I often wonder if our voices are actually heard.
If people read our every word!
Or is it like life where you skim through it to get to the end
Never realizing that you might lose a friend.
We don’t stop to see and admire the picture as a whole
And “ that beauty” will never unfold.
You know ! I also wonder !
That GOD could have made this world, humanity
And the entire universe in a split second, yet he chose
To do it in six days
To enjoy all the beauties that he created.
Then why do we rush in our lives?
When he has given us time to enjoy his creations
Without all the devastations.
If we work eight hours, sleep eight hours
Then the other eight hours are for us to set our goals
And pursue our dreams and take care of our to do lists
And to smell the flowers – ‘HE has given us enough hours!”
“THAT BEING SAID” let’s move ahead!
The words you put down in black and white
Are your joys and your struggles in this life?
It is a path to your heart and soul, and a story that must be told.
Your hidden thoughts and dreams can now be seen
Your wants, your needs, your hopes, your dreams, your desires
All of this created that burning fire.
If every living creature can communicate with each other
Then why can’t we? My sisters and brothers!
(C) L .RAMS
I don't know what to write or say, my brain is losing its own mind, and my heart lost its way.
Summer started and I crashed into a whole new dimension of sweet intoxicating freedom. But the perfumes were overwhelming and I was scared with all this boundless time.
I searched for friends, but they were no where to be found. And because of this change, I took it out on the one person who never left. Badgering him to be something he wasn't. I was bored and done. Lost in love and wondering who I had become. He was gone to, for some of the time. I knew not what to do, or where to go, or who to even talk to. I felt like a caged animal who had finally be rereleased into the wild, forgetting how to behave its natural way. I withdrew into my security and fought the outside for it kept trying to kill me. I had let my hair run wild, and I didn't wake up till about noon. I was lost, and I felt like a bum off the street without a job. And I struggled to figure out who I was and what was my purpose in life, especially that right now. Right now when life seem to be drifting by and I had all the time in the world, but had nothing to fill it with.
"You are beautiful."
That is what they say,
and you reply,
"Thanks, you too."
A compliment, received and courteously relayed.
But what is really meant by this statement?
"You are beautiful."
Implies the speaker has identified that you exist—nothing out of the ordinary.
"You are beautiful."
Implies something much more—that the speaker not only acknowledges you, but understands you. It implies they have access to the real you, the one beneath the surface, and that they are capable of evaluating it. Notice that "You look beautiful." is not what has been said. No, what has been said is much more than that.
"You are beautiful."
This is their evaluation. Through the lens of their own perception, what they see when they observe who you are is best described by the word "beautiful". From my perspective, this can only be taken as a sign of deep appreciation, of recognition from one soul to another that on some level, they share the same substance.
Yet, knowing all of this raises a great suspicion. Do those who make this statement truly understand what they are saying? Do they mean it? Did they mean to say, instead, "You look beautiful."? Did they even mean anything at all?
Do they know of the tension behind your smile? Do they know of the fear residing in the dark pools of your eyes? Do they know that the way you present yourself is often done in spite of how you truly feel?
Do they know, deeper still, of the tiny, yet unwavering flame that burns inside of you? Do they know that underneath the layers of frost that guard your soul is a core of warmth that craves release? Do they know that deep down, you don't believe the horrible things you tell yourself—you can't believe them—, but that it's much easier to pretend otherwise? Do they know that you numb yourself to escape unrelenting pain?
When they say you are beautiful, is it this you they speak of, or is it the you they see but do not understand?
Does their statement stand against who you are by trying to convince you of a self-image you do not have? Does it attempt to ignore, and by ignoring, negate the fact that you possess flaws, insecurities, and imperfections? Does it try desperately to project an image of perfection upon you, because to acknowledge the truth would be too difficult?
Do they really think you are beautiful, or do they merely want to think it, blindly and without commitment?
Of the answers to those questions I am not certain. But, if I were one of those speakers who dared to make such a bold statement, I would be very careful. For if they are not truly ready to admit with full honesty that they understand exactly the meaning of what they are saying, then they do not deserve to say it.
And if they do not deserve to say it, then they ought to be careful of another thing, too. For if their compliment is not genuine, then the response they receive in return might not be genuine, either.
"Thanks. You, too."
I am beautiful, you say?
Thanks. You, too.
Sometimes i cry...
And i don't even know why...
Then later i conclude,
I cried because i was confused.
DOES THAT EVEN MAKE SENSE?
You gave me a copy of your final art exam piece,
It's still stuck right there, you know,
On the wall beside my bed.
A scene of nature.
A gentle stream.
There's a mountain in the background, with a castle on top.
And me, in the foreground,
Oh, how lovely of you.
I remember, you took my photo in front of that big green tree.
In the woods by my house.
I wore only shorts and a vest, despite the cold weather.
(I remember the goosebumps.)
I couldn't wear much, you didn't want my clothing to be too visible;
You wanted to transform my body, into the trunk of a tree.
As if, I wore
only bark and moss.
Oh, but why, oh why?
When people saw my bare arms and shoulders, you told me that
they asked you, whether I was naked when you took it.
I remember, when you told me what they'd said,
I've never liked my face in that picture.
What is my eyebrow even doing?
And I've never quite been sure about the shape of my cheeks.
In fact, if anything,
I've only ever really liked my hand.
My wrist, quite thin,
and somehow my hand has a delicate look about it;
The fingers curved at the ends,
The cold had made them pink and soft.
Oh but, why, oh why, Darling?
Why of all things,
Did you have to make me a tree trunk?
Strong and sturdy.
With the moss,
And that other tree, the one that clung to me,
Twisting, growing around me.
There's nothing I can do now,
but stand here and watch you evolve.
Oh, you told me to get help baby, but what if I didn't want it?
To me, there's only ever been one solution.
But, you made me the tree trunk,
It's what you did.
And now you need me,
Now you grow from me.
Now you cling to me.
No, I cannot stir now.
For, I am a tree trunk, (I need to be strong and sturdy)
And now I know, only too well, that if ever I were to fall,
I would be bringing you down with me.
One day, he will sneak up behind me,
And cover my eyes with his soft hands.
I will know it is him; the tenderness of his touch will tell me.
The smell of his skin, rich and warm, will tell me.
The velvety breath, caressing my neck, will tell me.
I will know it is him.
He may attempt to conceal it,
But I will know that gentle voice,
I swear on the sun, it has been ringing in my ears since the day I was born.
I will know that voice.
And with my knowing smile,
I will turn to him;
And he will take me
in the grasp of his strong arms.
He will take me.
He will steal my words with his passionate embrace
before I have the chance to tell him how deeply I longed for him.
Before I have the chance to tell him:
"I am yours, for ever more."
But I think, by then, he shall already know it.
Searching through his bloodied clothes.
Searching for what is left.
With the rage, I cut into his chest.
I want his heart, for safety and comfort.
I rip it out and cradle it
I want it for others but I shall never reveal them now.
I love very bit of this heart.
You say I am a beast?
Look at you, I know you have done sins.
I am a dark being.
I love the screams and
I just don't know what happened to that little girl you had once seen.
Now crying and imbalanced.
I have made a doll.
It has the heart that I cradled.
It looks just like him.
He talks to me.
Calls me "Little Dove"
At night 'he' comes alive and kisses me with those sharp teeth.
Killing me with his poisoned kiss.
That wretched smile drives me insane.
His a demon, bursting out if my chest.
Putting his bloody doll like hand on my pale white cheek.
I am paralyzed in time.
I love him ever so.
He says to me that me can make me a world of blood.
He makes me dream of haunted things.
Wounds, stitches, knives and more lovely,
I am happy that he can make my world come true.
I love that I am crazy, because he makes me feel better.
I love you, demon of my dreams.
He has left me.
Without no warning,
just left me in this tattered white dress stained with our blood.
He said he will come back.
He never returned.
I still hear he voice at night yearning for his kiss.
Wanting to feel his warm body against mine.
Feeling his doll-ish hand caressing my body.
I awoken to a ear wrenching noise.
I found his dying on the ground
He said he loved this dark and damned side of me,
and to let go of this love that we had.
I went to the window and started sobbing.
Harder and harder.
No tears slid down my face.
I saw what he was dying for.
He had made me my world of hurt.
I love you Abaddon.
Thank you for loving me.
this is me being
and disgusted with
men give children
learn the alphabet,
how to put a bullet
They'll learn about the
because their skin will be splattered
with needles shoved up their arms
a drug for the mind
making the killing no harm
brain wash brain wash
are so impressionable
they don't ask why
"why did i kill my mommy
why did i watch my family die?"
so many of us
we just don't know
Death has many hands to do his dirty work
But one is always occupied with me
His hand is around my throat
I have a narrow ledge that I like to stand upon
This ledge is called suicide
If I should step off my ledge
Well you know
Death's bony fingers would win my battle
A victim of suicide in his noose
Like the turning sheets
of a monthly calender,
life has layers after layers.
How would he know that ,
just a callow youth on sea shore
playing with smooth pebbles,
that was when he saw her first.
She was the woman who
taught him, whole cities lay merged
within a woman, like wave after wave,
she was a mystery like life itself.
There is no way to decipher.
They first met
in the city of light,
Diwali lamps were lit
in all courtyards,
It was an immortal moment
in his life, he realized,
leading him gently to the light
which evaded him though he assiduously sought,
she parted without a word
Did she belong to someone else?
The city of sorrow,
yet again brought them face to face
Ridden with angst of existence
he stumbled, was about to fall, then
he could experience her iron will
more than a woman, she stood, like a pillar of strength,
she took his weary head in both hands, pressed to her breast,
pulled out the crown of thorns, their paths
diverged again, inexplicably complex, was their relationship.
In the city of guilt,
an unexpected meeting again,
they were surprised. Here, they were on their own.
They wanted to take their lives in their hands,
in spite of the currents that pulled them to different directions.
But he knew all the while that her self, was divided between
three cities within in her.They co-existed, Light.Guilt.Sorrow
will their love survive? Not all loves are intended to live long,
a parrot in his tree of loneliness always whispered.He pretended he didn't hear,
A game of dice, almost was their lives, mysterious forces did bet on their love,
Having traveled through fire and water, she was beyond pleasure and pain,
Kali with a fiery nose stud, female power that overcomes all pain,
she became, that shattered his dreams for them.
He was thankful, to be awakened by her,
the light she lit, burned bright, within.
Now or never.He crossed the river.
Deliverance comes from an inner source,
otherwise all will end as an idiot's tale
Her flame lighted his wick, liberated him.
Fire spitting dragons one can tame,
but in the duel with demons of life,
it could be a blood letting end,
call it play of chance or what ever
they are the easy game here
He packed his backpack and
started to move eastwards,
Westward bound was she, invariably,
her heart had still a song left for him,
the void was filled, the pain was stilled
with anesthetics of mind.
Just for one last time they went to the beach,
watching the sunset was their good bye to each other.
They never met again.