The Criticality of a choice
lingers in the distance,
and my shaking feet
can't help but move towards
dreams of an early childhood,
'gainst material, tangible truth.
Left foot shaking against the road,
that my right hand labored to pave.
The mind of a schizophrenic
going in frenzies about what is to come.
The Child against the Man,
wishing the game was only fair...
But fairness disolutes,
as the sun announces dawn,
and the true battle begins.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Monday, May 31, 2010
Chased by the Wolves
Chased by the wolves, she ran for her life. Rain pouring and washing the tears she had shed, she felt her breath going with every step. In the woods she found no aid. No helping hand or a loving heart. She was alone.
She heard the howls behind her, but had no time to look back. One glance might cost her life. She kept running.
In a hut far in the depth of the forest, a loner writer sits by the window, seeking inspiration and sipping his glass of wine. Searching for words, he finds none. He remembers words of love long forgotten and tries to pour them onto pages of unwritten texts, but all is in vain. Chasing away nightmares haunting his wake, he scribbles lines he does not understand, he tells the story of a maiden who takes his breath, whose beauty he inspires from dim memories from the days of yore.
As she ran, the howls rose. Her only shelter was time. For with dawn came safety and light to guide her weary steps through the darkness surrounding. Her heart beat, the seconds ticked, the moon hid, and blackness remained as the beasts chased her. Death was to be seen.
At times he feels his hand stiffen, unable to go on. His mind finds no expression, no way to pour his thoughts. He delves into his memory, his dreams and life, but finds none to suit what he has scribbled about a woman so beautiful he can no longer describe, for his mind resigns seeking for that glimpse of memory, to protect and cherish. All he knows is that she does not make it, that she is eaten by beasts. A nasty death she suffers. And he is unable to save her. He wants to, but knows that she must die.
Death crept with every sound of raindrop falling. Howls of her agony mingled with howls of the pack chasing her, she refused to give up. Mud, trees, rain, leaves and thorns, all were repeating themselves, nothing more. Until she saw it, laying there in the heart of all darkness, a crack of light where a small hut sat beneath the thunderous storm. Salvation had come, for a stranger sat by the window, a helping hand, and perhaps, a loving heart.
Contemplation and deep thoughts are interrupted by a dark figure that suddenly knocks on his window. Gasps for breath are heard, as the figure moves, darkness is all around, the writer cannot determine the features of the creature outside. Could it be the woman he describes in his lines? The woman who shall suffer the lurid death? “Must be fulfilled”, he whispers to himself. He gets onto his feet.
A stranger’s face held thoughtfulness she was unable to understand, yet his face gave gleam that gave her comfort she found not in the depth of the wilderness. Anywhere was safer than with the wolves, she thought. The stranger embraced her with arms wide open, an act of generosity no human had anymore, he held her pains and soothed them as if they were his own. Yet something was queer about him, he seemed as if always reciting words of a poem he had written, often she heard him whisper words such as “necessary evil” and “must be fulfilled”. He must have been a poet, she thought to herself. Better leave his thoughts undisturbed. He helped her to sleep.
He must go on with his chore. He stands on the threshold, rain still pouring, he drenches himself. He stands for a while, looks back at the place where he has sat to write his story and smiles a dulcet smile. “Must be fulfilled”, he repeats to himself, as he walks on to the wilderness leaving the door to his hut wide open.
She woke up, she was alone. Where was the stranger? Nowhere to be seen, she sat. Not a sound to be heard but that of the streaming of the rain. The door was open, cold wind rushed through it. She got up and went for the door to shut it. And just before she reached the handle, she saw them: three wolves standing, panting, wet and hungry. She was frozen in her place, unable to move. The sound of a thunderous clap was the last thing she heard, and the fangs of the beasts were the last things she saw.
She heard the howls behind her, but had no time to look back. One glance might cost her life. She kept running.
In a hut far in the depth of the forest, a loner writer sits by the window, seeking inspiration and sipping his glass of wine. Searching for words, he finds none. He remembers words of love long forgotten and tries to pour them onto pages of unwritten texts, but all is in vain. Chasing away nightmares haunting his wake, he scribbles lines he does not understand, he tells the story of a maiden who takes his breath, whose beauty he inspires from dim memories from the days of yore.
As she ran, the howls rose. Her only shelter was time. For with dawn came safety and light to guide her weary steps through the darkness surrounding. Her heart beat, the seconds ticked, the moon hid, and blackness remained as the beasts chased her. Death was to be seen.
At times he feels his hand stiffen, unable to go on. His mind finds no expression, no way to pour his thoughts. He delves into his memory, his dreams and life, but finds none to suit what he has scribbled about a woman so beautiful he can no longer describe, for his mind resigns seeking for that glimpse of memory, to protect and cherish. All he knows is that she does not make it, that she is eaten by beasts. A nasty death she suffers. And he is unable to save her. He wants to, but knows that she must die.
Death crept with every sound of raindrop falling. Howls of her agony mingled with howls of the pack chasing her, she refused to give up. Mud, trees, rain, leaves and thorns, all were repeating themselves, nothing more. Until she saw it, laying there in the heart of all darkness, a crack of light where a small hut sat beneath the thunderous storm. Salvation had come, for a stranger sat by the window, a helping hand, and perhaps, a loving heart.
Contemplation and deep thoughts are interrupted by a dark figure that suddenly knocks on his window. Gasps for breath are heard, as the figure moves, darkness is all around, the writer cannot determine the features of the creature outside. Could it be the woman he describes in his lines? The woman who shall suffer the lurid death? “Must be fulfilled”, he whispers to himself. He gets onto his feet.
A stranger’s face held thoughtfulness she was unable to understand, yet his face gave gleam that gave her comfort she found not in the depth of the wilderness. Anywhere was safer than with the wolves, she thought. The stranger embraced her with arms wide open, an act of generosity no human had anymore, he held her pains and soothed them as if they were his own. Yet something was queer about him, he seemed as if always reciting words of a poem he had written, often she heard him whisper words such as “necessary evil” and “must be fulfilled”. He must have been a poet, she thought to herself. Better leave his thoughts undisturbed. He helped her to sleep.
He must go on with his chore. He stands on the threshold, rain still pouring, he drenches himself. He stands for a while, looks back at the place where he has sat to write his story and smiles a dulcet smile. “Must be fulfilled”, he repeats to himself, as he walks on to the wilderness leaving the door to his hut wide open.
She woke up, she was alone. Where was the stranger? Nowhere to be seen, she sat. Not a sound to be heard but that of the streaming of the rain. The door was open, cold wind rushed through it. She got up and went for the door to shut it. And just before she reached the handle, she saw them: three wolves standing, panting, wet and hungry. She was frozen in her place, unable to move. The sound of a thunderous clap was the last thing she heard, and the fangs of the beasts were the last things she saw.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Wooden Chamber
He wakes up. With his eyes closed, he tries to reflect upon yesterday. Nothing… Yesterday was nothing but a vague memory he is unable to recall. He opens his eyes and finds himself in a small, square chamber with about three meters of width. It has no windows, no door, nothing but peeling wallpaper. He sits up, looks around and wonders; where am I?
The room is lit by an invisible source of light; nothing casts a shadow. The floor, walls and ceiling, all are wooden and marked by filth; the floor dirty with cockroaches gathered around in one corner while other corners are occupied by cobwebs awaiting victims of helpless creatures to turn up. He looks beside him and sees a knife with a half-eaten apple; worms finishing the rest of it. He gives them no significance as he stands up, paces the room trying to find a hidden door or window. He finds none. No trap door, no crack between the tiles of wood.
How did I get in here? He thinks but does not linger over thoughts. His only purpose becomes that of getting out of the room. The fading wallpaper is colored of beige with little red flowers. It must have been years since the room has been deserted, it is creepy.
He then thinks to himself, maybe there is a door behind the wallpapers. A glimpse of hope surges inside of him. He starts to peel the walls; almost certain he will find a door. But the walls reveal nothing but wood, and more wood. His heart feels gloomy before the last wall is stripped naked. It then feels desperate. Nothing but wood tiles.
He clears the cobwebs in one of the corners and sits there, hugs his knees and falls into deep reflection trying to figure a way out. Think! He sees the knife; he gets up, picks it up and goes back to his former position with the knife in his grasp. He could use it somehow, he thinks to himself. How?
He rises again, tries to put the knife through the cracks between the wooden tiles of one of the walls, but they are too close to each other. He tries to carve the wood, but it is too hard. He gives up for a while, tries again, fails again then gives up again. He sits back into the corner, knife held tight in his grasp. He waits for a while, gets up again, and tries to carve the wood once more, but then again, the blade leaves nearly scratches on the hardened wood. He goes back to his corner.
He knows the knife is the answer, but how could it be of any help? It is his only companion in the room. The ghost of loneliness begins swarming over him. He gets up, walks around, paces the small room back and forth forcing himself to think, but finds himself unable to. What to do? How to do? He begins to lose grip. Anger creeps through his blood. He tightens his grip onto the knife's handle, stands in front of the knife-scratched wall, his teeth clenched and grip tightened, he starts banging his head on the wall as he screams and screams, every limb of his body gone stiff; he is losing his mind. He keeps banging his head on and on, but the pain is not as much as he intends it to be. He loses all feeling, his head goes numb. There must be another way.
He turns round, looks at the wall opposite him, gathers momentum and runs towards it at full speed to thrust it with his shoulder. He falls onto the floor screaming his agony. Good pain, he thinks to himself. He bellows, not of pain but of things he could not explain. The entrapment is taking away every sense he has. He keeps screaming until his voice goes hoarse. He feels his soul come out with every sound he makes, but soul resides, for he still feels a twitch of pain. Still alive, he thinks to himself. He looks at the knife still clenched in his hand, the blade bent from his endeavors to carve the walls. His knuckles have turned all white.
Seconds tick away, minutes, hours and maybe years for all he knows. He lies there on the floor. Exhausted and panting, he feels his fist release the knife as he falls into deep sleep.
He wakes up. A gloomy slumber is overcome. His head, shoulders and knuckles hurt. It has not been a dream after all. His insides are worse than the outside. He is being driven to madness as loneliness creeps into his veins, the more time passes, the more it eats out of his core. Long lost memories flood back. He cannot figure out what keeps him in that goddamn room. He has been alone for quite a time; he knows there is a way out, only he is unable to reach the door.
He sits up in the middle of the room hugging his knees and rocking back and forth like a little child. His soul seems to be watching him from a distance as he suffers madness he is unable to overcome. Thoughts haunt him as he smells the filth of his echoing nightmares. He can hear his heart beat in his head as seconds tick away. He tries to kill his thoughts and cerebration, but as he endeavors to do so, more come flooding.
Bleeding from inside, screaming and lost, he looks at the knife. The blade shines and sends her seductions to his screeching marrow, beckoning death whose ghost has begun to swarm.
He tries not to think, but again, he fails. Death and darkness are there, he cannot deny the existence of a sinister soul overpowering him. With every breath, he feels his spirit trying to flee. Living seems pointless… But no! He must fight! He must be strong, he must break free from his pondering, he must resist his own thoughts, but again, sleep takes over.
Through the gloominess of his sleep, he feels he has not enough strength to wake up. The blade goes into his flesh. One last pain, one last good pain and it is over. He hugs himself, opens his eyes, and then sees it, the ghost of death that has been waiting. It is a hooded figure, all dark and tall and pinned to the wall. Under the hood he sees the sinister smile and the flickering eyes as the ghost begins to fade out of sight. He is left with 3 more seconds to live after the ghost disappears, in which seconds he sees what the ghost has been hiding behind it on the wall: an enormous black wooden door…
The room is lit by an invisible source of light; nothing casts a shadow. The floor, walls and ceiling, all are wooden and marked by filth; the floor dirty with cockroaches gathered around in one corner while other corners are occupied by cobwebs awaiting victims of helpless creatures to turn up. He looks beside him and sees a knife with a half-eaten apple; worms finishing the rest of it. He gives them no significance as he stands up, paces the room trying to find a hidden door or window. He finds none. No trap door, no crack between the tiles of wood.
How did I get in here? He thinks but does not linger over thoughts. His only purpose becomes that of getting out of the room. The fading wallpaper is colored of beige with little red flowers. It must have been years since the room has been deserted, it is creepy.
He then thinks to himself, maybe there is a door behind the wallpapers. A glimpse of hope surges inside of him. He starts to peel the walls; almost certain he will find a door. But the walls reveal nothing but wood, and more wood. His heart feels gloomy before the last wall is stripped naked. It then feels desperate. Nothing but wood tiles.
He clears the cobwebs in one of the corners and sits there, hugs his knees and falls into deep reflection trying to figure a way out. Think! He sees the knife; he gets up, picks it up and goes back to his former position with the knife in his grasp. He could use it somehow, he thinks to himself. How?
He rises again, tries to put the knife through the cracks between the wooden tiles of one of the walls, but they are too close to each other. He tries to carve the wood, but it is too hard. He gives up for a while, tries again, fails again then gives up again. He sits back into the corner, knife held tight in his grasp. He waits for a while, gets up again, and tries to carve the wood once more, but then again, the blade leaves nearly scratches on the hardened wood. He goes back to his corner.
He knows the knife is the answer, but how could it be of any help? It is his only companion in the room. The ghost of loneliness begins swarming over him. He gets up, walks around, paces the small room back and forth forcing himself to think, but finds himself unable to. What to do? How to do? He begins to lose grip. Anger creeps through his blood. He tightens his grip onto the knife's handle, stands in front of the knife-scratched wall, his teeth clenched and grip tightened, he starts banging his head on the wall as he screams and screams, every limb of his body gone stiff; he is losing his mind. He keeps banging his head on and on, but the pain is not as much as he intends it to be. He loses all feeling, his head goes numb. There must be another way.
He turns round, looks at the wall opposite him, gathers momentum and runs towards it at full speed to thrust it with his shoulder. He falls onto the floor screaming his agony. Good pain, he thinks to himself. He bellows, not of pain but of things he could not explain. The entrapment is taking away every sense he has. He keeps screaming until his voice goes hoarse. He feels his soul come out with every sound he makes, but soul resides, for he still feels a twitch of pain. Still alive, he thinks to himself. He looks at the knife still clenched in his hand, the blade bent from his endeavors to carve the walls. His knuckles have turned all white.
Seconds tick away, minutes, hours and maybe years for all he knows. He lies there on the floor. Exhausted and panting, he feels his fist release the knife as he falls into deep sleep.
He wakes up. A gloomy slumber is overcome. His head, shoulders and knuckles hurt. It has not been a dream after all. His insides are worse than the outside. He is being driven to madness as loneliness creeps into his veins, the more time passes, the more it eats out of his core. Long lost memories flood back. He cannot figure out what keeps him in that goddamn room. He has been alone for quite a time; he knows there is a way out, only he is unable to reach the door.
He sits up in the middle of the room hugging his knees and rocking back and forth like a little child. His soul seems to be watching him from a distance as he suffers madness he is unable to overcome. Thoughts haunt him as he smells the filth of his echoing nightmares. He can hear his heart beat in his head as seconds tick away. He tries to kill his thoughts and cerebration, but as he endeavors to do so, more come flooding.
Bleeding from inside, screaming and lost, he looks at the knife. The blade shines and sends her seductions to his screeching marrow, beckoning death whose ghost has begun to swarm.
He tries not to think, but again, he fails. Death and darkness are there, he cannot deny the existence of a sinister soul overpowering him. With every breath, he feels his spirit trying to flee. Living seems pointless… But no! He must fight! He must be strong, he must break free from his pondering, he must resist his own thoughts, but again, sleep takes over.
Through the gloominess of his sleep, he feels he has not enough strength to wake up. The blade goes into his flesh. One last pain, one last good pain and it is over. He hugs himself, opens his eyes, and then sees it, the ghost of death that has been waiting. It is a hooded figure, all dark and tall and pinned to the wall. Under the hood he sees the sinister smile and the flickering eyes as the ghost begins to fade out of sight. He is left with 3 more seconds to live after the ghost disappears, in which seconds he sees what the ghost has been hiding behind it on the wall: an enormous black wooden door…
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Ignominy
My Ignominy was my love.
Brand me with thy mark,
That scorching burn that eternally stains
A heart devoted to a love afar
Unrequited and forever denied.
I have spent a lifetime of humiliation
Among my kin, I was the traitor
I heard their voices haunting my ears
In disdain and contempt
I was the banished.
I was the exiled.
All for one sin
The sin of love
Wronged I announce,
I am wronged.
I was wronged into being,
A being other than honest truth
Wronged I am,
But my voice is void.
My eyes resolve to quiet tears,
But my tears burn, and turn to dust
Before they see the light of day
I shut me in my room,
My only refuge from your hating stares
I mourn a love, I mourn a life,
And there my crying is allowed to break.
Damn you all,
Followers of an illusion of a mask
Your Providence has scorned me
Your gods have condemned me…
Only because it was under their eyes
That I committed what I least regret
You fools go tell them,
Go ask them of mine virtue,
And they shall speak none,
For I am no follower,
I am a deserter,
A blasphemer in your accord.
You faceless condemners of faith,
The waters reflect no more than a shadow,
Go seek eyes before you scowl in my face
Go ask your gods to practice their mastery upon you,
I am no deserter,
I am no sinner,
I am no blasphemer,
With thy scorching mark I shall brand my bosom,
Proclaiming mine truth with a voice aloud.
I forever shall bear your penance,
Never vindicated of my crime,
My Ignominy is my love.
Brand me with thy mark,
That scorching burn that eternally stains
A heart devoted to a love afar
Unrequited and forever denied.
I have spent a lifetime of humiliation
Among my kin, I was the traitor
I heard their voices haunting my ears
In disdain and contempt
I was the banished.
I was the exiled.
All for one sin
The sin of love
Wronged I announce,
I am wronged.
I was wronged into being,
A being other than honest truth
Wronged I am,
But my voice is void.
My eyes resolve to quiet tears,
But my tears burn, and turn to dust
Before they see the light of day
I shut me in my room,
My only refuge from your hating stares
I mourn a love, I mourn a life,
And there my crying is allowed to break.
Damn you all,
Followers of an illusion of a mask
Your Providence has scorned me
Your gods have condemned me…
Only because it was under their eyes
That I committed what I least regret
You fools go tell them,
Go ask them of mine virtue,
And they shall speak none,
For I am no follower,
I am a deserter,
A blasphemer in your accord.
You faceless condemners of faith,
The waters reflect no more than a shadow,
Go seek eyes before you scowl in my face
Go ask your gods to practice their mastery upon you,
I am no deserter,
I am no sinner,
I am no blasphemer,
With thy scorching mark I shall brand my bosom,
Proclaiming mine truth with a voice aloud.
I forever shall bear your penance,
Never vindicated of my crime,
My Ignominy is my love.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
The Smell of Solitude
The smell of solitude,
drowned by footsteps from afar.
My heart beating like a drum
Against my chest,
I feel the energy floating into the claustrophobic air
The smoke dazzling my closed eyes,
While the sounds start raping my ears.
The doors are open, and I realize
My vulnerability
My weakness against their eyes
Every movement counts
Every word uttered holds my destiny within its hand,
And I feel the exhilaration pumping through my veins.
My hands shiver, but I beg they won't see
I must remain still,
I must never indulge their eyes with a distraction
I must never make them realize my existence,
Not yet.
The clock ticks, and their sounds begin to dim.
I feel their existence,
I feel them floating inside my blood.
The lights go out, and I become the object of their sight.
It is time.
I wait for the moment, where I open my eyes,
I make my movement a purpose for their pleasure
I open my mouth releasing words I long wanted to utter,
And I beg my soul to deliver them truthfully,
I speak the lines they most want to hear,
And add nothing more to my conviction.
I walk knowing their eyes are scrutinizing
I speak knowing their ears are straining to hear,
And I fear their whispers as I return to my imposed posture.
I finish my words, and I walk away
Leaving the impact to take its full.
I hear their clapping, and feel their entertainment
Filling me pleasure I long wanted to feel
They cry and so I laugh.
I smile at their tears,
For I have served my purpose,
And my mission is done.
I bow to them, thanking their eyes,
And I take my leave, hope I remain
An inspiration for a minute or two...
drowned by footsteps from afar.
My heart beating like a drum
Against my chest,
I feel the energy floating into the claustrophobic air
The smoke dazzling my closed eyes,
While the sounds start raping my ears.
The doors are open, and I realize
My vulnerability
My weakness against their eyes
Every movement counts
Every word uttered holds my destiny within its hand,
And I feel the exhilaration pumping through my veins.
My hands shiver, but I beg they won't see
I must remain still,
I must never indulge their eyes with a distraction
I must never make them realize my existence,
Not yet.
The clock ticks, and their sounds begin to dim.
I feel their existence,
I feel them floating inside my blood.
The lights go out, and I become the object of their sight.
It is time.
I wait for the moment, where I open my eyes,
I make my movement a purpose for their pleasure
I open my mouth releasing words I long wanted to utter,
And I beg my soul to deliver them truthfully,
I speak the lines they most want to hear,
And add nothing more to my conviction.
I walk knowing their eyes are scrutinizing
I speak knowing their ears are straining to hear,
And I fear their whispers as I return to my imposed posture.
I finish my words, and I walk away
Leaving the impact to take its full.
I hear their clapping, and feel their entertainment
Filling me pleasure I long wanted to feel
They cry and so I laugh.
I smile at their tears,
For I have served my purpose,
And my mission is done.
I bow to them, thanking their eyes,
And I take my leave, hope I remain
An inspiration for a minute or two...
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Recollection
I close my eyes, relieving the pain of yet another day
My mind is windswept into a forgotten eternity
I hear
The laughter of a child unburdened by dreams
His voice resonant in the ears of the world
I see the smile and the eyes that gleam
As he is told of life's sweet ends
He runs the sands, gleefully, joyfully
Collecting the shells along the innocence beach
I hear
The crying of a boy disillusioned by hopes
His voice raping the silence of his sleep
I see his tears drowning the sheets
As he is thrown in the pains of loss
He roams the night, woefully
Writing of a life not meant to be
I breathe deep as recollection pains me.
But then I hear,
The voice of a man revealing his heart
His words emancipating forgotten pains
I see his arms open apart
As he embraces the loss and gain
He kicks the sands laughing the irony away
The shells of his childhood vanished away.
My eyes remain shut and I breathe deep
But behind me the clock strikes twelve
The sound slays me into being
And existence returns.
The tear burns my cheek.
And I open my eyes…
My mind is windswept into a forgotten eternity
I hear
The laughter of a child unburdened by dreams
His voice resonant in the ears of the world
I see the smile and the eyes that gleam
As he is told of life's sweet ends
He runs the sands, gleefully, joyfully
Collecting the shells along the innocence beach
I hear
The crying of a boy disillusioned by hopes
His voice raping the silence of his sleep
I see his tears drowning the sheets
As he is thrown in the pains of loss
He roams the night, woefully
Writing of a life not meant to be
I breathe deep as recollection pains me.
But then I hear,
The voice of a man revealing his heart
His words emancipating forgotten pains
I see his arms open apart
As he embraces the loss and gain
He kicks the sands laughing the irony away
The shells of his childhood vanished away.
My eyes remain shut and I breathe deep
But behind me the clock strikes twelve
The sound slays me into being
And existence returns.
The tear burns my cheek.
And I open my eyes…
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Inside The Pillow
The pillow swallows my head, for it is too heavy with thoughts.
I open my eyes and I'm in a world with which I am unfamiliar.
I am in a field where the ground is deep dark blue, naked trees are dispersed here and there, and rabbits with horns are jumping all around. The sky is crimson patched with yellow clouds.
I look around the chaos, and my thinking moves towards you.
Maybe this is where you've gone.
Maybe this rampant chaos is your reality, your refuge of the world you most despised.
I look for you in this other side of the world and wonder, will you be here? And even if u were, will u recognize me and call my name?
I watch the crimson sky fall in different shades of red and beg the gods of this part of my being to bring you. My soliloquy is found in vain. The gods seem not to hear.
I run and I cry, my crying turns to screaming, and soon I find myself caught up in my own sounds of despair. My throat goes hoarse. I stop. I pant, my breathing goes heavy, I fall to the floor…
I listen to the wind and hear your name whispered.
Then I see you. You see me as well, but turn your face.
Look at me! I ask of you, but you look away.
You don’t remember.
My guts have told me, and my senses have warned me.
As I lie on the floor, my tears begin fall.
The silent night pities me, and the sky sheds her own tears upon me; consoling me.
Rain falls hard. Rain is warm.
I see you still standing there, thinking for yourself, trying to bring back your memory of me.
Rain turns into fuzzy warm white snow.
I am still lying on the floor, and you are still thinking.
Snow melts and pink grass sprouts on the blue dirt.
You are still thinking.
Rain falls again, warm white snow again.
It covers me as I lie there, but you are lost in your pondering.
Silence.
Seconds, minutes, hours, days, months, years, decades. A century.
I am holding my breath.
And your thoughts seem to drift.
Snow, winter: the world of fragility cannot hold its patience.
I hear the sound of snow melting, giving up.
But I will not,
I will not give up.
I bite myself, and blood gushes on the snow.
Green.
You look at it.
You give me that look: 'Right!'
You remember.
You run to me, and I pick myself off the floor.
Bleeding, I walk to you.
My feet cannot hold me, I fall again, and I crawl to you as you run to me.
I count the steps you make, they seem endless, and you do not reach me.
I crawl even more, harder, faster. But I do not reach you.
You keep running, and stretch your hand towards me, and I stretch my skinless hand. I do not reach you.
You stop. I look down.
You look away, I understand.
I cry.
I close my eyes. I disappear.
I make one last prayer. I say goodbye,
And the pillow spits me out...
I open my eyes and I'm in a world with which I am unfamiliar.
I am in a field where the ground is deep dark blue, naked trees are dispersed here and there, and rabbits with horns are jumping all around. The sky is crimson patched with yellow clouds.
I look around the chaos, and my thinking moves towards you.
Maybe this is where you've gone.
Maybe this rampant chaos is your reality, your refuge of the world you most despised.
I look for you in this other side of the world and wonder, will you be here? And even if u were, will u recognize me and call my name?
I watch the crimson sky fall in different shades of red and beg the gods of this part of my being to bring you. My soliloquy is found in vain. The gods seem not to hear.
I run and I cry, my crying turns to screaming, and soon I find myself caught up in my own sounds of despair. My throat goes hoarse. I stop. I pant, my breathing goes heavy, I fall to the floor…
I listen to the wind and hear your name whispered.
Then I see you. You see me as well, but turn your face.
Look at me! I ask of you, but you look away.
You don’t remember.
My guts have told me, and my senses have warned me.
As I lie on the floor, my tears begin fall.
The silent night pities me, and the sky sheds her own tears upon me; consoling me.
Rain falls hard. Rain is warm.
I see you still standing there, thinking for yourself, trying to bring back your memory of me.
Rain turns into fuzzy warm white snow.
I am still lying on the floor, and you are still thinking.
Snow melts and pink grass sprouts on the blue dirt.
You are still thinking.
Rain falls again, warm white snow again.
It covers me as I lie there, but you are lost in your pondering.
Silence.
Seconds, minutes, hours, days, months, years, decades. A century.
I am holding my breath.
And your thoughts seem to drift.
Snow, winter: the world of fragility cannot hold its patience.
I hear the sound of snow melting, giving up.
But I will not,
I will not give up.
I bite myself, and blood gushes on the snow.
Green.
You look at it.
You give me that look: 'Right!'
You remember.
You run to me, and I pick myself off the floor.
Bleeding, I walk to you.
My feet cannot hold me, I fall again, and I crawl to you as you run to me.
I count the steps you make, they seem endless, and you do not reach me.
I crawl even more, harder, faster. But I do not reach you.
You keep running, and stretch your hand towards me, and I stretch my skinless hand. I do not reach you.
You stop. I look down.
You look away, I understand.
I cry.
I close my eyes. I disappear.
I make one last prayer. I say goodbye,
And the pillow spits me out...
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
My Turn
My turn has come
And I will bash you
And I will hate you
And I will allow myself to curse you.
For months I have been made the criminal
For months I have been accused the murderer
For months I have wallowed in my guilt
Fed myself the poison of distaste
But I'm done with it.
I'm through.
And my last of words
Good bye to you.
You walked around talking of my virtues,
Praising my name speaking of my graces
Behind a mask of love you concealed a demon
A raging beast that thirsted for my blood,
And that beast reached me
And that beast ate me, because I allowed it.
You told them how you loved me,
How you were grateful to have me
But it was charade,
You wanted to look strong
You wanted to seem to have gotten over me.
But at night, in bed,
At night when you write
The beast roars
The beast hates me
The beast asks revenge.
Here I allow mine.
My beast surfaces,
And it rips away yours' head
Spilling its blood all over the floor.
Go… by all means go
Tell them how you hate me
Tell them how I hurt you
Betray my trust
Send them my letters
To uncover my vices
To emphasize the fairytale you've created
Where nothing exists but extremes,
You are the Good,
And I am Evil.
Deceive them and deny the wrongs you would not admit
And let them hate me,
And let them boil in anger
And let them show they care.
I write with blood.
I write with tears.
My eyes and heart can bear it no more.
And so I detach.
Hoping one day you will wake up from your illusion
Built in a castle in fairyland,
Mr. Green…
The grass is always greener on the other side…
And I will bash you
And I will hate you
And I will allow myself to curse you.
For months I have been made the criminal
For months I have been accused the murderer
For months I have wallowed in my guilt
Fed myself the poison of distaste
But I'm done with it.
I'm through.
And my last of words
Good bye to you.
You walked around talking of my virtues,
Praising my name speaking of my graces
Behind a mask of love you concealed a demon
A raging beast that thirsted for my blood,
And that beast reached me
And that beast ate me, because I allowed it.
You told them how you loved me,
How you were grateful to have me
But it was charade,
You wanted to look strong
You wanted to seem to have gotten over me.
But at night, in bed,
At night when you write
The beast roars
The beast hates me
The beast asks revenge.
Here I allow mine.
My beast surfaces,
And it rips away yours' head
Spilling its blood all over the floor.
Go… by all means go
Tell them how you hate me
Tell them how I hurt you
Betray my trust
Send them my letters
To uncover my vices
To emphasize the fairytale you've created
Where nothing exists but extremes,
You are the Good,
And I am Evil.
Deceive them and deny the wrongs you would not admit
And let them hate me,
And let them boil in anger
And let them show they care.
I write with blood.
I write with tears.
My eyes and heart can bear it no more.
And so I detach.
Hoping one day you will wake up from your illusion
Built in a castle in fairyland,
Mr. Green…
The grass is always greener on the other side…
Friday, December 11, 2009
My Heart
- Oh love! Here is my heart.
Love, do you see me?
- What are you giving it for?
- It's yours.
- Your heart beats fast, it must be the rain.
- But love, it's not the rain, it's you.
- I'll fit it somewhere, for I do not need it.
- Turning away -
- Brother! Lend me your heart.
Brother, do you hear me?
- And what do you need it for?
- Survive.
- I need it now, it might rain today.
- But brother, I need a heart, I bleed.
- Go find it elsewhere, for I am working.
- Walking away -
- Dear friend! I lost my heart.
Friend, can you feel me?
- Why haven't you talked before?
- I tried.
- Here is my heart, use it for the time.
- But friend, you are bleeding, you'd die.
- Worry not my friend, I'll grow another.
- Dying away -
Love, do you see me?
- What are you giving it for?
- It's yours.
- Your heart beats fast, it must be the rain.
- But love, it's not the rain, it's you.
- I'll fit it somewhere, for I do not need it.
- Turning away -
- Brother! Lend me your heart.
Brother, do you hear me?
- And what do you need it for?
- Survive.
- I need it now, it might rain today.
- But brother, I need a heart, I bleed.
- Go find it elsewhere, for I am working.
- Walking away -
- Dear friend! I lost my heart.
Friend, can you feel me?
- Why haven't you talked before?
- I tried.
- Here is my heart, use it for the time.
- But friend, you are bleeding, you'd die.
- Worry not my friend, I'll grow another.
- Dying away -
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
To My Beloved
And as we made our love,
I bit my teeth too deep inside my own skin
You have consumed me wretched,
And I here, your beloved, am avenged
By the name of thy heart I shall endure
By the name of thy love, I shan't...
Mend your words, lest you may save that heart of mine
Utter resonant syllables, iambic musicals
Sing for my heart, give life to its feathered wings
Mend your words, lest you may relieve that broken heart.
I beseech you, and deplore your mercy,
For I die alone, each night, mourning
Your arms, your lips, your love
I mourn them gone, I mourn them dead
…and are we dead?
Plainness I beg, i wish you not
Heave your heart into your mouth
Cut me, slay me kill and betray me
But give no words of flattery
we are dead…
Let it be so, thy truth then be our allegiance spared
From this hour forth, we cease to be,
Gaea forebode our souls to clash
A stranger to my heart you love shall live.
Avoid my sight for I see no more
I hear no more and am no more
Lest I wallow alone unaffectioned
Be you my sworn,
Eternally, and forever
My beloved.
I bit my teeth too deep inside my own skin
You have consumed me wretched,
And I here, your beloved, am avenged
By the name of thy heart I shall endure
By the name of thy love, I shan't...
Mend your words, lest you may save that heart of mine
Utter resonant syllables, iambic musicals
Sing for my heart, give life to its feathered wings
Mend your words, lest you may relieve that broken heart.
I beseech you, and deplore your mercy,
For I die alone, each night, mourning
Your arms, your lips, your love
I mourn them gone, I mourn them dead
…and are we dead?
Plainness I beg, i wish you not
Heave your heart into your mouth
Cut me, slay me kill and betray me
But give no words of flattery
we are dead…
Let it be so, thy truth then be our allegiance spared
From this hour forth, we cease to be,
Gaea forebode our souls to clash
A stranger to my heart you love shall live.
Avoid my sight for I see no more
I hear no more and am no more
Lest I wallow alone unaffectioned
Be you my sworn,
Eternally, and forever
My beloved.
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