#collector
I will give them away to a sea.
Long time ago,
I picked them up from a beach.
I wanted to own them,
I wanted them to be mine.
But they haven't become mine.
They will never be mine.
Like kidnapped children
they have been waiting all this time,
hoping to see the home again.
I will give them away to a sea,
for the longer I keep them, the longer
I feel their pain.
Apr 24
Apr 24, 2026 at 12:14 PM UTC
I don't even care
That I am a garbage collector
But that
Janitor, it doesn't seem...
Mar 15, 2020
Mar 15, 2020 at 11:56 AM UTC
And the mind is a powerful thing,
Sharper than a knife;
Mine strives to cut people out;
One by one.
With each silhouette chalk-outlined,
A new cake cutter is drawn;
A man-shaped trace lane out
Across white papered floors.
And the mind is a dangerous thing,
A labyrinth spiked with closing doors,
Tantrum prone;
Mine looses once and locks them out;
One by one.
With every snap-scissor-shut,
My paper-chain folds a man longer;
Stacked like secrets beneath my bed
And the mind is a curious thing,
I sleep easy above my burial ground,
And easier still.
The collector;
My romantic hands are ruby-dipped
moon-slicked and warm
As they take to my shovel;
Lessons will be learned
With bones for me to keep;
Row by row,
Proof of guilt lies below me;
2ft wide and 6ft deep.
Jul 13, 2019
Jul 13, 2019 at 9:02 AM UTC
How can I pour my existence onto the page,
To stand firm, true, inviolate;
Like this arrangement of ancient bark?
My words written in their time,
Shed themselves like autumn leaves,
Tumbled and turned by the winds of the creative mind.
Will they whisper to those who would hear,
Of greener times and memories unfurled,
My secrets, my shame, my joy, my sorrows?
To be picked up and appreciated for their sunset colouring,
Swept aside with impatience as a trifling incidental,
Or trampled to dust by the pell-mell of rushing feet.
And which, dear reader, are you - a collector, a sweeper, or a trampler?
May 2, 2019
May 2, 2019 at 5:21 AM UTC
You are a collector
Of beautiful things
Art and artifacts
You can dust off
To show your friends
Turn the lights off
When they leave
For beauty is only real
If it makes others
Feel ugly.
I finally understand
Why you only call me
When you're with them
And stop holding me
When they leave.
Feb 12, 2019
Feb 12, 2019 at 9:25 AM UTC
Who is the suiter, what they say?
flassless and pure as you are
Even a perfect cut diamond sure has needles and clouds as its born bigger
May not worthy for the museum collector
It has some value despite having major pinpoints and feathers
Rational thinking process is the only factor and matter
Dec 30, 2018
Dec 30, 2018 at 12:37 PM UTC
The small hands of a child
Are innocent
Reaching for fake animals
Or candy bars.
But his mother
Says he shouldn’t have been here
His father
Never kisses him.
He has nothing to reach for.
A child can be born without innocence.
Small hands can do more
Than reach for fake animals
Or candy bars.
A tiny killer, he is.
Dec 15, 2018
Dec 15, 2018 at 1:40 PM UTC
Fingers laced together, I am a basket.
Take parts to build a heart: you will need
wild things, beautiful things.
Mostly you will need
things that no one asked for,
that no one expected.
Things that have no reason to exist,
but do.
Netted spiderwebs and nettle fistfulls.
Fish scales and cotton cattails.
Dragonflies skimming across the water in the early morning
and fireflies imitating stars in the somber dusk.
The eddies behind rocks that jut brashly from the river
and the ribbons woven wreath-like through wrens’ nests.
Hauled up by handles, dump everything somewhere
you wouldn’t mind living.
Apply heat, settle in somewhere
you wouldn’t mind leaving.
Let sit two to twenty four hours, stirring occasionally.
Listen:
rhythm
one-two
one-two
it lives.
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 6:24 AM UTC
Downpour of the rain and midnight thunder soothes my brain.
I can fix this.
I need a breakthrough, I need something…
I just can’t think, I can’t create.
You sound like them, nervous and ready to condemn,
But I’m closer to truth, and closer to all the sickness
In their bones.
So I scratch out their names of another soul this disease claims.
And it just spreads, it always spreads.
Their eyes hardly sober now.
If they’re alive, then I can’t tell.
Silence of the room, it’s not so bad, it’s not so bad.
Stealing from the tomb, it’s not so bad, it’s not so…
Not so bad.
So I scratch out the names of the poor ******** I can’t save
To ease the blame.
The ghosts of humanity beckons for life I can’t provide
Or recreate, or sew the seeds of my good deeds.
I see the line, I can’t stop now.
I know I’m flirting with hell.
If I’m alive, then I can’t tell.
Pills and optimism seem to fail when I need
Strength to persevere but the light is fading.
I can feel the nightmares in my bones, persuading
Me to find solutions for the sick
So we won’t die.
Patience, I see that time has failed you.
Why did the people praise you?
Why did the people warn me
To keep you close by?
Hope, how could you betray me?
You were my one foundation.
Why did you decide to leave me
To suffer alone?
Darkness, I can’t begin to tell you
How much I’ve come to crave you.
Sorry I kept you chained up,
But I need you now.
Jul 2, 2018
Jul 2, 2018 at 11:15 PM UTC
You do not water me daily,
You allow me to parch
And count the seasons I perennate
With only a drop of what I thought
Was especially for me.
You do not tend to me,
You let me need you needfully;
You burrow deep into my soil
And untangle my roots,
You knew exactly the right fertilizer
To get me to grow.
You do not take me in at night,
You leave me in a greenhouse
I shared with the rest of other plants
You couldn't pick from,
Shivering, waiting for another day
I happen to flush rosier petals
And get your attention again.
You do not choose me,
You do not own me,
You do not love me;
You are not the gardener,
No you are not.
You are just a confused collector,
Visiting every parterre,
Plucking all the best flowers,
Chancing for the greatest find
Without the intention of keeping it.
You are not the gardener,
No you are not.
You are just a collector,
A lonely little lad
Running out of other pastimes;
And I am just a hobby
You do not take to heart.
But I am not a flower,
No I just am not.
I am the vase
Holding the flower
You knew could use your sunshine,
So you let it hang right where
It is almost there.
But I am not a flower,
No I just am not.
I am the vase
Holding that flower;
Maybe a porcelain you can break
Into many brittle pieces,
But never a plant
You can watch dry and die and be dust,
No I just cannot be.
I am a vase,
Not a flower;
And you are not the gardener.
I do not belong in your collection.
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 5:59 AM UTC
People label me as one of those very observant ones they have ever met in their lives. Whatever I think about others, is close enough to ninety percent of the truth (not to judge, of course).
And it is also truth that those who laugh the most, cry the most. I guess this also applies to those very positive people, who are the most negative in their heads or they've also been through the most negative incidents.
There is a certain boy, a young man, who just entered the twenties stage of life. I observe and read him, and I have been doing this for the past eight months.
He is quiet, he is kind, he is a very bright person who looks out for others, probably too much. He is smart and has attended top schools and won several competitions in the martial arts, as well as performing and fine arts. A very artistic soul, quite opposed to his rather playful countenance; though beauty is displayed in all his capabilities and striking features. Even the way he speaks is soothing and gentle, and I admit I would sleep to it and regret how his voice is too nice to be literally slept on.
I know a part of his painful past with the spinal tuberculosis accident or the fact when he couldn't enter his dream art school. And perhaps, a darker part of his history that is unknown except by him and his close ones.
But I can see it, I can see it on his face, in his actions and some of his words: sometimes he tries to get attention by doing unnecessary or silly things; says the weirdest of phrases; he gets tired and there's this certain feeling lurking in his gaze. He always looks like he's looking for something, for someone. He always looks like he is wondering about everything and anything. He even looks lost or frustrated on some occasions.
Honestly, a Sadness Collector knows when another is nearby or in sight. I am one, and I know he is another. He always wants people to depend on him or for them to think that he is alright. It's not so bad, but I wish he would rest his little fragile heart that can only take so much of others' sadness. He still has his own sadness to keep under all of that. I want him to give some of it to me that the burden and tears may be shared between us, and he can live a little lighter.
But I love him, because he is a different Sadness Collector. He always cheers others up and tries to help. He always compliments others. He is always willing to learn the right way, to go out and do his best. This Sadness Collector doesn't deserve to be one; he deserves to collect happiness instead.
Although there are times when his friends say that he is quieter that usual, and a bit less active. He says he usually sleeps it off and feels better when he awakes after. He says he rarely gets stressed but when he does, it's a whole different thing and only he knows how his own mind can destruct his built-up facade of confidence. Maybe he gets too quiet at times because he thinks he might make a mistake again. He may appear very vain and very confident, but I'm afraid it might all just be an image that he's painted of himself for everyone around him to see.
His music taste is very much like mine. He shared some alternative music, but as soon as I heard the melody and read the lyrics, it doubled as a small cry of distress.
I’m actually very beautiful when the world is pitch-black
The most I’ll get is being consumed when I try to love
The trouble is irrelevant
It doesn’t matter what’s wrong
If only I can be flattered just like you do
Then the torment around me will perhaps die out
I’m not concerned about how many chances I get
As fearless as a giant; indulging myself; however I’m no match
Ugly, don’t turn the lights on
The love I want is haunted on the pitch-black stage
Ugly, in this ambiguous time
My existence is like an accident
Some look beautiful after a drop of tear
Some just throw away their name
As long as you are hypocritical enough you won’t be afraid of anything, right?
If the script is written well, who will be more dignified?
I can only silently face the beautiful innocence
There are many chances for desire to become drowning in alcohol
Like the fearlessness of dust
Becoming ash, who will remember who
Who cares if he’s a match
Ugly, you won’t blame them if you get used to it
Get high and stomp on it with strength
Ugly, this is our time
It would actually be a shock if I don’t exist
Oh, how I want to embrace him every time I think of him listening to that song. As emotional human beings, we pay attention to such lyrics more often than not, that reflect the listener's or our emotions. Maybe he thinks he lacks in many, many ways. It is normal for him to think so. But I hope he doesn't dwell on it. He likes this anime show that I watch, too. That show, though, is a sad one which shows the masks of society and the gore of the past behind every flawless present.
He is a very trustworthy friend; a funny guy who is "in love" with himself; a talented individual who loves people and language; an artist of most arts, as well as an art himself. And as much as I say that I want to be the one who collects his sadness or whom he shares his load of sadness with, sometimes I doubt he will ever let me.
I feel like I can no longer do anything anymore for him because he is the one who has already collected mine.
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 5:49 AM UTC
my mother insists
she was never a witch
but she gave me a bag of amethyst,
sunstones,
citrine
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 9:43 AM UTC
a devil came to me in a form of an angel tempt me told me what i wanted to hear but in return he wants my soul, i start questioning how can i? how can a body live with no soul? is it my time of dying?, simply he answered me isn’t that what you people want? to live with no pain no regret? i stared into his red bloodish warmer than fire eyes, i knew back then it was no angel, but i couldn’t refuse his words “live with no pain no regret”,i lowered my head ashamed and said but i have no longer soul to give, my soul is broken damaged beyond repair, he came closer so close i can feel his lips touching my ear so close i can hear his smile rising and with a sweet voice so sweet like a song that i don’t want it to stop so gentle like a rain falls in a sunny day and said “i came to save you form your soul.”
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 11:51 AM UTC
I..am a collector of words;
Words that weave together
To form the clauses
that blossom into stories; people’s stories.
Words that keep secrets, spin lies,
Howl profound confessions from the rooftops of minds
Rushing out and over the ledges of lips to fall
On ears that do not listen—floating
Story after story, finally reaching the ground—forgotten.
On the sidewalk lay the slain and mangled things;
Victims of gravity—of silence that refused to break—
Of ears that refused to listen.
i… am the undertaker of the alphabet city.
I pick up the fallen, garbled, and lifeless;
Carting them away to the depths of my mind
Cataloguing, keeping, revering the reverberating vibrations.
my ears hear what is yearning to be heard
they acknowledge the wants of language.
I practice the Resuscitation of monologues
and the Defibrillation of forgotten phrases
an EMT of etymology,
I coagulate the bloodied and heartfelt confessions of lovers
suturing the spaces between breathless sentences.
prophetic Disambiguations clutch at gray matter and claw through flesh
tearing the tethered syllables from which meanings are formed.
I twist plot like a lemon twists martinis
Weaving tales that intertwine like the digits in math
or my hands when you held them in your own.
clasped shut.
tongue-tied is just another term for french kiss
and it is hard for you to find the right words to say
because I, a collector, have caught every last one from your lips.
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 8:58 PM UTC