Llila

Llila Jul 2016

Paint

The future is a blur of smudged paint
Dragged across the canvas by inexperienced shaking hands
They tell me it is beautiful
But I can only see the mess that I have made
The sickly brown smeared across my palms that however hard I try
I cannot wash away

I cannot dream in future vision
I cannot slip those time traveler lenses over my eyes
I cannot see the ultraviolet, only the ultra-violent
And I bleed away my worries in words that no one shall ever read
And I scream away my sorrows in voices that never belonged to me

The future is a daydream,
Bright skies and gentle waves
That wash away my purple fingertips
And yet when I dream of my own
Those waves become polluted, the sky falls upon the crashing waves
Drowning my fingertips in their suffocating embrace and tightening the nooses on my toes

My future is non-existent
It is late night conversation to keep the day away a little longer
It is glances through crowds of people who, like you and I, will die eventually
It is your face breaking apart with a smile that expels so much light- so much goodness
My future is a daydream, a night dream and all the in-between
My future is the terrifying unknown

My future is sitting at bus stops waiting for a taxi
And knowing that it will never come
But waiting anyway just so that I can watch the sunset
It is snow storms and rainy days
It is running barefoot through a field with no real direction
It is counting the stars at midday

I tell myself that my future is non-existent
And yet
It is so full and so bright
It may not last forever
And I will die, as will you.
But this moment
This is the future.
This is rolling skies and glittering streams.
It is streetlamps that never seem to turn off
And streets that I don't yet know the names of.

My future is a blur of smudged paint
And though it may not be clear or simple
It is wonderful and it is mine.

This one is pretty awful but here it is

Llila Jul 2016

the art of letting go

I hold you in the palm of my hand,
  your eyes are hollowed out craters.
In the holes of which, buried deep, are the memories that you and I  once shared,
  some could say that we still share them,
  it would be difficult for me to disagree.

I hold you in the palm of my hand,
   your life hangs in the balance,
   tipping ever so slightly into the unknown.
We share the same name
    and although I have tried in vain to change mine,
     it still sticks,
     lingering on old tongues,
     leaving a bitter taste in my mouth.

I hold you in the palm of my hand,
  you sit, waiting for whatever will come next,
  you watch me with curious eyes, as if i know the answer to your questions,
and it pains me to tell you that I do not.

I hold you in the palm of my hand,
  we are a magnificent circus duo,
   I, the ventriloquist and you my mindless drone,
  or you the ventriloquist and I, all alone.
  Our audience laugh at our shared torment and
  I, I laugh as well at the situation we have created.

I hold you in the palm of my hand,
  and though we share the same name,
  the same face,
  I fear we are no longer the same.
You are a reflection of what used to be,
  of what is now forgotten
   and fading away,
   as though you never existed in the first place.

And, I , I am the aftermath,
  The desolation after an explosion,
  I am the one who was left behind to pick up the pieces.

I hold you in the palm of my hand,
I hold you close to my heart,
close enough that the pounding of my being deafens you,
and the shaking of my rib cage engulfs you.

I hold you in the palm of my hand,
I tell myself that it is to protect you ,
but in reality I know that I am crushing you.

I hold you in the palm of my hand,
  your eyes are hollowed out craters.
In the holes of which, buried deep, are the memories that you and I  once shared.
But now you are gone and yet I still remain.
Those memories intact but not looking the same.

I'm not too sure about this one.

Llila Jul 2016

The Bird

(written to be read as spoken-word)
There is a bird inside my rib-cage,
I swallowed it whole four years ago.
Its weight drags my feet further and further into the earth below
And its screeches never cease.
Sometimes I worry that it will **** me
And other times I wish it would.
Occasionally,
it would scratch at my lungs and bruise my ribs with its flailing,
It doesn’t do that anymore though,
Sometimes I wish it would.
The talons reminded me that I was still here.
But now the bird simply lies inside my chest making it difficult to breathe.
There is no longer fury in its wings, only the burnt out embers of what used to be.
I fear that the bird has died and that his little bones are the only part of him left to weigh me down.

I dream about freeing the bird, cutting open my lungs and letting his dark feathers seep away,
Tearing skin from bone and bone from bird.
That would surely **** me, but at least the bird could be free.

(lines added later)
I have written this poem a thousand times and I will write it a thousand more
Because I want it to be perfect
I will say to you a thousand times that perfection is unattainable
and yet I will try a thousand times to attain it.
That is the curse of the bird
I’m beginning to conquer my bird,
But like a long had pet, it is difficult to let go
A close friend, a pretty drug, it’s difficult to put down
But when I do,
The entire universe will know
Because I will sing without feathers I my throat,
Because I will paint without darkness in my eyes,
And because I will wake up in the morning to see the sun rise
And I will walk for miles because I want to
And I smile and smile and smile
Until my face forgets the shape of a frown

I wrote this a while ago and added the last lines later

— The End —