Through hands a mess of particles
sliding and caressing towards it's origin.
what is the point of this…
In the vast expanse of desert.
A cold breeze leaves the mind withered.
The heart is left hollow, serene.
Alone the black seemed all consuming.
In time it envelops like satin sheets.
Oblivion turned comforting.
But this wasteland is but a mirage.
Beyond the brink is a skewed wall of glass.
Beyond the glass is a pulsing organism.
An anomaly in itself reveling in chaos.
Bringing in colors of light and shadow.
What would happen if it is let through?
Wild and exotic creatures could frolic
Vegetation can bring color to the atmosphere.
But would this hide away the Abyss?
Is this desert the reflection of death?
or is this just an illusion made by this glass?
it’s all so confusing behind these walls.
…unnecessary actions to partake in.
the particles have been gone for some time now.
maybe I’ll buy some pizza tonight.
Jul 10, 2015
Jul 10, 2015 at 12:43 AM UTC
A piece of wood or of modeling clay
sits carefully on top of a makeshift table.
A cheap thin plank on top of bricks .
Music plays outside the room.
Sitting with purpose and glee,
imagining a masterpiece.
“Ready it shall be
and it will bring love,
bring peace to a world that…
pierced by its mere existence,
and evil will die!”
Hands twist and turn.
A hard mass is peeled and cut.
With tools and sweat
it takes shape, with tears of joy
slipped from his eyes.
A sharp turn, the table drops.
A voice is heard behind the walls:
“My god, if this broke, I wouldn’t survive”
Thought and movement
preserved in minute details.
polished and neat
yet with enough imperfections
“I love…
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****
“I’ve been calling and knocking for hours
what the **** are you doing in here?”
“Art! you wouldn’t understand.”
“You are still with that **** there’s nothing there!!”
“Because there’s nothing in your heart”
“just let me get...”
Door closes, uncontrollable heartbeat
sound blurs, eyes strain, “I know,
I know its there, I know its there
i know. it. is. there.”
Jul 3, 2015
Jul 3, 2015 at 5:29 AM UTC
In some universe
-probably one with living organisms and planets inside a creative mind-
I am an attractive tragedy.
I'll show them.
The planets in my head may be full of deserts,
and maybe no living being's skin knows eternal life,
and that may be beautiful to you.
My galaxies might be scarred and my stars cracked.
The gravitational pull of every existing mass weak,
and that may be beautiful to you.
I'm thankful my turmoil is beauty,
but I am not a tragedy.
I was created in the image of angels,
my skin built of stardust.
I am powerful.
I am not a tragedy.
Jun 26, 2015
Jun 26, 2015 at 6:51 PM UTC
I hate poetry
I hate words
I'm unable to see their strength.
I’m unable to feel their weight.
But when I try to write it suddenly hurts.
Breaking my bones, my hands are useless.
There is sandstorm within me.
Is it worth expressing why?
Millions of poets.
Millions of artists.
What makes me so special?
I will never be so very grand.
I should just keep myself in silence.
I don’t want demons or angels knowing.
I don’t want to feel the heat of exposing my voice.
The cold of loneliness from over-saturation.
But when I think of this shell I dwell in.
When I think of the sands of time within.
The inevitable knowledge of chaos.
The fragile emptiness of my existence.
What am I protecting, really?
Next to these giants of the world.
The titans of political, economic unrest
The gods of a complex black hole of society
Maybe if I open up and show pieces of me.
Even the smallest speck of sand.
The heat might turn it all into glass.
The cold might be shared with another soul.
Maybe I’ll see my shell paper thin then.
A fallacy built with the hands of others.
I’ll be part of the grand cosmos of existence.
I’ll die alone, and unknown. yet stronger.
I’ll be glass instead of dust in the wind.
Jun 25, 2015
Jun 25, 2015 at 10:35 PM UTC