Mittwoch, Oktober 04, 2006


Playing with words with no certainty
Spelling, stressing, breathing, blurting
Can’t take that pressure again
It all seems so confusing
As far as it comes to being a role model

I love and hate being a role model
Sometimes it’s a guess
Sometimes it’s my fault
Sometimes it’s just out of control

Playing with phrases randomly
Agreement, totality, putting them together
Like that pressure anyway
Books, papers, visual aids, flash cards
Toys, games, tools and flip charts

Cross the line, just being me
Sometimes I blow it
Sometimes it’s fun
Sometimes I fall
Sometimes it’s just a wake up call

Playing with texts, essays, and dialogs
Telling stories, jokes, and pitfalls
No reason to fail when the whole plot is done

Even though it’s really confusion
What matters is to have tried
What matters is to have guided,
Insisted, corrected, and not given up

Playing with people’s future
‘Cause formulas aren’t there
That wouldn’t be fun…
Teaching is a wholesome practice
It’s the reason, purpose, main goal,
and desperation for life

by Laila Chris

Dienstag, Oktober 03, 2006

Up there

She's so high
Her head is floating
Her feet are missing
She can touch the hours,
the departures, all exits, and voids...

She can touch lights, welcomings, and arrivals.
She can cut water in slices brought by liquified bones
And squared deep red, yellow, and blue
pearl eyes arise
And the eyes watch her
Reflect the worst of her

She's so high that
her body trembels in moisture.
As her brain splits open,
a hand sticks a torch in her cranium.
Ashes are left and they do not bother her much
She seems to have better consciousness
but she's still up there
or down in the deep ocean bottom
watching sea snakes and
having salt water invading her nostrils
Her nails grow as she swims
and her teeth are loose
Little dots, slashes, and dashes
dive in this water zoo
Curvy dice does not work fine
on the control of this high.

by Laila Chris

Sonntag, Oktober 01, 2006

Not that much to write

My hands get cold and sweat
when they grab a pen and a piece of paper
sometimes can’t describe through words
what’s happening to me

Don’t want to end up a self-centered writer
Don’t want to be known as a megalomaniac

My inner self is grand, as grand as in any human could be,
and don’t feel ashamed to say that

Don’t believe that my personal issues
are greater than the rest of the world

There is no true artist who thinks that way
Artists are no Gods, no rulers, and no political leaders

They don’t need followers
They demand readers

Hope my words will be shared
My graphic voice will be listened

Deeply wish I could help
Wish I could cure someone through my poetry
Wish I could heal wounds and
make a difference in someone’s heart

Once again,
Don’t like being self-centered
I do try to derail in what I consider non-universal matters
using my personal experiences
for example, now, this hasn’t become a poem anymore

It’s a call
It’s a prayer
It’s me wondering whether I’d ever have
my writings published…
It’s a humble text spread in blue lines, blue ink
‘cause I still handwrite my thoughts

Out of the blue
Just wanted to write
Grabbed this piece of paper and pen
and looked forward to finding the key
to relieve my pains
to release my dreams
to reconstruct my illusions.

by Laila Chris