th, 2020]

Days of rain

(On my personal rating, this one gets a 10/10 for beauty and a 3/10 for sadness. This sad. Is very sad, but it’s short so it just punches you once and leaves you at that -- or maybe punches ME once, since this is about something I was feeling when I wrote it)

In days of rain like these
I feel alone the most.

There is a soul
Like mine
Beside my own.

But souls don’t speak
the language of humans
And I’m not sustained
by silence

[May 29, 2019/Second draft June 9, 2019]

Face and Body

(I wanted to write something abstract and I chose a very simple topic -- literally my face and body -- so this is, in a way, a physical description of myself. It’s also one of the most recent poems on this list, written four days ago)

There are brown snakes and strands
and brown wooden glossy spheres
On top of a white greasy mountain
and rose red colored fields.

They stand above a long clear path
On top a road of bones and crosses
Beside the fullest blushing flowers
And the bloodiest prettiest birds.

[June 11th, 2020]

You’re a Monkey

(This one is a fast one I wrote about something someone told me. That’s about what I’ll share on it. I’m fine now though and the situation has been resolved. I still included it because I like it, even though it’s painful to look at. Further down there’s a sister poem to this one called “I’m not an Artist”, which is similar in theme).

You’re a monkey
Dance Dance Dance
Go ahead and
Make my day

You’re a crier
Cry cry cry
You’re pathetic
You’re alive

I’ll sit down and
I’ll applaud
Circus monkey
Make me proud

[June 9, 2019]

I’m not an artist

(And by further down I mean right here. I didn’t know the order in which I put these poems but now I know. This is also more about what I felt (feel?) of myself as an artist (obviously). This also could be read as song lyrics, so could the other one, and since I like fast paced music that’s how I imagine it).

I am not an artist
I’m a monkey
I’ll dance
And dance
And dance

I’m not an artist
I’m a puppet
I’ll hide
I’ll hide
I’ll hide

I am not an artist
I’m a broken car
I am driving off
To where things
Just are

I am not an artist
I’m a mess, a fraud
Oh please, please,
I don’t need applause.

[June 9, 2019]


(About my lack of direction when I was 19 and didn’t go to college. Yes, I didn’t go to college. It’s complicated. Here, have an (outdated) poem about it!)

“What are you doing with your life?”
An ant moves through the table top
Going after some bread crumbs
And stands over one of the wood’s knots.
It is doing something with its life
While I, sitting here, am not.

[March, 2018]

Black Pyramid Dream

(This is based on an entry on my dream journal. It’s also from four days ago. Usually when I start writing poems, I don’t stop and I can write them all day.)

There is a pyramid shaped structure
In the middle of this town
where ghosts come to hang around
and folks generally cry about.

It is shiny black glass
And shiny black mold.
Buried in it was a soul
that got out a long time ago.

[June 11th, 2020]


(Matty Healy has a quote about how he feels like he’s in a metaphorical bubble and it prompted me to write this I guess. I’m not particularly a fan of Matty (nothing against him or anything, just not my kind of music in general), but I like this one because it reminds me of Bukowski, because I also read that a lot. I like Bukowski more than others because it’s very honest and to the point. It’s the kind of writing that you can read and understand it right away, and I think that’s the best kind of writing. It’s not trying to show itself off, it’s what I mean. Writing (especially prose) should be very simple, in my opinion, so as many people as possible can relate to it. In poetry, I like more abstract concepts, but usually I’m glad when someone just gives me the facts straight. This one is also from this year. This poem is also very short and this description is way too long. Enjoy)

Matty, your brain is the metaphorical bubble.
Once you burst out of that you can burst out of anything.
It’ll be just like coming out of the womb again.

[April 10th, 2020]


(Old, about EMOTIONS. Yuck, am I right? This one is honest as in honestly what I think about, but not as in honestly what I am able to do most of the time. It’s a complicated journey. I try to be as open as possible though, I’m not hiding anything. I can’t. People are able to know if I don’t like someone a mile away. Always been like that.)

I never liked having private journals.

I was never ashamed of my emotions.

I always thought they should be out in the open

And people could do whatever the hell they wanted with them

[February, 2019]

Timmy and Jane

(This is more like a little story. For context, *I* always wanted to look like Clea DuVall in The Faculty (great movie btw), so this is something personal, okay. We are all Clea DuVall. This is also about people assuming things (which I hate) and butting into people’s lives (which I hate) and forcing them to do things (which, guess, I HATE). It’s also minorly about how people’s ways can be misunderstood I guess).

Carlos thought Jane was a lesbian because she wanted to look like Clea DuVall and was always picking up a fight. Sarah thought Timmy was gay because he was sweet and dressed way too well. Both took them to a gay bar to find their other half and free their souls.

So Timmy found Jane and they got married by the sea.

[February 26th, 2020]

That’s it. Thanks for reading my emotions, I might post a second vol. when I have enough. It'll probably take a while though.

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