Symbolism set before my eyes was never captured well
Every mitch-match color-washed mistake was one that went unnoticed
Before me now, I have to choose,
Do I stick with the ultra misunderstanding,
Or do I learn to accept the way of the world?
Do I fight for what has been living inside,
Or let fate show things good and new?
These days,
I'm reteaching myself how to form memorable bonds
It beats sitting alone,
Reliving the old ones
Returning to past lives and past states,
When It's tearing out the senses,
And replacing them with tales,
Some of which aren't even my own,
Some of which never happened,
And will never occur

my humanity is slipping
as i become my numbers
give me one more like

I have travelled so much,
so much that my feet
have become sore
still, I yearn for more.

when will end this quest?
how much more will I search?
what is this thirst that I have?

I don't know
where I am going
I don't know
who I am anymore
I don't know
how will I reach there
and I don't even know
what I am looking for.

© Ali Ashraf

You say you saw the void?
Look into these eyes—
You do not see
The transparency of space
A nostalgia of regression when the
The mountains seemed so much smaller in your youth—
Not in these eyes.
You don’t see the void, but the future,
Not blackness, but the future,
Not the future, but the past,
Like all of us clairvoyants.
You close your eyes to see the world
Through clean mantras
Like all of us clairvoyants.
Looking back as their gaze looks forward
Like all of us clairvoyants.
Sounding the woolen past
And eerie comfort of rest
Like all of us clairvoyants.
Reading your own future
While reading others’
Like all of us clairvoyants.
There is no such thing as darkness anymore,
A truth you know well since
All truths are certainly true and false.
Wait for the light through the window
To scan the floor;
Every person is a lighthouse
Searching wildly in the dark
And in storms, ships will land
With or without permission
And you’ll laugh alongside them
With or without provisions.
Show me your tricks,
Clairvoyant
I have already lived in the future
And am not fooled easily.

How are we allowed to grow
When our silences are spread thin,
Our cheeks forever touched
By strangers on trains.
When our eyes are glued to
The girl crying in the bathroom,
And a child following
His mother carefully along the crowded street.

How are we allowed to grow
With the shouts from parties next door
Break down the bedroom walls,
When that boy who you used to be friends with
Walked down the other side of the street
And you hope he doesn’t see you,
When the man starts yelling obscenities
From the corner of the park
And you want to believe his words.

How are we allowed to grow
With all of the pain,
With our brief glimpses of joy,
With our arms outstretched for a better future,
With our minds stunted in the past.

How are we supposed to grow
When our very bones are torn apart
By questions we can never answer.

Sólo quiero que ya sean las tres de la mañana
Es lo que estoy pensando y más ansío
En días como estos cuando me siento vacío
Tengo tantos pensamientos que me matan

Sólo quiero que ya sean las tres de la mañana
Porque así todo estará en silencio
No quiero responder preguntas
Sólo quiero ahogarme en la calma

Sólo quiero que ya sean las tres de la mañana
Porque así sólo oiré mi propia voz
Porque en medio de una canción
Encontraré las palabras que tanto me faltan

Sólo quiero que ya sean las tres de la mañana
Porque ya no me queda privacidad
Estoy harto de compartir mi lugar
Siento que quiero golpear hasta no sentir nada

Sólo quiero que ya sean las tres de la mañana
Porque por el día mis ojos se secan
Mi voz calla y la felicidad me deja
Veo los días vacíos, ya no siento mi alma

Sólo quiero que ya sean las tres de la mañana
Concentrarme en mi pena y desahogarla
Es difícil sostener el nudo en mi garganta
Estoy lleno de odio y lágrimas

Ya me estoy olvidando de quién soy
Pero a las tres de la mañana se abre mi corazón
Entonces me encuentro de nuevo
Al menos por un breve momento

Siento que valgo algo
Siento que ya no tengo que callarlo
Siento que la angustia puede fluir e irse
Comienzo a ver que ya serán las cuatro
Y aunque mi voz no haya sonado
Pude sacar este dolor
Pude lavar mi corazón
Y sentirme vivo y con fuerzas
Por eso es que quiero que sean
Las tres de la mañana en mi pieza

Ya sólo faltan tres horas
Sólo debo esperar eso
Para ya no hacer esfuerzo
Y dejar que este sollozo
Se fugue en silencio
Mientras contemplo mi techo
Vestido de ***** para acompañarme
En este luto de sentimientos
De los cuales quiero alejarme
Sólo quiero que ya sean las jodidas tres de la mañana, maldición...

Sandra works the slots all day
Smoking cigarettes; taking free drinks
Feeding the bandits instead of her soul…
Knowing it's daylight, somewhere!
Ken throws craps; blackens the Jack
Winks sickly at the cocktail waitress
Imagines doing things way past his prime…
Knowing it's nighttime, somewhere!
Passing hours like their years
Bathed in sticky syrup distraction
Dismount stool, lurch; pin-***** pupils
They meet at the buffet; tepid, bland
As their vacation; their marriage
Mid-life shape shifting sand!

© pofacedpoetry – Billy Reynard-Bowness (2018) – All rights reserved