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

i hear your waltz, dear bird.

the soliloquy,

the melodies that pull at the strings holding what’s left
of my heart evermore.

i listen, to the shuffle of your ruffled feathers,
your light feet
dance to the creak of hardwood.

a sonical prison.
as this intrepid cell guard is
fueled by my schizophrenia,

and van gogh like delusions.

none of grandeur.

so here are my ears, one sliced from reality,
the other searching for its vibrations.

each majestic, and just as much
consequentially miserable, piano strike
marks a new set of steps for you.

and although i no longer feel,
nor see, i still hear exactly how you carry yourself.

and from that i draw insane conclusions.
from there, upon just listening,
i can imagine what your ****** expressions are like,
and from your laugh as you dwindle around this penitentiary
like a loose branch amongst gusts of wind

i can tell you’re free.

free to fly. free to feast.
free to find a new mate.
free to watch the world burn
from a bird's eye view.

just as we used to do.

free at last, most importantly from us,
more specifically from me.

and although i no longer

feel, nor see.

i still hear exactly how happy you are.

and that isn’t the most heart shattering aspect of our ordeal,

or should i say, my ordeal, to live with, alone.

because the part that really allows me to carefully and diligently pluck single strands of hair from my head as if i could somehow string out the memory of you out from my infinite depths,

is the fact that i can hear, clear as day,

another bird’s chirp,
another bird’s laugh,

another set of feet, on this waltz you’re on.

and when i say heart shattering,

i hope you hear it break, as the sounds of it
reverbs across this room’s vast loneliness.

oh, where are my van gohg like delusions now?

i’ll continue my search, since now i fully know that

you’re just gone. with the wind.

fly, my dear. and leave me, here.

to die amongst your waltz.

-melancholicreator

the wind didn’t blow the same,
the trees wouldn’t sway during fall
and the longer the day
the more i’d wait in
until it was dark enough for me to
come out and bloom for you,
in the essence of moonlight.

at least i used to bloom,

for you, i mean.

although every gray shade and
every rough water drop told me
not to,
i bloomed for you.

but you never nourished me,
you left me out to die once the
sun came back up and let the city’s
busy feet trample my bright and vivid
colors.

i must admit, my colors came from you,
but now i’ve planted my roots somewhere else.

where wind gracefully caresses with kindness,
somewhere the trees dance to the beat of the rain
and where the longer the day
the more time i have to bloom.

even while in the dark, i’m seen now,
for my colors. that’s all i ever really wanted.

from you, i mean.

-melancholicreator

“you look down, what’s wrong?”

“i’m fine.”

“...well you don’t look fine, bud.”

“...”

“what could you be sad about anyways? you’re breathing! you’re alive! you’ve got so much to live for in your life! quit complaining, you’re only pitying yourself.”

“****. you. honestly.”

“it speaks!”

“seriously, *******.”

“**** me? why? is it because i’m too busy over here living a happy life, not pitying myself about **** that doesn’t matter?”

“SHUT THE **** UP. YOU LITERALLY CAME TO ME TO ASK WHAT WAS WRONG, YOU’VE GOT NO CLUE WHAT’S ON MY MIND. ******* FOR GOING OFF ON ME THE WAY YOU DID. YOU SHOULD’VE KEPT YOUR MOUTH SHUT IF ALL YOU WERE GOING TO DO WAS BELITTLE ME. HOW ON EARTH COULD YOU KNOW WHAT WAS GOING ON INSIDE OF ME, YOU BARELY GAVE ME A CHANCE TO OPEN UP. AND I WAS HESITANT TO DO SO BECAUSE YOU’VE BELITTLED ME BEFORE. I DON'T DESERVE THE DEMONS IN MY MIND, NEVERTHELESS A ******* FROM YOU.”

“...”

“i’m not ******* pitying myself. i’m angry at myself, i’m sad about my life, i’m regretful for who i’ve hurt and why. i’d explain the stories behind these feelings but now i realize how unworthy you are of those. *******.”

“jesus man, i’m sorry, i didn't realize how upset you were.”

“i wasn’t upset, i was down, NOW i’m upset.”

“well i’m sorry, didn’t mean to make you feel that way bud...”

“it’s fine. sorry for lashing out.”

“although, i’m not sorry that the universe likes me and is my friend. i guess that’s why i can’t relate.”

“yeah well, i’m sorry it isn't ******* mine.”

-melancholicreator

i’m not much of a believer anymore,
but something i never told you
was that i dreamt of you
not too long ago.

in the dream, I was holding your hand,
and we stood amongst the blades
of the wind, with our heads high,
grinning against the world.

in the dream, god approached me
and said...

“i hope you realize she is special. care for her,
protect her and loath her in love.

when the world tries to topple her,
be her mountain.

for i,
will not be there.

when she sheds her tears
and they spell her sins,
take those words
and craft a melody
she’ll later on sing.

for i,
will not be there.

and when she’s broken down
and her wings can no longer
soar, be the king she’s wanted
for so long.

for i,
will not be there.

for she is the fallen angel,
I worked the most
on.”

-melancholicreator

i know you’re your own poison,
my love.

the things around you
place a bright
spot light
upon your soul
and expect a certain behavior

this makes you hate yourself
makes you feel heavy at every step
makes you snap at the
lightest presentation of stress
and it’s been killing you
for a long time

but to this, you fight back
with every drop of sweat and every tear
even while you bleed
even if you feel like breaking down
you continue

while the one you trusted let you down
while your dreams seemed far fetched
while you didn’t want his touch
but he said
“babe, let’s”
while you watched the disappearance
of your pure crown
you maintained a smile

you didn’t need anyone or
anything, your self sufficient self
raises every single hair
on my body
every part of me
admires you, it just
wishes you knew your wealth

no one understands
but i can see
i can see your unsteady breath
as your anxious habits kick in
at full speed
and i want to be there
to catch you as you fall
and bring you right back up

people convince themselves
that because of your past
that you’re the same person
that you haven’t changed at all
this makes you feel alone

i want you to know that i can
see it all
i can see the tears you hide
see the tales full of white lies
that you tell the world
just to get through the day

but what you don't know is
that i don't just glance, or stare
but become completely submerged
by your essence that i simply
admire and smile
because as you suffer
i’ve waited patiently for you
to glance at me
that way i’d be able to gain grip
of those beautiful glimmering eyes of yours
and say
“hey, it’s okay”

you are strong
you are exquisite
you are top of the line
baby girl
i’d be wrong
to let my words sink into my being
without hearing
what you think about
you being mine

my mind has memorized every
inch of you, duly
know i'm not like the rest, and i'm here to
listen and to stay,
you misunderstood beauty.


-melancholicreator