Plick,
Pluck,

the tiny little strings in my mind.

dancing to a different tune each and every day,
the world plays my songs.

eyes wandering around the room while I play with my thoughts,
like the child I never won't be.

cross-legged and slumped over as the heated droplets dribble down my spine,
and fall from my weary lips,
that which are worn from the words I never got used to saying,
singing the songs of my each and every day,

coalesce the thinkings that have somehow let me dance to where I sit today,
forlorn petals fall from my branches in beautiful pastels, cursed to live in the winding winds.

Aday to each and every day that I sing and prance within my tiny little heart,
washing my pains away.

ill-weighed upon my shoulders,
as yet i dance some more,
beneath the turbid downpours engulfed in shades of red.

i wish't to see the blue,
the green,
the steam, arising from my skin.

narrowly weeping within my little box of horrors i keep by my side,
in remembrance of each and every day i have and will yet shed a tear.

haunted lullabies revel on and on,
each and every day,

i crave the pieces of the peaces i'd once known.
to here,
today,

i shut my eyes,
and into the blackness bursts forth colors i've never seen,
and will never see again.
to see that which i've never seen.
silent shapes shaping away falling through my fields of vision,
and inform themselves to the visions I write today,
so here,

i simply continue,
to plick,
and pluck,
the tiny strings inside my mind,

each,
and every day.

~Robert van Lingen

A twist,
A burn,
Drown, you say?

Shall I spray these letters on the page for you to read?
May I display the writhing writes that within I keep?

I slash the pen against the inside of my skull,
To write my stories...

We call this,
a poem.

but does that make me,
the poet?

To read my old conversations...
That are long now passed,
It is both more, and less jarring than I expected it to be.

I am taken aback,
Not because I am taken back,
But only due to the sharp and nigh painful retrospect of our mistakes.
How differently I wish I did anything,
Not because I wish I still had you,
But, because I am disappointed in myself for not living up to my own values...
Blinded by the blind, blind love I was in.

Retrospect and nostalgia may be similar,
In fact...
They're either edge of the same sword.

What is this curse I bear...
To always be aware of my doings,
But never knowing why?

I am a lost ship with no rudder or flares,
I am a roaming car with no wheel,
I am a scout with no compass...

I am,
a soul,
a heart,
a mind,

with no truth
no light
nigh even a tenuous sky...

when I lay these eyes upon where the stars would be,
Mindnumbing shudders grapple my limbs and slay me forth against the walls I'd built but only to keep my heart safe,
mindrunning awild as I can only see behind me.
Time, rushing away from these brittle bones.
I,
have no idea

To play the heartstrings plays a song only we can hear,
To love the artist of words,

Every string you pluck,
Becomes our canvas.
Make us cry,
The world will read.

To love a writer,
Is to publish your deeds.

i am the ripple on the pond
\
the pebble you've cast
makes me see my own reflection
/
i

Chicken scratch,
Chicken scratch...

scribbles,
   Slashed against the page...

What is this rage?

This ink is my blood.
   Let me bleed some more.


~Robert van Lingen