mzwai-p - Hello Poetry

All of the routes have shown up around you and Your suitcases are packed with The scent of memories permeating the air. You've put on your toughest coat and Nostalgia will not let itself in But, the more you look around and the more you listen to the sounds Being screamed around you The more clearer it becomes that, None of the routes are open for you. None of the routes are open for you. On the road that passed between escapism and development, Someone forgot to tell you that You can't make friends out of open rivers. No matter how translucent the inlet, No matter how unfathomable the depth, No matter how elating the scent, You can carry the stones before they're cast into the waters, But, You will only feel their heaviness, When you are watching them float away from you.

0

Jul 29, 2015

Jul 29, 2015 at 12:20 PM UTC

Walls of Airports

All of the routes have shown up around you and Your suitcases are packed with The scent of memories permeating the air. You've put on your toughest coat and Nostalgia will not let itself in But, the more you look around and the more you listen to the sounds Being screamed around you The more clearer it becomes that, None of the routes are open for you. None of the routes are open for you. On the road that passed between escapism and development, Someone forgot to tell you that You can't make friends out of open rivers. No matter how translucent the inlet, No matter how unfathomable the depth, No matter how elating the scent, You can carry the stones before they're cast into the waters, But, You will only feel their heaviness, When you are watching them float away from you.

21

1. The seconds roll by and you're starting to realize that you are becoming wearily accustomed to this way of living- the way where you are so obsessed with emotions,now that you do not feel them, that you are surrounding yourself with accidents. Almost as if you want to be in the same area you were at before you crashed and burned, by re-instituting an old lie you thought could never be accounted for, and crashing and burning a second time- all in the exact same places. You've started changing and merging so much that you're sure you've left everyone without them even knowing it. As if you move with stealth whenever someone starts to realize just how tragic you can be- how you don't really need to feel to make others weary, you just have to be there. Your existence is enough. Maybe that's why nobody really knows you, it's like being a thin piece of paper in a world where pen can only leave ink on thicker substances- whenever somebody asks you "Who are you?" you just turn your head shyly, and read from someone else's page. 2. It's been a while since you've substituted blankness for a renewal you thought you could find inside of another human being. You tell yourself that their words inspired yours, but are realizing it's not true. Love was not made to make the expression of detrimental things beautiful- the absence of it was. Now that you're here as a mosaic of bruises that were left from somebody's poor negligence, you've begun to see that loneliness is an escape that treats you better no matter how hollow it is or how much work you have to put into fulfilling it. Your hands get strained, your spine starts to curl, all under the weight of forgetting the emotions you had when you were writing for someone and not about them. A weight thats heavy and makes you miss the feeling of being in love more than you miss the person who you were in love with. 3. Instead of only being able to find inspiration when you hear specific footsteps walking away from you, you've tried to simulate their echoes every time you close your eyes, and then hoping for the best. With love, you knew about the withdrawal symptoms before you knew about the substance. When you had it and watched it fade away- you were left with that familiar feeling. That familiar longingness. But now you understand what you must do when people enter a home uninvitedly. The next time you have it and lose it it will hurt, but it will not hurt in the same way. 4. Sometimes situations have a way of making you both aware and unaware of different things at the same time. Being in this state you realized; there is more than one way for a person to actually disappear. And it never starts within them, it always starts around of them. You started seeing less, feeling less, talking less, hoping less. You just followed what was there for you and hoped you wouldn't fall into a hole deeper than the one you were already in back then. By the time you'd lost enough of yourself, you had the motivation to climb back up but just not enough physical strength to actually do it. You just followed the path and blamed its emptiness as a feature of your own intentions. When in actual fact, you only followed it like that because nobody wanted to lower themselves to be able to have the ability to walk with you. 5. A natural stationary position of yours is the position where it looks like someone has pushed you to the ground: you are always posed at that exact position, where you have just been pushed and you are simultaneously trying to get back on your feet. Whenever you find yourself at a dead point that is caused by something that isn't a human being, you realize that it's always been 'too long' since you've dealt with a heartache that you are not used to. Too long since you've carried a dilemma whilst thinking, "I don't know why this is here. I don't know why I am feeling this." It's become this sort of pleasure that you sleep with knowing or not knowing just how far away healthiness is. Lying in bed all day pretending like you are whole- pitying your own broken heart as if you were not the one who broke it yourself. 6. It is hard to convince yourself that you are an optimist because of the way you express hurt like it will actually start saving you when you are not just feeling it, but when you are actually seeing it as well. But then again it all makes sense when you begin to realize: you beautified terrible things when terrible things began to happen too regularly. It is not that you are trying to feel more of the pain because you are putting it into words. It's that you are actually doing the opposite. 7. It's hard to keep up with your own identity when you are constantly turning people that know you into strangers. You sometimes want to say it was spontaneous, but you've always known that it started with one small problem who always lied whenever they claimed to care more than they actually did. They'd treat you with a kindness that had no actual action and you got used to depending on it like it was the only thing that you had left. I guess when you get older you realize that sometimes people make mistakes and open things they're not supposed to- sometimes they rip holes in your mind that are big enough for the thought of their love, but not big enough for their love itself. 8. You're discovering that submission is more a habitat than a personality trait. You've pulled so many defenses around you that the only thing you dominate is the ability to come up with a false pretense. All the things that once meant so much to you seem to be running and fading away- they seem to be blackening out like the developing of a Polaroid in reverse. Slowly suffocating an image until the surroundings are disappearing slowly and malleably. Leaving only the person in the picture- surrounded by the blackness of the film. Deemed to become an island in a great mess of things that could've been- Deemed hopeless and passionless, hopeless and passionless. 9. You may or may not have been stronger when you were younger but you were definitely more content and aware. How many times have you looked at an old picture and thought "what happened during the years? was that really still me?" It is almost as if the time between then and now turned into a vast ocean and you were fast asleep whilst you sailed on it. You sometimes sunk and you sometimes rose above, but you were always unconscious. Always unconscious. You guess that it is all what is eventually planned for you. But you can't help but shudder at the thought of it. 10. You hide away from attention because if people start to see just a little, they might eventually see too much.You're hoping one day you can show yourself as whimsically as you once did before you were forced to hide from a light that demolished you after it blinded you. Maybe one day you'll exist under the presence of something that doesn't need to hold you to give you the same feeling you once needed to be able to carry on hoping. You're just looking for a motive to keep you surviving even if it is only partly- You're just looking for an excuse to become addicted to something that doesn't have a heartbeat, For once.

0

Jul 11, 2015

Jul 11, 2015 at 3:03 PM UTC

Passive Writing

1. The seconds roll by and you're starting to realize that you are becoming wearily accustomed to this way of living- the way where you are so obsessed with emotions,now that you do not feel them, that you are surrounding yourself with accidents. Almost as if you want to be in the same area you were at before you crashed and burned, by re-instituting an old lie you thought could never be accounted for, and crashing and burning a second time- all in the exact same places. You've started changing and merging so much that you're sure you've left everyone without them even knowing it. As if you move with stealth whenever someone starts to realize just how tragic you can be- how you don't really need to feel to make others weary, you just have to be there. Your existence is enough. Maybe that's why nobody really knows you, it's like being a thin piece of paper in a world where pen can only leave ink on thicker substances- whenever somebody asks you "Who are you?" you just turn your head shyly, and read from someone else's page. 2. It's been a while since you've substituted blankness for a renewal you thought you could find inside of another human being. You tell yourself that their words inspired yours, but are realizing it's not true. Love was not made to make the expression of detrimental things beautiful- the absence of it was. Now that you're here as a mosaic of bruises that were left from somebody's poor negligence, you've begun to see that loneliness is an escape that treats you better no matter how hollow it is or how much work you have to put into fulfilling it. Your hands get strained, your spine starts to curl, all under the weight of forgetting the emotions you had when you were writing for someone and not about them. A weight thats heavy and makes you miss the feeling of being in love more than you miss the person who you were in love with. 3. Instead of only being able to find inspiration when you hear specific footsteps walking away from you, you've tried to simulate their echoes every time you close your eyes, and then hoping for the best. With love, you knew about the withdrawal symptoms before you knew about the substance. When you had it and watched it fade away- you were left with that familiar feeling. That familiar longingness. But now you understand what you must do when people enter a home uninvitedly. The next time you have it and lose it it will hurt, but it will not hurt in the same way. 4. Sometimes situations have a way of making you both aware and unaware of different things at the same time. Being in this state you realized; there is more than one way for a person to actually disappear. And it never starts within them, it always starts around of them. You started seeing less, feeling less, talking less, hoping less. You just followed what was there for you and hoped you wouldn't fall into a hole deeper than the one you were already in back then. By the time you'd lost enough of yourself, you had the motivation to climb back up but just not enough physical strength to actually do it. You just followed the path and blamed its emptiness as a feature of your own intentions. When in actual fact, you only followed it like that because nobody wanted to lower themselves to be able to have the ability to walk with you. 5. A natural stationary position of yours is the position where it looks like someone has pushed you to the ground: you are always posed at that exact position, where you have just been pushed and you are simultaneously trying to get back on your feet. Whenever you find yourself at a dead point that is caused by something that isn't a human being, you realize that it's always been 'too long' since you've dealt with a heartache that you are not used to. Too long since you've carried a dilemma whilst thinking, "I don't know why this is here. I don't know why I am feeling this." It's become this sort of pleasure that you sleep with knowing or not knowing just how far away healthiness is. Lying in bed all day pretending like you are whole- pitying your own broken heart as if you were not the one who broke it yourself. 6. It is hard to convince yourself that you are an optimist because of the way you express hurt like it will actually start saving you when you are not just feeling it, but when you are actually seeing it as well. But then again it all makes sense when you begin to realize: you beautified terrible things when terrible things began to happen too regularly. It is not that you are trying to feel more of the pain because you are putting it into words. It's that you are actually doing the opposite. 7. It's hard to keep up with your own identity when you are constantly turning people that know you into strangers. You sometimes want to say it was spontaneous, but you've always known that it started with one small problem who always lied whenever they claimed to care more than they actually did. They'd treat you with a kindness that had no actual action and you got used to depending on it like it was the only thing that you had left. I guess when you get older you realize that sometimes people make mistakes and open things they're not supposed to- sometimes they rip holes in your mind that are big enough for the thought of their love, but not big enough for their love itself. 8. You're discovering that submission is more a habitat than a personality trait. You've pulled so many defenses around you that the only thing you dominate is the ability to come up with a false pretense. All the things that once meant so much to you seem to be running and fading away- they seem to be blackening out like the developing of a Polaroid in reverse. Slowly suffocating an image until the surroundings are disappearing slowly and malleably. Leaving only the person in the picture- surrounded by the blackness of the film. Deemed to become an island in a great mess of things that could've been- Deemed hopeless and passionless, hopeless and passionless. 9. You may or may not have been stronger when you were younger but you were definitely more content and aware. How many times have you looked at an old picture and thought "what happened during the years? was that really still me?" It is almost as if the time between then and now turned into a vast ocean and you were fast asleep whilst you sailed on it. You sometimes sunk and you sometimes rose above, but you were always unconscious. Always unconscious. You guess that it is all what is eventually planned for you. But you can't help but shudder at the thought of it. 10. You hide away from attention because if people start to see just a little, they might eventually see too much.You're hoping one day you can show yourself as whimsically as you once did before you were forced to hide from a light that demolished you after it blinded you. Maybe one day you'll exist under the presence of something that doesn't need to hold you to give you the same feeling you once needed to be able to carry on hoping. You're just looking for a motive to keep you surviving even if it is only partly- You're just looking for an excuse to become addicted to something that doesn't have a heartbeat, For once.

32

My journey to purification began on a night where I pretended like you didn't exist. I denounced myself a pagan of memories, turned your forgotten words into forbidden hymns, embraced them in my mouth before I climbed into bed, and used them to sing myself to sleep in all of the hours before I did not dream of you. It was like burning a house with memories in it, because you need the ashes to reconstruct a new one. It was like holding your breath even when you're not in water, because you have experienced drowning and do not want to risk it again. I kept on telling myself that this was peace- leaving you was not enough so I had to leave myself as well. Here is a version of me not at war with you- here is a version that is telling itself nothing has changed even though it is barely existing. Here is a version moving violently around with nothing to restrict it- here is a version dancing whimsically alone. Here is a version so small it cannot be stampeded on- here is a version so small it cannot hear its own heartbeat. Here I am trying to struggle free of you, Fighting myself so that you don't have a chance to. But as the days go by, I am hoping only my cocoon loved you. And the self- inflicted scars will one day stop belonging to me And, belong to some other shell, restricting the body of, some other boy. It is a trial to be free when you are an addict of the prison that held you. I've been teaching myself about how wrong I am- That I was not born to make a home out of love, I am too poignant and sensitive And cannot belong to anything. Though the chains may be comfortable, I need to sacrifice ecstasy so I can find a new lifestyle that is not inspired by their heaviness. I need to find real fulfillment before it's too late. Before the chains leave me instead of me leaving them- Before I'm forced to gallop into any new home I see because I was never prepared enough to be able to stand alone. I want to forget the way I lived for you, I want to burn everything without feeling the need to say sorry. Why must I wait for your forgiveness when everytime I find the urge to reconcile myself, I'm forced to choke out apologies before I even act on anything. Why must I lie awake unsure of the future, Seeing things smaller than you trying to fill a void they won't fit in, Holding me down so that I cannot be bigger than them. I know now that I am susceptible to allurement as intensely as a mirror susceptible to light, Because I am now a reflection of a love I barely experienced. I stay awake in my sheets every night - praying for my own forgiveness, Even when I have the ability, To turn things that don't even hurt me into punishments.

0

Jun 20, 2015

Jun 20, 2015 at 12:05 PM UTC

Penance (2)

My journey to purification began on a night where I pretended like you didn't exist. I denounced myself a pagan of memories, turned your forgotten words into forbidden hymns, embraced them in my mouth before I climbed into bed, and used them to sing myself to sleep in all of the hours before I did not dream of you. It was like burning a house with memories in it, because you need the ashes to reconstruct a new one. It was like holding your breath even when you're not in water, because you have experienced drowning and do not want to risk it again. I kept on telling myself that this was peace- leaving you was not enough so I had to leave myself as well. Here is a version of me not at war with you- here is a version that is telling itself nothing has changed even though it is barely existing. Here is a version moving violently around with nothing to restrict it- here is a version dancing whimsically alone. Here is a version so small it cannot be stampeded on- here is a version so small it cannot hear its own heartbeat. Here I am trying to struggle free of you, Fighting myself so that you don't have a chance to. But as the days go by, I am hoping only my cocoon loved you. And the self- inflicted scars will one day stop belonging to me And, belong to some other shell, restricting the body of, some other boy. It is a trial to be free when you are an addict of the prison that held you. I've been teaching myself about how wrong I am- That I was not born to make a home out of love, I am too poignant and sensitive And cannot belong to anything. Though the chains may be comfortable, I need to sacrifice ecstasy so I can find a new lifestyle that is not inspired by their heaviness. I need to find real fulfillment before it's too late. Before the chains leave me instead of me leaving them- Before I'm forced to gallop into any new home I see because I was never prepared enough to be able to stand alone. I want to forget the way I lived for you, I want to burn everything without feeling the need to say sorry. Why must I wait for your forgiveness when everytime I find the urge to reconcile myself, I'm forced to choke out apologies before I even act on anything. Why must I lie awake unsure of the future, Seeing things smaller than you trying to fill a void they won't fit in, Holding me down so that I cannot be bigger than them. I know now that I am susceptible to allurement as intensely as a mirror susceptible to light, Because I am now a reflection of a love I barely experienced. I stay awake in my sheets every night - praying for my own forgiveness, Even when I have the ability, To turn things that don't even hurt me into punishments.

45

The tide is back in my head again. The bottles are full, the floor is still an ocean, And I am drunk-texting a future version of myself. I'm telling myself about this certain type of forgiveness- The version I tried to suppress everytime you couldn't accept it. I gave you nothing for so long I thought you'd fall in love with at least re-opening the non-existent wounds, And now here you are painting scars upon them and showing them to me, And I don't know what to do and, I'll never know what to do but, This is where it ends, Yes, This is how I leave you. The tide is back in my head again. - I only leave you when the room is spinning. My head is a confession booth and its like you're sinning on purpose. Continually hurting yourself or someone else so that you can come into my memories and try and tell me about it without saying anything at all. (I only listen to you when you're not speaking.) I started believing in ghosts when I saw apparitions of myself smiling without knowing you existed- I once lived with a fear of death, prayed to be immortal and to keep on finding myself hungry to know more- Now I find myself lucky to have a day where I care more about continuing and care less about remaining stationary. Maybe I want you to feel the pain of a sunken ship only mimicking the illusion of a boat cast on waves it no longer wants or knows how to sail- Maybe I want you to know how it feels like to love you. The tide is back in my head again. I created a soundtrack for all these recent nights and it just turned into the sound of your voice repeating the secrets I dont remember telling you. There is a drawer in my room and I've filled it with something that both creates and destroys me because you claimed you would do both but only ended up doing the latter. One day I'll stop being haunted by things that can't actually touch me - One day I'll find a bottle that won't have you at the bottom of it. But for now I have nothing else. So, I'm poisoning myself everynight and claiming that it is self-mortification. I cannot forgive myself but, I have no other outlet so, This is where it ends, Yes, This is how I leave you.

0

Jun 7, 2015

Jun 7, 2015 at 12:28 PM UTC

Penance (1)

The tide is back in my head again. The bottles are full, the floor is still an ocean, And I am drunk-texting a future version of myself. I'm telling myself about this certain type of forgiveness- The version I tried to suppress everytime you couldn't accept it. I gave you nothing for so long I thought you'd fall in love with at least re-opening the non-existent wounds, And now here you are painting scars upon them and showing them to me, And I don't know what to do and, I'll never know what to do but, This is where it ends, Yes, This is how I leave you. The tide is back in my head again. - I only leave you when the room is spinning. My head is a confession booth and its like you're sinning on purpose. Continually hurting yourself or someone else so that you can come into my memories and try and tell me about it without saying anything at all. (I only listen to you when you're not speaking.) I started believing in ghosts when I saw apparitions of myself smiling without knowing you existed- I once lived with a fear of death, prayed to be immortal and to keep on finding myself hungry to know more- Now I find myself lucky to have a day where I care more about continuing and care less about remaining stationary. Maybe I want you to feel the pain of a sunken ship only mimicking the illusion of a boat cast on waves it no longer wants or knows how to sail- Maybe I want you to know how it feels like to love you. The tide is back in my head again. I created a soundtrack for all these recent nights and it just turned into the sound of your voice repeating the secrets I dont remember telling you. There is a drawer in my room and I've filled it with something that both creates and destroys me because you claimed you would do both but only ended up doing the latter. One day I'll stop being haunted by things that can't actually touch me - One day I'll find a bottle that won't have you at the bottom of it. But for now I have nothing else. So, I'm poisoning myself everynight and claiming that it is self-mortification. I cannot forgive myself but, I have no other outlet so, This is where it ends, Yes, This is how I leave you.

35

Last night we told the town about our pseudonyms. And, because the stars shone too bright And we were left exposed with our tragedies hanging through the air, I had to teach you how to paint the sky a darker color- So that no one could tell the difference between our affectionate self-satisfying thoughts and, Our misspoken words. You always spoke like you knew more about being detached than you did about love. Your shaking hands, your posed expressions, Always tethering to always want to fall apart but almost too simple and beautiful To ever be able to do so. At the beginning I watched your lips blow through the light in your flute, Trembling slightly to create a sound greater than my memories of the only voice I've ever fallen in love with. Again and again, as you inhaled and exhaled, lightly creating that shape that only perfectionists can create- And it was hard to believe those lips were now right besides me, Muttering 'To die by your side is such a heavenly way to die' over and over again without them even knowing it. "Let's talk about heart break." you would say. Let's talk about how you couldn't find a pool of enough antique movies to drown the romantic guitar music in your head with so you just used apathy instead. "Lets talk about introversion." Let's talk about the way you heard words you could not listen to- the way you constructed lies to the first pair of hands that offered to hold you, the same way you constructed a mask of indifference when they began to shy away to another girl in another school. "Let's talk about nothing. Let's sing instead." Let's sing that song from The Queen Is Dead by The Smiths. Let's pretend like the queen died the second we sipped our first glass together. The people are rioting in the streets, the people are screaming and refusing to march but we do not care because this isn't the first time we've stripped something away from ourselves Whilst wearing a grin and pretending like we're complete. This isn't the last- drink on, drink on. There are two types of people in this world - the ones who get hurt and the ones who destroy. You never knew this, but I was too busy figuring out if I had to become the latter just to be able to conquer love when you came into my life again. I thought I would feel no calmness when it happened- But it turned out I conquered love in a pint-sized African cafè. With a girl who sometimes wore her hair back like Audrey Hepburn and thought that Calling random boys on the phone and screaming 'Im in love with you' even when she wasn't was a perfectly acceptable way to spend an immaculate Thursday evening. There is a light that never goes out, There is a light that never goes out. And even if it did go out, I wouldn't worry. Because you'll always be right by my side in that tiny cafè when it happens. And you are something between radiant, And radioactive.

0

May 10, 2015

May 10, 2015 at 6:49 PM UTC

Red Wine

Last night we told the town about our pseudonyms. And, because the stars shone too bright And we were left exposed with our tragedies hanging through the air, I had to teach you how to paint the sky a darker color- So that no one could tell the difference between our affectionate self-satisfying thoughts and, Our misspoken words. You always spoke like you knew more about being detached than you did about love. Your shaking hands, your posed expressions, Always tethering to always want to fall apart but almost too simple and beautiful To ever be able to do so. At the beginning I watched your lips blow through the light in your flute, Trembling slightly to create a sound greater than my memories of the only voice I've ever fallen in love with. Again and again, as you inhaled and exhaled, lightly creating that shape that only perfectionists can create- And it was hard to believe those lips were now right besides me, Muttering 'To die by your side is such a heavenly way to die' over and over again without them even knowing it. "Let's talk about heart break." you would say. Let's talk about how you couldn't find a pool of enough antique movies to drown the romantic guitar music in your head with so you just used apathy instead. "Lets talk about introversion." Let's talk about the way you heard words you could not listen to- the way you constructed lies to the first pair of hands that offered to hold you, the same way you constructed a mask of indifference when they began to shy away to another girl in another school. "Let's talk about nothing. Let's sing instead." Let's sing that song from The Queen Is Dead by The Smiths. Let's pretend like the queen died the second we sipped our first glass together. The people are rioting in the streets, the people are screaming and refusing to march but we do not care because this isn't the first time we've stripped something away from ourselves Whilst wearing a grin and pretending like we're complete. This isn't the last- drink on, drink on. There are two types of people in this world - the ones who get hurt and the ones who destroy. You never knew this, but I was too busy figuring out if I had to become the latter just to be able to conquer love when you came into my life again. I thought I would feel no calmness when it happened- But it turned out I conquered love in a pint-sized African cafè. With a girl who sometimes wore her hair back like Audrey Hepburn and thought that Calling random boys on the phone and screaming 'Im in love with you' even when she wasn't was a perfectly acceptable way to spend an immaculate Thursday evening. There is a light that never goes out, There is a light that never goes out. And even if it did go out, I wouldn't worry. Because you'll always be right by my side in that tiny cafè when it happens. And you are something between radiant, And radioactive.

39

Tonic and breweries. This home is beginning to resemble a boy again. I don't remember moving in but I don't think I'll ever forget each wall As they stood around me, and how unsafe I felt within them Without them really knowing that I was there. I've always had this theory that Non-habituated houses collapse more easily Than the habituated ones. When put through a hurricane, you were the non-habituated one And you didn't recognize my presence inside of you. When we collapsed you only felt your own pain, But I felt mine as well as yours. I don't know if you know that I still feel it. I don't know if you know that I feel it every single day. The first time I looked for shelter again I found one of your floorboards In the space where my heart was supposed to be. I didn't know how to cordially invite you To walk all over it again- So long the creaks it would produce wouldn't scare people away. It gave motivation to the dreams however, I was in an empty home and you were always sending me postcards without a return address. You claimed you were always just about to move in with me, in these postcards, But everyday it said the same thing. It was a recurring nightmare. I hope you never need a return address. I don't think I can stand the pain of feeling you smell my tears on paper from 100,000 kilometers away. I thought I could, but not anymore. The scent of your presence always reminds me of tonic and breweries. Because you drink when I'm there and you drink when I'm not. I don't know how I associate heaven with the scent of someone Who loves to fill bottles with secrets and then swallow them down with someone else's pride, But I do. And now and again I still wait to see if heaven will keep me sober enough To watch me get drunk without actually drinking anything. We burnt down bars, night-clubs, wine-galleries and cupboards of bottles, But I don't know why I felt the same euphoria then when you threw me into the flames. Maybe heaven was really a smell after all- I'm still trying to find a way to love its wrath without smelling its scent.

0

Apr 12, 2015

Apr 12, 2015 at 8:03 AM UTC

Tonic and Breweries

Tonic and breweries. This home is beginning to resemble a boy again. I don't remember moving in but I don't think I'll ever forget each wall As they stood around me, and how unsafe I felt within them Without them really knowing that I was there. I've always had this theory that Non-habituated houses collapse more easily Than the habituated ones. When put through a hurricane, you were the non-habituated one And you didn't recognize my presence inside of you. When we collapsed you only felt your own pain, But I felt mine as well as yours. I don't know if you know that I still feel it. I don't know if you know that I feel it every single day. The first time I looked for shelter again I found one of your floorboards In the space where my heart was supposed to be. I didn't know how to cordially invite you To walk all over it again- So long the creaks it would produce wouldn't scare people away. It gave motivation to the dreams however, I was in an empty home and you were always sending me postcards without a return address. You claimed you were always just about to move in with me, in these postcards, But everyday it said the same thing. It was a recurring nightmare. I hope you never need a return address. I don't think I can stand the pain of feeling you smell my tears on paper from 100,000 kilometers away. I thought I could, but not anymore. The scent of your presence always reminds me of tonic and breweries. Because you drink when I'm there and you drink when I'm not. I don't know how I associate heaven with the scent of someone Who loves to fill bottles with secrets and then swallow them down with someone else's pride, But I do. And now and again I still wait to see if heaven will keep me sober enough To watch me get drunk without actually drinking anything. We burnt down bars, night-clubs, wine-galleries and cupboards of bottles, But I don't know why I felt the same euphoria then when you threw me into the flames. Maybe heaven was really a smell after all- I'm still trying to find a way to love its wrath without smelling its scent.

40

You asked me to write a poem about you so here it is: Hell is brown-eyed. Today I watched him put his heart into an empty locker again... He did it slowly and cautiously, As if to put emphasis onto how long it's been since He's satisfied himself and not satisfied me. He used to indirectly claim that I was smaller than his textbooks- that I was smaller than his backpack, but just a more heavier weight to carry. I never knew if he saw the strains I felt more as a burden than he did- but if he did he ignored it because I never lost an opportunity to turn my pain into a fire-alarm. Every day we talked about how if it ended it was worth it and how it still made sense even if we counted days like a bombs detonating time. His locker grew colder, And I watched the clock more and more- I guess he couldn't tell that I was measuring my heartache with each heartbeat That burned per second. I guess he couldn't tell- Because we talked like we knew each other. Now I watch him put his heart into an empty locker... I guess I shouldn't be surprised when I hear a heartbeat inside of there, That belongs to neither mine, Nor even belongs to his own.

0

Apr 12, 2015

Apr 12, 2015 at 7:21 AM UTC

You Asked Me To Write A Poem About You So Here It Is

You asked me to write a poem about you so here it is: Hell is brown-eyed. Today I watched him put his heart into an empty locker again... He did it slowly and cautiously, As if to put emphasis onto how long it's been since He's satisfied himself and not satisfied me. He used to indirectly claim that I was smaller than his textbooks- that I was smaller than his backpack, but just a more heavier weight to carry. I never knew if he saw the strains I felt more as a burden than he did- but if he did he ignored it because I never lost an opportunity to turn my pain into a fire-alarm. Every day we talked about how if it ended it was worth it and how it still made sense even if we counted days like a bombs detonating time. His locker grew colder, And I watched the clock more and more- I guess he couldn't tell that I was measuring my heartache with each heartbeat That burned per second. I guess he couldn't tell- Because we talked like we knew each other. Now I watch him put his heart into an empty locker... I guess I shouldn't be surprised when I hear a heartbeat inside of there, That belongs to neither mine, Nor even belongs to his own.

24

You eventually get tired of seeking answers to all of your problems when You've reached your seventeenth birthday and you're bored of trying to change Because you've managed to convince yourself that it is alright to be an artist With only a teacup as your motivation to actually have an aesthetic. You reconciled a long time ago that it wasn't worth the trouble roaming the streets and picking up inspirations from everything that you see. You developed a longing for someone who wasn't there and now you're clinging Onto the void they left as you watch the dreariness of your life Pass through phases you're too exasperated with trying to describe almost every time you find yourself alone without your intention. Sometimes you try, beginning with, "It's funny how the coldest people can make your heart feel the warmest." or "I wish I didn't need to spend my life relining structures of my own heartache just to be able to exist functionally," but, the rest of what comes out doesn't really correlate with what you feel and everything you beautify now becomes everything that stops being real. You had to learn how to strip everything away. Now you fill your bedroom with thoughts until the lights go off because you're too tired To say darkness is an excuse. It's not what inspires you anymore. So you've allowed yourself to only listen to artistic thoughts you experience when you're staring at your grandmothers teacup. She gave it to you before you even knew how to make tea and now every night before you go to bed you stare at it like it can give you something the streets of capital cities with big towers and dark skylines looked up on the internet past midnight when you were miserable couldn't and wouldn't unless you actually went there. You sit at your table and drop the teabag into the cup, just like your grandmother showed you. You have no image of what contents are supposed to dissolve, But you watch the water as it changes colors so quickly. Clear to brown, Clear to green, Clear to red. You watch the ripples like sound waves, affecting everything from the centre of the cup to the edge of it. Those ripples are so small but they will affect everything eventually. You imagine little people, colonies, not exactly living in the water but living In their own version of reality where water is to them what sound is to humans. "I wonder what happens when someone drinks all of the music out." "Nobody lives. That's what happens." You then imagine plummeting and the way teacups are a lot like rivers which people throw pebbles in. You see the curve of the ceramic, the paleness of the white over the blackness of the stripes next to it and the way the bottom of the cup is rounded whilst visible even when it's filled with dark liquid... You then think of human bodies plummeting into rivers. In a way stones are sort of like teabags and when people's emotional burdens are materialized They sometimes take the form of both. (Here's a burden- put it in your pocket and jump into a river. Tie it around a string and dip it into your teacup.) It's so whimsical how clear it is how you feel about people. You wish you weren't as desperate as this- to think that it was artistic to think about ending Your pain at a time where everybody wouldn't notice you're awake. But you know that they also think these but don't express it because they don't have a pain their trying to destroy with revelations of meaninglessness. You have now changed your aesthetic into your coping-mechanism, And nobody needs to know. Every single night you stare at teacups and think about why you're here and why you're not. You still haven't found a reason and now you wish you never thought about rivers before you drank your tea or even got out the teabags. Because now when you see teabags, you only see stones. And instead of dropping them into boiling water you want to put them into your pockets. But it's your aesthetic and it is your art. And you'll never stop doing it, You'll never stop doing it...

0

Feb 20, 2015

Feb 20, 2015 at 4:33 PM UTC

Teabag

You eventually get tired of seeking answers to all of your problems when You've reached your seventeenth birthday and you're bored of trying to change Because you've managed to convince yourself that it is alright to be an artist With only a teacup as your motivation to actually have an aesthetic. You reconciled a long time ago that it wasn't worth the trouble roaming the streets and picking up inspirations from everything that you see. You developed a longing for someone who wasn't there and now you're clinging Onto the void they left as you watch the dreariness of your life Pass through phases you're too exasperated with trying to describe almost every time you find yourself alone without your intention. Sometimes you try, beginning with, "It's funny how the coldest people can make your heart feel the warmest." or "I wish I didn't need to spend my life relining structures of my own heartache just to be able to exist functionally," but, the rest of what comes out doesn't really correlate with what you feel and everything you beautify now becomes everything that stops being real. You had to learn how to strip everything away. Now you fill your bedroom with thoughts until the lights go off because you're too tired To say darkness is an excuse. It's not what inspires you anymore. So you've allowed yourself to only listen to artistic thoughts you experience when you're staring at your grandmothers teacup. She gave it to you before you even knew how to make tea and now every night before you go to bed you stare at it like it can give you something the streets of capital cities with big towers and dark skylines looked up on the internet past midnight when you were miserable couldn't and wouldn't unless you actually went there. You sit at your table and drop the teabag into the cup, just like your grandmother showed you. You have no image of what contents are supposed to dissolve, But you watch the water as it changes colors so quickly. Clear to brown, Clear to green, Clear to red. You watch the ripples like sound waves, affecting everything from the centre of the cup to the edge of it. Those ripples are so small but they will affect everything eventually. You imagine little people, colonies, not exactly living in the water but living In their own version of reality where water is to them what sound is to humans. "I wonder what happens when someone drinks all of the music out." "Nobody lives. That's what happens." You then imagine plummeting and the way teacups are a lot like rivers which people throw pebbles in. You see the curve of the ceramic, the paleness of the white over the blackness of the stripes next to it and the way the bottom of the cup is rounded whilst visible even when it's filled with dark liquid... You then think of human bodies plummeting into rivers. In a way stones are sort of like teabags and when people's emotional burdens are materialized They sometimes take the form of both. (Here's a burden- put it in your pocket and jump into a river. Tie it around a string and dip it into your teacup.) It's so whimsical how clear it is how you feel about people. You wish you weren't as desperate as this- to think that it was artistic to think about ending Your pain at a time where everybody wouldn't notice you're awake. But you know that they also think these but don't express it because they don't have a pain their trying to destroy with revelations of meaninglessness. You have now changed your aesthetic into your coping-mechanism, And nobody needs to know. Every single night you stare at teacups and think about why you're here and why you're not. You still haven't found a reason and now you wish you never thought about rivers before you drank your tea or even got out the teabags. Because now when you see teabags, you only see stones. And instead of dropping them into boiling water you want to put them into your pockets. But it's your aesthetic and it is your art. And you'll never stop doing it, You'll never stop doing it...

52

I sometimes wish that self-awareness came inside of a pill. Because now, My days have been principled into a misery I feel when I pretend to be someone Whose face I see more than my own. The way an actor out of work,perhaps, Would roam their lives indifferent to reality- Wearing a mask of paint, cloaking their emotions in thick layers, Holding in their words in case a crack destroys their non-existent role. Tendering within and playing a part in a society that cannot keep up with the ever-changing personality of a character who has no storyline to follow. The name-calls to all stage positions siren in my head every morning, And I am left disappointed continually as I hear every name Except my own. Everybody needs no 'disguise' except me and i spare no energy thinking Of ways to mask the energy I spare creating mine. I would work too hard to be myself if I worked at all, But, The work is still spared when it's used in efforts to change who I am... Though you may see the make-up on my eye-lids, You will also see the eye-bags which surround them from nights Spent lying awake wondering what color it should be. Though you may see the likeness intentions in my counterfeit expression, You will also see the subjective scar of all the times they were practiced in a mirror Which showed their real reflection. Though you may see the plastic in the way the necessary emotions are showed, You will also see the stains from all the tears that were shed When they were suffocatingly tightening the skin underneath it. It is bland the way the preparation is more strenuous than the presentation, Yet often it is overlapped behind it... And nobody can tell the difference. I am controlled by a director beyond me, And he carries out my pain in the slick of the pen he writes the details of my stories with. He holds it tightly, As the ink lets out a permanence that suggests flawlessness In the style of continually writing tragedies upon tragedies with absolutely no mistake. He let's no uplifting, no state of miracle show as he continues with his masterpiece. Dwelling from sequence to sequence as I follow the dullness in his path. Almost Hoping that he will eventually realize that sometimes the actor can turn into the character, And when real pain becomes false pain then you should learn to know the difference. Sometimes I scream to him when it has desolated to the point of an eternal fictional epilogue. I tell him that I have learnt from the tragedies- that I now know every emotion this mind can feel, And the plasticizing of emotion itself will become inevitable if it is forced to have to feel them again. The apathy created by this would be counter-productive to what he wants me to feel, And more often than not he will become disappointed by having his efforts shattered By the same unfeeling mind he was trying to destroy. The name-calls are inevitable but what happens when the name you left out doesn't care That it is left out. You can re-write all of your tragedies but sometimes you'll feel more affected by them than the character who you wrote them for. And, perhaps you'll never know the difference between crying out loud when the stage curtains are open and Crying out loud when the stage curtains are closed but, Perhaps you will realize you are only as alone as you want to be... ...After all, Mutual hypocrisy always sticks within the step of each character In the loneliness of a life spent as a play Where, The writer is the only audience.

0

Jan 14, 2015

Jan 14, 2015 at 6:15 PM UTC

Actor

I sometimes wish that self-awareness came inside of a pill. Because now, My days have been principled into a misery I feel when I pretend to be someone Whose face I see more than my own. The way an actor out of work,perhaps, Would roam their lives indifferent to reality- Wearing a mask of paint, cloaking their emotions in thick layers, Holding in their words in case a crack destroys their non-existent role. Tendering within and playing a part in a society that cannot keep up with the ever-changing personality of a character who has no storyline to follow. The name-calls to all stage positions siren in my head every morning, And I am left disappointed continually as I hear every name Except my own. Everybody needs no 'disguise' except me and i spare no energy thinking Of ways to mask the energy I spare creating mine. I would work too hard to be myself if I worked at all, But, The work is still spared when it's used in efforts to change who I am... Though you may see the make-up on my eye-lids, You will also see the eye-bags which surround them from nights Spent lying awake wondering what color it should be. Though you may see the likeness intentions in my counterfeit expression, You will also see the subjective scar of all the times they were practiced in a mirror Which showed their real reflection. Though you may see the plastic in the way the necessary emotions are showed, You will also see the stains from all the tears that were shed When they were suffocatingly tightening the skin underneath it. It is bland the way the preparation is more strenuous than the presentation, Yet often it is overlapped behind it... And nobody can tell the difference. I am controlled by a director beyond me, And he carries out my pain in the slick of the pen he writes the details of my stories with. He holds it tightly, As the ink lets out a permanence that suggests flawlessness In the style of continually writing tragedies upon tragedies with absolutely no mistake. He let's no uplifting, no state of miracle show as he continues with his masterpiece. Dwelling from sequence to sequence as I follow the dullness in his path. Almost Hoping that he will eventually realize that sometimes the actor can turn into the character, And when real pain becomes false pain then you should learn to know the difference. Sometimes I scream to him when it has desolated to the point of an eternal fictional epilogue. I tell him that I have learnt from the tragedies- that I now know every emotion this mind can feel, And the plasticizing of emotion itself will become inevitable if it is forced to have to feel them again. The apathy created by this would be counter-productive to what he wants me to feel, And more often than not he will become disappointed by having his efforts shattered By the same unfeeling mind he was trying to destroy. The name-calls are inevitable but what happens when the name you left out doesn't care That it is left out. You can re-write all of your tragedies but sometimes you'll feel more affected by them than the character who you wrote them for. And, perhaps you'll never know the difference between crying out loud when the stage curtains are open and Crying out loud when the stage curtains are closed but, Perhaps you will realize you are only as alone as you want to be... ...After all, Mutual hypocrisy always sticks within the step of each character In the loneliness of a life spent as a play Where, The writer is the only audience.

61

Do you know how it feels like to have a stomach that can only survive on intimacy and nothing else? To be prodded to love all the things that touch your skin whilst simultaneously not being allowed or able to tell the difference between the things that love you and the things that want to leave you barren? How it feels like to see the solemnity and grandeur of an omnipotence within all the sinless intentions of the skin cells that you'll never be allowed to hold? Well... It feels a lot like the romanticization of an eating disorder. Sometimes you fall in love and then begin to forget how your organs are supposed to behave. You look in the mirror and realize that you're still thinking about someone else when you're Analyzing your own body. You clutch at your own skin, your arms, your hair, your throat, and begin to try and disassemble a mind that does not want to be associated with the body that it is working in. Before you know it, Every time you cross the mirror you clutch more and more parts of yourself and wish that they would not feel better in somebody else's hands besides your own. You're getting thinner everyday, you're losing sleep you're forgetting how to breathe, And somewhere, out there, There is a boy in a place far away, giving to someone else what you are about to be killed without. You realize that you turn your own bed into an ocean everytime you think about his face. You feel the hydration of the salt water from everywhere around you, tickling into your senses and diffusing into your nose, but you do not taste it. Only sense it. You're grabbing the sheets desperately. Holding them onto your chest, covering up your shaking body, and almost certainly forgetting the difference between imagining the embrace of somebody who does not love you and drowning alone inside of your own bed. You look for a lifeboat in the form of a thought that has no relation to love or association to the idea of affection. You're hoping to find a distraction that will either save you from your peril or help you breathe in a way where you can still be conscious when there is water inside of your lungs. You're beginning to see dark shapes and figures and all of them are sprouted by the idea of just having a little taste of the very thing that's about to drown you. All of the dark figures are in the shape of your face, And nobody is here to save you. You begin to sink, And sink, And sink, and sink and... You are empty when you wake up. Your chest is not an ***** but you find it funny that when it feels empty, your stomach also wishes to feel the same way. So you make sure it does, Whilst yearning for a meal that does not wish to be consumed by you. That is the only meal, that you will never stop craving for.

0

Dec 22, 2014

Dec 22, 2014 at 3:00 AM UTC

The Starving Child

Do you know how it feels like to have a stomach that can only survive on intimacy and nothing else? To be prodded to love all the things that touch your skin whilst simultaneously not being allowed or able to tell the difference between the things that love you and the things that want to leave you barren? How it feels like to see the solemnity and grandeur of an omnipotence within all the sinless intentions of the skin cells that you'll never be allowed to hold? Well... It feels a lot like the romanticization of an eating disorder. Sometimes you fall in love and then begin to forget how your organs are supposed to behave. You look in the mirror and realize that you're still thinking about someone else when you're Analyzing your own body. You clutch at your own skin, your arms, your hair, your throat, and begin to try and disassemble a mind that does not want to be associated with the body that it is working in. Before you know it, Every time you cross the mirror you clutch more and more parts of yourself and wish that they would not feel better in somebody else's hands besides your own. You're getting thinner everyday, you're losing sleep you're forgetting how to breathe, And somewhere, out there, There is a boy in a place far away, giving to someone else what you are about to be killed without. You realize that you turn your own bed into an ocean everytime you think about his face. You feel the hydration of the salt water from everywhere around you, tickling into your senses and diffusing into your nose, but you do not taste it. Only sense it. You're grabbing the sheets desperately. Holding them onto your chest, covering up your shaking body, and almost certainly forgetting the difference between imagining the embrace of somebody who does not love you and drowning alone inside of your own bed. You look for a lifeboat in the form of a thought that has no relation to love or association to the idea of affection. You're hoping to find a distraction that will either save you from your peril or help you breathe in a way where you can still be conscious when there is water inside of your lungs. You're beginning to see dark shapes and figures and all of them are sprouted by the idea of just having a little taste of the very thing that's about to drown you. All of the dark figures are in the shape of your face, And nobody is here to save you. You begin to sink, And sink, And sink, and sink and... You are empty when you wake up. Your chest is not an ***** but you find it funny that when it feels empty, your stomach also wishes to feel the same way. So you make sure it does, Whilst yearning for a meal that does not wish to be consumed by you. That is the only meal, that you will never stop craving for.

51