i ought not to worry
about the time i've wasted away
because i know fate
will treat me right someday.
she will bring me someone special -
the person who's gonna stay,
and make everything better
when skies turn gray.
because "hold your faith; trust your travels,
all things good, will soon unravel. " was what she said.
Punch in the dates
that you remember
and prepare yourself
for a vignette journey
through the universe
of the past;
“protagonist ready,” I say,
and “copy that”
comes on the receiver in my headset.
Through tinted windows
I see a scattering of stars
against my rocket
dainty, free, unchained
and faint orange streetlamps;
a jigsaw of illumination
at the centre of light speed
Seeing a seventeen year old girl
pass my window,
furiously writing at her desk
that manifest as the sadness in the dark
as the shadows creeping
the un-slept sleep paralysis
wantonly reaching crooked,
around her throat
as she breathes.
leaving stardust in my wake
a cacophony of smiles
like this is all just some rollercoaster
at a theme park;
cheeks whipping past
eyes wide open
cheers and adventure for everyone
in this rocket built for one.
An eighteen year old,
retiring like an old woman
to her room
to sit in bed
and lament upon the unimportance
when everything is the end of the world
then she’ll stop writing
and start living.
Passing gold discs
and watching mysteries
picking up faint radio waves
of non-human languages
and Keaton Henson songs.
writing about crying
when she’s probably not crying
and writing like
everything is a disaster
dropping your pen on the floor
is just dropping your pen on the floor.
“Readjust speed,” I say,
“we’re going somewhere new”
and the voice in my headset
says “copy that”.
He write in bread crumbs,
trails of clues that will not be found because the birds have eaten them. Fleeting, unremarkable, but it feeds and feeds and fills empty stomach. Unfulfilling but full.
( Most of the days that is so much better than being hollow)
Over the years, the forest grows.
Grasses mold it self into canopies, rooftops that shields him from the light. A darkness that blinds but pulsing with warmth. Branches twisting towards each other, entangled in each other stories. 'write better' they whispers.
Flowers will not blooms but the sweet smell of honeycombs wafts through the air like hunger.
( we are hungry and hungry and lonely tell us stories, tell us more more more more please moremoreore-)
So the path to home become unrecognizable. Intangible, flickering as if it wanted to be real.
He feels kin ship down to his bones and whimpers fall out from his mouth, quivers but does not fold.
He curled but life would not, will not let him bend.
What should a man do if he cannot curve, cannot bow and break? They all said that to achieve greatness, he have to taste 'broken' on his tongue. Ripe to the point of decaying, fingers sticky with black honey.
He let his teeth chatters, secrets flew out of his mouth like love letters. Carved into him self are the promises made by breakers and yet, honesty is what he sounds like. A forest is an illusion, they say. Wrap your perception until everything look the same and there is only doubt in your self.
( After all everything have to protect their heart)
Peeling barks, bleeds. He bit his lip, wounds are his lovers but everyone knows that love is treacherous. There is a little boy and a man. There is Him, the one who only grows and feeds but never fulfills. 'Isn't that enough?',he asked.
This was what you sow into me, you make me grow into a man but not a human. So he becomes,
forest isn't the only thing that can burn.
( How do you escape your self?)
This is a mirror house, a forest where every trees are your thoughts, their roots are your beliefs, and their seeds are your doing.
(most of the times, it become your own undoings)
You reap what you sow, but what if you are the one who was sowed.
A journey to and through the heart I go,
moving as the intake
gracefully travels to outtake.
As moments slow and energies rise.
The journey into the heart I go,
a singing to match beat.
Singing like birds that echo divinely.
A journey to and through the heart I move,
dancing as the intake
elegantly travels to outtake.
As sun shines and energies vibrate.
The journey into the heart I go,
where there are no limitations.
Where love of self lives forever.
Oh but a haze.....
A fog, a blow
Oh but a weariness.......
Oh but a fallacy. A curse.
Unless embraced, unless held with care.
The haze can confuse,
The haze, is hanging angel, a shining curse.
If torment will come -- you can allow it to.
If the haze is taken slowly, it can caress you.
There is nothing but freedom and madness.
There is nothing but darkness and pure light.
At the harbor, the docks shake and anchor.
But out at sea there is nothing to guide you.....
And the haze can be the meaning you put.
The winds will blow the direction you gear.
And the haze can be nothing but a story you tell it.
the phone rings
and as always i recoil
my body not set to the ups and downs
far more comfortable in the silence
and open space
i think of the x-acto knife at home
how it will shred through the layers of
paper like tissue
like my breasts
like the soft space between my thighs
a collage though, put together and patched-up
perhaps i've forgotten those envied bits
long gone are the nights of lovers lying soundless
the room filled with the scent of lust
my tongue and mouth dry, lips cracked from kissing
a drawer full of clippings all ready and i'll glue
color and light, texture and contrast mean almost everything
maybe, mostly, wantonly
withdrawn and blindly i imagine the outline
the way the picture will move and i will be seen
a microscopic view at best, even from over there
turned away and forgotten, like the art of long ago
she once flew higher and faster
skies ahead shouting for her to catch up
days like raindrops splashing on the darkened blacktop
now it's more swamp below than land
footing uncertain and pain inflicted
hands ingrained, lashings she deserves
how to come so far and yet be stuck so violently to the web
spun around and around
blood dripping and draining
and the flies circle,
they wait aware of the unraveling of the fleshy pieces
wanting only the remains
she is a sinner, she repents
but the crime, what of it an whose crime is it really
does she walk with these painful heels or flutter off
reminded that time will heal what space has not already
years of distance and she becomes less human
Can one hold the bones of dead dreams
With ashes and embers rising in the air
Walking down a grey road with
a beating heart in hand.
Black and chained, strained and pained
to my mind and soul.
For I want to be one who can finally sleep
but with each passing day, I can't seem
to find rest, or peace.
When will it end...?
The method to my madness.
The rage of instability.
The constant lashes and screams of self-doubt.
I feel so hollow...
What remains when a thought is forgotten?
What remains when one feels hollow?