"secrecies" poems
Where goes the time when it flies?
Simplified by expression, and stained by clarity.
Smudge by lucidity
smeared by simplicity
tainted by intelligibility.
Tempus fugit as in time flies.
Sharply distressing with painful feelings
to the point of mental instability
morning or night
we become possessed with its mystic dealings.
Where goes the time when it runs?
Not a solitary explanation is found.
It happens and it won’t stop
until life terminates as well
without cause.
Derived of rationalisation
lacking understanding
short of justification
bursting with vindication
persistently and with conviction.
Where goes the time when it sails?
From the second that we’re born.
Where were we existing?
We cannot be so sure
Cannot recollect the past
Not for the first five of our years
Memory so blur, so shadowy
Hazy with distortions
obscure and confusing
Unit our mind starts slowly to recollect.
Where goes the time when it escapes?
The chronology of life so mysterious.
Nothing can solve its ambiguity
for time is a complex case
with an infinity of secrets.
What’s the obsession when we have so many setbacks
drawbacks and obstacles
obstructions and conundrums
to take care of before time perishes away
and leaves us stranded in oblivion.
Oh time, you magnificent of all mysteries,
the high and mighty of ambiguities.
Show us mercy and explain
we are not detectives of secrecies
your spell with us reflects on the whodunits.
Oh time of things past and yet to come
give us a clue as to what is to derive!
“Remember”
it softly replies “Make most of your lives”
“Once I fly away no one can have a replay”.
Apr 2, 2013
Apr 2, 2013 at 6:11 AM UTC
when she got all the righteous requirements of expressing liberty and i looked at her expression i was like? so i've been duped into being fed the oedipus complex for 100 years while she wrote as if looking for her father in a theme park? right... gear up the revs of that feminism of yours... keep them writing, by god keep them writing, let us learn all the secrets that were so attractive once when she pampered herself with corsets and bangles and rings and earrings and perfumes! come on feminism, drag them out into the bright open blank canvas of the page like dragging witches to the stake!
in my library i only have books by women
in the range of sylvia plath and anna kavan...
believe me, feminism gave women
second thoughts about
joining the ranks of men
writing, she's having second
thoughts because she doesn't
want to reveal her secrets,
she doesn't want to internalise
life, she wants it to remain
a volumptous (voluptuous,
which sounds sexier? the former
implies volume, the latter a monkish stress
of orthographic orthodoxy) affection
to keep fingertips sensitive to skin
smooth like soap and coarse like
pavement - touchy touchy - feely feely,
she's scared that by outlining
all the secrets she'll be no longer
able to wear a corset and as theory states:
bigger the earrings of loops, the eagerer she's
to be bedded, it's a shame i don't own
more books by women who'd write like
men, and i dig the part where books
written by women are so tightly bound
by social formalities of longing for love
in long-winding sagas of the harlequin
publishing house -
feminism seems like a faulty bomb
when it comes to women writing,
i mean, a girl starts writing she looses her
predatory allure and instinct,
she starts writing she becomes vulnerable,
exposed, when he does it he
gets depth and confidence he can't use
in ****** interaction... historically speaking
women used to walk without leaving
footprints, men used to walk moving mountains,
she was the countless secrets and secrecies,
feminism kinda duped her,
she started making footprints via writing,
and sadly all the former allure faded -
we became apes and peasants
slightly bewildered by an atom bomb explosion
like a falling autumnal leaf;
where is that crafty ***** with a library of intrigues?
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 12:34 PM UTC
Who am I to become?
What am I to be?
Where do I go now?
What is left for me?
Who do I have besides myself.
A washed away face of waste and misery.
Alone on a path, I feel defeated, left to rot, thrown out.
Evil monsters lurking everywhere I go, every corner I turn, faces that haunt me, taunt me, hurt me, forbid me, tell me what I am not.
HUMANS.
Cold and remorseless, petty mindless beings with no sense of realism, depth, purity.
Nothing, all reflecting of dark shadows that they themselves cannot even face.
Labeled, by superficial beings who think they have the right to know me and get into the secrecies of my life.
You know nothing of me, how would you?
I don’t want you to.
Stay away…
Let me lurk, an unknown shadow cursing your name.
Fear me because you fear why you cannot see, the unknown, the inner dimensions of life and death itself…
I see it all.
I’ve felt it all.
Dreaded myself for pain, only to be reborn, over and over and over.
An endless cycle that I am forced to go through, like a 90 year only waiting on the hospital bed for death to take her away.
I’m tired, I’m done.
Every inch of my soul, my mind, my being…
Has become nothing.
I have nothing left.
Left nothing to become.
Dead everyday,
Waiting for the grim to let me sleep eternally.
However, karma is my own debt, and for eternity, I have to suffer.
I am defeated
**** me/…
I’m already dead
Nov 18, 2021
Nov 18, 2021 at 2:14 PM UTC
love,
months swiftly passed
since that enchanted night
i never wished to end,
as it was then that i first
laid my hands,
and my eyes,
unto yours.
i have been wildly spinned
throughout the dance,
and eventually,
throughout your world.
it was those dazzling eyes
that hooked me most
without an utterance of a word.
it was those precious gems
that connected us,
that made me fall in love
with you more.
but only then did it hit me,
i didn't want to fall in love.
what i wanted was to grow in love.
and you don't make me grow.
i know and i accept
that letting you go
and setting you free means
letting you love someone else.
but love,
it is that i am in doubt.
i did not dream of a love
full of doubt, full of lies,
and overflowing with fear.
i did not dream of a love
full of questions
and full of secrecies.
or maybe,
i just did not dream of a love
with you.
i could not stand to feel that
you are mindful of my pretense
but you smile and refuse
to believe i am lying to you.
i could not stand to feel
the sadness i give you
that you hide
and that i am inept to solace.
i am afraid that one day
i might wake up to see you
happy for being with me
but you don't see the same.
love,
my feelings did not
gradually fade.
it vanished in a snap
and i am afraid
it might be back, too,
at once.
i doubt you accept me again
when my love returns,
or when my love is sure,
and i doubt i might
let you go again.
but by that time,
if you've found the rightful one,
let me apologize for being unable
to control my feelings back then -
my feelings today.
honey,
there is nothing wrong with you,
nor is there with me,
but there is with us.
love,
you need not to hurt anymore,
so for the last time,
i love you and good bye.
i loved you.
good bye.
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 8:43 AM UTC
Roused in fanfare, these facets
are full of scantiness,
of cold-boned futility, of bitter thanks
The light turns, morphs them
now they are faces, now limbs
now rancid rag houses again
Crooked sun gurgles, spits a fraud spring
and the office men observe their machines
straight-backed like chairs, they droop
rampant on scarped brown desks,
desks with picked-nail edges, so brown
no one sees them, so solid one forgets to
The sky runs her threads again
accumulating: stagnant noon, sitting
spread-legged, with wax-paper eyes
it watches, watches the aging
Slowly, everyone leaves
the formal men, their leisurely burlap work
lights blink as if to bulwark tears, and
the foul remnants of day's charred pleasure
begin to settle on skin.
the wrists thin, some nails cave in
some lichens on stone-nose
Things that elude cuddle elastic back
into the things they elude
and, spent, the sky breaks at last the thread
to another demure death:
glitchy and green, riddled
in its own secrecies,
dry-lipped as a crone
The light turns again
and this time, it is perfect:
just past the critical angle,
where bustle-bundles of beam
flee unfettered
and leave unlit the grateful subject
reticent, stale
bold in a boastless brood
only a singular fissure
of pretend slight
to mourn aloud in the spectacle of black
Oct 22, 2022
Oct 22, 2022 at 2:59 AM UTC
His laugh
at the hurt that came
from the toe of his boot
but more directly from the hate in his heart
The muffled cries
that came from those who have no voice
never did
never will
ring out
A dinner table
with silverware perfection
placed with little hidden secrecies
feast on the words
"All Blood Stains Red"
Feb 7, 2020
Feb 7, 2020 at 10:49 PM UTC
Within me dwells a scarred, broken heart
so full of love I can’t express
imprisoned within such loneliness
awaiting words that go unspoken
from someone who finds beauty there
despite my mess
and how I obsess
between company and solitude
and how I am so broken…
Someone who knows the secrecies
behind my eyes and smiles
for they’ve faced the same dark trials
losing more than ever won
trying hard to carry on
despite those who would revile
all while trying to reconcile
who we were
and have become…
Someone longing for another
who accepts them just the same
finding beauty in our pain
for we both admire scars…
Someone who loves the same as I…
Someone the thought of me haunts for days
for you already haunt my every day…
How I wonder where you are
Jan 23, 2017
Jan 23, 2017 at 1:47 AM UTC
A train,
symbolic in motion,
always moving forward,
cutting through the horizon,
occasional vanish in the wood,
then reappearing like clockwork,
we know we can wait on the other side,
the tracks indicate all possibility,
we wait in confidence,
we anticipate the beauty of the roaring maching
slicing through the forest,
designing an historic artistry
of our landscape,
how we exist,
we live and communicate together,
waiting for the trains to arrive.
I find the train's roar similar to my
human condition,
who I am and how I operate
depends upon an open field,
an opportunity to flourish amongst the
leaves and trees, the brick and mortar,
the common secrecies that lie beneath our eyes,
I can watch for my next move,
knowing there is always a possibility that
lies before my soul.
~
What happened that cool winter day,
when the caverns that support our travel,
when the gravel and strength, man-made,
began to crumble.
What happens when suddenly our lives,
become mortal.
Can we wait how long to see the train,
exit that mysterious tunnel,
or will it remain everlasting,
why do we have to imagine that motions
become dependent on life inside a
sudden stop.
~
keep searching for the light,
keep searching ... in the sudden stop
there always remains a light!
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 1:06 PM UTC
Secrets and lies, ruining our lives
Piercing the spirit like daggers and knives.
Secrecies applied, the darkness they hide
Mouthpiece the media
They’re getting greedier they’re getting greedier.
Feed them some fear, they’ll feel unsafe
Carefully planned leave nothing to waste.
The secret plan Of terroism is working.
They’re heavy, confused, their spirits are hurting.
A drop in their food, a drop in their drink.
Then put on the news, tell them what to think.
We’re reaching our goal controlling the blind.
Destroying their souls, controlling their mind
Nov 5, 2018
Nov 5, 2018 at 8:52 AM UTC
The task is to make you feel how I miss you beyond the three words.
I'm lost as to how to do that.
Perhaps let me just describe the things I yearn.
The uneasy lips that are either inexperienced or apprehensive.
The sudden pull of your arms when I am about to let go.
Those eyes seeing through me as you gaze silently.
The warmth of your body as it glides through my mortal secrecies.
The way you pronounce my name.
Your arms around me like the world could care less.
Your feet talking to my feet in language they only understand.
The sound of your breath -- a mixture of exhaustion and ecstasy.
The care, the cuddle, the comfort.
Though I might be romanticizing.
All I wanted to say is that I miss you.
May 20, 2017
May 20, 2017 at 9:59 AM UTC