we all have our stories.
stored in cafes, empty beer bottles,
soaked clothes, tattered floppy disks.
old film cameras, b/w reels.
we keep these memories with us,
and displace them as well.
their cytotoxicity travels
throught terminals of life's airport.
eventually new souls come and go.
terminals change, destinations flicker
on digital screens.
we delay our feelings, fall in love
with the impossibility of circumstance.
we all have our stories,
maybe in poems like these, or
photographs like the screenshot i would take to share this poem.
we all have our stories,
and not all stories are as happy
as the plants kept beside me while
i sit and write this poem down.
stories that make us.
I sit on my chair
Looking at the vase
With dried flowers
Sitting there for days
So do I
We share looks
We share the pain
We share the agony
Of no one caring
my hands tremble on paper,
the sharp pencil crisply glides,
across sheets spread out on the table.
my feelings are laid bare,
dispossessed of the weapons.
history is written in the past.
so why am i worried about the future?
ink laid bare across battlefields of corpses.
these documents have split apart lives,
memories and hopes.
i bury all hopes of being happy in this world.
because what i want must not be confused with what i must feel.
so i hide behind these words,
writing thousands of pages, scrolling past ages and ages of sacrifice.
to only end up
saying nothing at all.
who am I? why is it that i am feeling this way? i guess we'll never know.
i am terrible at explaining this feeling. the feeling of not being enough. The feeling of sacrificing life's gold to obtain silver. they say human relationships are pure but what's pure in exchanges which only speak of dreams and desires? what's so pure in exchanges of commodities between souls when the essence of love evaporates in the potency of moonsoon. i think i have done enough for everyone. the emptiness in me is nothing but an anthem of loss of meaning in the miniscule negotiations of life's key moments. and the only way to escape losing my essence is to stop injuring myself and healing the same scars. all over again.
an observation into the innocuous piety of my life.
"I'm right." says he
Says her, you, my friend and me
"right" stares from afar.
I feel lost amid all the chaos and confusion.
Everyone has an opinion, every opinion seems right in its own way, it also seems wrong.
he smiles because he knows, his end is your beginning. you have went to the edge and tasted the poison of the river. it is pernicious but you let it burn your throat becuase his kiss was honey elongated into your tips of your tongue. how many more canvases and seasons would you have spent together if not for somnolence you had taken for grantedz for so long. he brushes away, leaving you incomplete, promoting you to clear your clouds from his overcast sky. you long for only one thing dear girl because you can lie to the whole world, but not to yourself.
faces of people, veins of memories remaining,
while the moments are missing.
old habits have died, the night is naked.
the call is of the forest, to unravel the roots of our callous existence.
we are only scratching the surface when we say, we want to be loved.
beneath the ice berg, is the memories we reproduce, in our light, like scented candles, unsuitable for funerals.