"--you know, I've either had a family, a job, something
has always been in the
way
but now
I've sold my house, I've found this
place, a large studio, you should see the space and
the light.
for the first time in my life I'm going to have a place and
the time to
create."
no baby, if you're going to create
you're going to create whether you work
16 hours a day in a coal mine
or
you're going to create in a small room with 3 children
while you're on
welfare,
you're going to create with part of your mind and your
body blown
away,
you're going to create blind
crippled
demented,
you're going to create with a cat crawling up your
back while
the whole city trembles in earthquakes, bombardment,
flood and fire.
baby, air and light and time and space
have nothing to do with it
and don't create anything
except maybe a longer life to find
new excuses
for.

1619

Not knowing when the Dawn will come,
I open every Door,
Or has it Feathers, like a Bird,
Or Billows, like a Shore—

1158

Best Witchcraft is Geometry
To the magician’s mind—
His ordinary acts are feats
To thinking of mankind.

Give me a drink.
Give me something that'll change my mind.
I want to be pushed to the brink.
I want to be with my mind in the sky.

Make me feel something.
Anything that even remotely has the pseudonym of emotion.
Make me forge my own memories.
I no longer want to remember life and its devotion.

I want that bitter taste,
Craving the slap in the face it gives.
Pitifully watching you turn into waste,
Giving you regret after regret until you no longer live.

I don't particularly ache for it,
Nor do I really wait for it.
But the way I go without it,
Surely it's not hard to crave it one bit.

Don't give me a drink.
Give me something to look forward to.
I don't want to be pushed to the brink,
But it seems it's the only thing I know.

I'm so fed up.
I want to tear it apart.
I'm so unbelievably angry.
How could someone act like this?

Why can't he realize the hurt he's putting in my heart?
Why can't he realize the distance he put between us?

I wanted to mourn,
I wanted to weep into the tunnel's cacophony,
I can't fabricate this crystalline dream any longer.
No more can I keep this ocean blue mirage alive.

How can an ever-changing butterfly still keep its chains?
How can a flower finally bloom without the sky's tears?

My cyclical aspirations tossing and turning,
Bringing me joy and sorrow,
But it's all nothing compared to this impenetrable bedrock.

I want to see the light of day, and to carry myself forward.
What can I do though, when the Sun is blurred by stagnation?

Life.
Life is so beautiful.
Yet people question it.
It lays a veil of enlightenment over our heads.
God, how I wish to enjoy life,
To seek out every bit and truly become passionate.
But so many people are focused on the bigger picture,
It's like no one has time to enjoy the little things.
The tiny details,
The little fragments of emotion,
That confidence, oh God, how I love that.
That aura of knowing what you want,
That stroke of beautiful luck,
I yearn for it.
But something has perturbed my usual inquiries.
I can't feel happiness as I used to, more importantly I don't feel sadness neither.
It's metamorphose into something completely different.
It's horrible,
It's fragmented yet I despise it,
I can feel the air it leaves like a rock on Atlas's back.
Forced to carry the weight of whatever it could be whether or not it even feels any relative emotion.
Nights where I cower wondering where it might be next,
So twisted and perverted, too dedicated to the cause of smothering me.
It's like a chamber where you can no longer breathe,
A see through glass where you've already lost all hope.
How can I go out like this?
How can I function like this?
Every seemingly little thread of excitement is cut by those three old hags of fate.
I stare blindly into a future where I cannot see my marble road.
Why?
Oh why?
When will I find my new hermit shell?
When will I carry the fruits of my labor?
When will I stop holding my tongue?
When will I stop questioning every action I make?
I want to rip myself apart just to find what's inside my crevices.
For where is my life?
Across the shore forever out of reach?
Or lost at sea joining the sirens calling out for me?
Perhaps I must collect it like that of a selkie,
And hold it under chains, trapped like a banshee.
Forever wailing out for help,
To an audience that no longer enjoy opera.
I hate the way it looks at me,
A spitting image that I wish to utterly destroy.