"abulia" poems
Tu transmigración será ir de cama en cama,
durmiendo raros sueños parejos al segundo ocaso,
de las fábricas del tiempo verás el eterno paso
y serás como una vana sombra urdida por el karma.
El misterio de la identidad es sostenido
por las divinas piezas que forman la memoria.
el cerebro, único amanuense de la historia
rapsodia el ser que miente lo que has sido.
En el vino que es nepente y en el delirio del mezcal
buscaste el rostro que tenías antes de crearse el mundo,
y aunque la fiera enferma te convoque a lo profundo
no evitarás esa sustancia doble como lago de sal:
La voluntad. Su potencia sugiere el arte o la copulación
y su tremendo motor vuelca decadencia en apogeo,
no escapan de su orbe las horas diseñadas por Morfeo
y su caravana te escolta de la abulia a la revelación.
Todos los días sos otro. Sin embargo,
hay algo que te pertenece:
la idea de la luna, el amor y la amistad,
la música, los dones y la fantasía.
a Pascal Quignard
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 1:15 AM UTC
Decisions made without a thought
Are not the things that can be taught
Split second ones can fill the page
That cross my mind then disengage
Abulia comes within one's doubt
A minute passed they may die out
One life is saved another lost
Do what we can at any cost
Then think things over if you must
The longer wait can cause mistrust
Don't stop to ponder then react
By then she's gone no second act
I told my love “touch you to breathe”
Each moment counts her face I sheathe
____________________________________________
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 11:55 AM UTC
I want to stop;
To never do it again.
I've wanted that before,
But I could never make it,
The threat, couldn't shake it.
This time, I have to do it,
Then, it'll be no more.
Six times that has happened,
But there was never any change.
So what's different this time?
Each time I was desperate,
I hate how that feels.
But never hated it enough
To stop what I was doing.
I can't look at myself;
I can't live with it anymore.
I'm tired of the hate,
I'm tired of the shame.
Maybe that's what makes
This time so different.
All the hate has piled up,
A ticking bomb,
And if it explodes, then I'm gone.
I don't want that, so I
Decide to try again,
To lie awake and wait for morning
And see what may come
With the breaking of dawn.
If it is the breaking of me,
Then so be it,
But I will be real.
Real and broken,
But forever rid of the
Mask and the nightmares
That it brought.
Dec 6, 2015
Dec 6, 2015 at 3:01 PM UTC