somewhere
at some point and time,
amongst cosmos,
and the vast arrays of this
breathing, yet
tragically tethered to the angst
of a rising heartbeat,
middle of it all,
middle of the road,
i think of you,
and the fabrics of existence
in it’s full pure form
can hear it

i know that,
as stars collide,
and supernovas cry,
they hear me do it
also

some distant souls,
wandering the safari of
space,
listen to the mozart i yell out
and they paint picassos with
my pain

they’re…
gorgeous.

i remember,
seeing you walk away,
like everybody else,
and
******* burning
hotter than the solar flares
that bring to scale
those moments we shared,
ones i used to keep hidden away
in my vaults
in a black hole,
consumed by the gravity
of our circumstances,

of agonizing despair

geometry or the theories of music and sound,
no matter how complex
and grandiose,
simply couldn’t explain
with its intricate mathematics
the types of screaming
i did in these
dark corners

scales worth of screaming

but these days,
during these times,
at least in this version of my timeline
i find myself creating whole universes
out of all that crying,
all that screaming,
all those arguments,
the self doubts,
the loss, of many,
of you,
the loss of my own self

i became
engulfed
in being so lost without you,
but in the cyclical patterns,
and in the signs,
my misplaced trust in you
henceforth found in the universe,
or as Aurelius calls it,
the gods,
i found new meaning,
and i opened a door that lead to many
other doors,
and they all led within

and that’s a door that without you,
i may have never began to realize,
but i don’t look back past it,
especially now, especially lately

these days, during these times,
somewhere,
at some point and time
amongst the cosmos
a vast array of this breathing,
and surviving,
and this thriving breath
of fresh air i take
i fill many rooms with
many doors with genuine and true aura,
pure essence,
amongst the fabrics
of our very existence

and i can see you,
on the other side almost slamming
your ******* head on the same door,

a door i was willing to show you
how to open,

and in that impure, but full form of yours,
the universe and i hear you,
even though we don’t speak,
we hear you screaming

this isn’t you, and the three of us know that

i see you searching everywhere else
but
within,
which is exactly where the
right doors
lead

this isn’t to say you’re past from saving,
or that i’m for saving myself for you at all,

but
i can hear your echoes spread
deep,
into,
and somehow past,
oblivion

i know that
as stars collide,
and supernovas cry,
they heard us do it
also
during those years

well, these days,
during these times,
and in these spaces,

they just hear you,

i just grew
past the door i wanted to show you
how to open,

until i realized that’s ******* useless,
you have to do it yourself,

otherwise,
it’s like screaming and crying
deep,
into the grand vastness
of
oblivion,

and somewhere, it echoes,
leading you to no one specific place,
just,
somewhere

i’ll stick to my safari,
thank you.

-melancholicreator

silence
sweet silence
like none other
despite the library door
slamming everytime
someone leaves or arrives

it seems to slam louder
when they leave

i am not perturbed
or distracted, nor am i
expecting not to be

here, alone, surrounded by books,
i just am

lamenting this place not being
as busy
as it should be
who’s fault is that?

celebrating this place not being
as busy
as it should be
guilty as charged

all these faces i see
it’s like a small town here
sometimes abandoned
sometimes inhabited

once again,
i don’t care

how can i?
my head, full of
Aurelius and Bukowski
doesn’t have space to

well, deep down,
i guess i do care
but not as much as
i suppose society begs i
should

how can i?
i’m too busy figuring out
who i truly am
and the books help, Bukowski
was correct, these philosophers are
like brothers to me and i speculate
my deep “connection” to them
to men whom i never met
yet felt more fatherly care from
than my own

maybe that’s the root

sometimes, all this reading begs the question

do i like books
more than people?
or people more
than books?

i think i know the answer,
eureka!

i love books, and individuals alike
i don’t like people
especially when they group up
in congregations and crowds,
strangers in a
can of sardines
with no space to possibly
ever care

only to survive and barely breathe
or to escape such a reality

how could i?
when they don’t
even care for themselves

it’s disheartening, really
to witness such potential
in one soul
and watch it *******
melt away
around his or her friends

around their families’
incessant influence and needs
abusing providers

consumed by their personal troubles and struggles
and vices, infected by the amplification of
a hang out
girls night
boys night
the clubs, the bars
the gossips of nonsense and ****
that simply isn’t their business

sewage

their obvious and yet
radiantly painful,
like a sunburn that isn’t on you
but hurts to look at on someone else,
avoidance of themselves
begging the following:

could these souls spend
an hour, alone, with a book
and paper and pencil?

how could they?

they’d like to, i’m sure,

but hate themselves just enough
to not be able to.

-melancholicreator