my heartbeat is like a quiet thunder
and these tears are the showers
that water the love-seeds in my chest.
there’s not enough color in my head
but there’s so much red and it bleeds.
my love for you bleeds,
and the roses that grow here
are covered in thorns.
i can’t hold on to them
and come out
If the water dies,
then wind is the ghost of water,
a banshee's tribute
blowing through sky and ancient riverbeds.
If the wind dies
then who is the ghost of wind?
Sand is the ghost of wind,
over the earth's core.
East of sun, sand.
West of moon, sand.
More fruitful than aphids.
Who is the ghost of the sand?
When lightning blasts the earth into one giant trickery
with nothing but the helplessness of stars
then the water
meets her executioner.
Silence, then fire.
Shining light on even the darkest of places
Enforcing happiness resulting in all sad thoughts to wilt away
It's actions aren't limited to a certain person, place or time yet no one can argue with it's divine way of capturing emotion and guiding it towards the answers that weren't ever thought to be asked.
The childish recklessness you indulge in makes you forget your problems because what problems could a child possibly have.
You allow yourself to go back to a time the illusion of happiness was real because of it.
There we are
Bundles of thoughts and nerves
We plan and script
Burn the midnight oil
Chartering paths and mapping
But then, life happens
And it will
I suppose I could brood
And close tired eyes
Or I could lasso a cloud
And hitch a ride to paradise
There I stood, at the edge of the horizon,
ready to drop into the void that has long since consumed me,
complete and utter oblivion on my mind,
and looking toward the angry sky,
my eyes watch the last sunset I'll ever see.
Before I plunge, I breathe in untainted air for the first time since birth,
and I count the palpitations of my still beating heart,
the sky fades to black.
It all goes blank, like watching a tragedy unravel from behind a one-way mirror and being powerless to stop it,
confronting the familiar sensation of drowning,
except, this time it's for real
and there is no way to escape the burning of your barren lungs,
now my heart trembles in the depth of despair,
its final beat pounding in my ears like the echoes of a drum.
Rising from the waves, I swim unscathed
as if I'd been above the water all along,
and I wash upon the dusty shore,
unsure if I've met my tumultuous fate,
my phantom longing to soar,
but invisible chains bonded me, forbidding me from leaving the uncontrollable storm that was brewing.
It didn't take long to realize that this was the oblivion,
the nothingness that I thought would finally bring peace,
all of my reasons seemed as far away as the sun in the sky that I could no longer reach.
The world was still spinning,
maybe somewhere my presence long-forgotten,
my thoughts and my dreams evaporated to dust,
everything that I had once touched:
gone and never to be seen again.
My soul is broken on the ocean floor,
the shattered remains left to fly on fractured wings,
pieces of me sent to every person I love or have loved,
and I can only watch on the outside as they ask themselves what they could have done to save me;
Why didn't they save me?
And I look up to every mountain top,
every cloud passing by,
all in a similar cycle that I had never noticed before because I was so caught up in my own pessimism that I did not see the beauty all around me.
I did not see the hands extended in the air to hold me up after I had fallen,
I had not seen the silent pleas in their eyes
or the ghosts of my past haunting them the way they had haunted me.
Now the stone girl had cracked
and all that they couldn't discern was displayed,
leaving me nothing but an illusion to vanish into the shadows;
and for the first time,
tears swept through my entire being,
the realization that ending my life was forever
but you never think about that until after you've jumped;
that the limits to my own mortality became clear
in the millisecond before the sunset,
the last glimpse of light I ever saw before I raced through the tunnel to find it.
They say that light can vanquish darkness,
but they never tell you that sometimes the darkness needs more than embers,
sometimes it needs a sunset.
And if someday I were to live again,
I would never take them for granted.
everyone has a story and mine is painted
the color of the oceans on the bermuda coastline.
it’s so beautiful/sad/broken/much like art.
my skin sometimes shimmers like that lake by your
house in florida, the lake that knows how to dance
in the moonlight like we did that night when you
you put an arm over my shoulders and we swayed
like lovers to a song others have kissed so passionately to.
it’s funny. i saw you and i saw your story.
i saw it painted in sunsets,
and sun showers,
and tears in the rain.
you had a story with the colors of fresh bruises, and it intermingled with mine.
what if i let my soul spill out onto a canvas again?
would we be able to pretend
like this love never had to end
and could we blend our colors together
like the watercolor paints we’re made of
above the pain and
that envelops us
and our story?
what does it mean to have a story?
i wonder this, as i instinctively tell ours
and hope that i left some fingerpaint
on your heart.
you can set me apart from anyone you have ever loved.
i still love
you in color although my world's gone grey
even though i have to keep reminding myself that
your voice sounds like a violet galaxy
because it’s got the kind of stars i may never get to see
once again i am left to watch a lover on the sidelines
and it’s like my
heart is forever breaking in the night time
and the daytime.
all the blasted time.
i’m crying on my knees
praying to a god i never used to believe
in but only a higher power could cause this bleeding
of love that i was seeking.
and now i understand the meaning in
be careful what you wish for.
and i am unsure
of what i miss more.
the purple streak in your hair,
the look in your eyes,
the glow in the dark,
the float above the ground,
the couldn’t care less,
of your voice,
the way you’d effect my heartbeat…
i had stars in my eyes, babe,
but the stars bleed
and i hardly see
anything but what we
used to be.
we used to be everything in every galaxy
i used to be,
i used to be,
i used to be free.
can’t you see it’s killing
me, turning my colors grey?
can’t you just
wouldn’t you just
stay a moment while i find the right words to paint.
the right words to say.
words the color of love/fear/the bay/promise.
because i love you like a promise
soft, pale blue, and the skyline,
ever present, never evanescent and true.
i want to continue this story,
because we were so lovely
and we had so much more
between a renaissance,
literature with crisp apple pie and bitter memorials
architectural exaction and
perpetual shadows to excommunicated
entities that you
intended to be a saint who grew weaker -
nadir then sleep deprived
insincere with over explaining
why I outlived uninhabitable checkboards
ancestral blood, step five to wilderness
through flowers but you make me
want to stay
because it's always been a misfeature
of my youthfulness in your unrest
realm - sexual violence
as the haunted implore coincidence by
'for I am a moth fluttering into a rib cage
filled with green moss'
Eyes follow you around the room,
from the painting on the wall.
Hairs stand erect upon your neck,
and shivers rack you to the core.
The fixed smile holds a tension,
malevolent with its twisted grin.
A face thats sinister and beguiling,
inviting your soul to come right in.
A heavy gold guilt frame of wood
draws the eyes to the picture viewed.
Return you gaze upon the face,
and you see the eyes have moved.
A tear of blood runs down the cheek,
from the stare of a vacant chiller.
But familiarity is breeding contempt,
for the portrait is really a mirror.
© Pagan Paul (21/09/17)