Take a box,
Now put yourself in that box
Close the lid
Hold your breath
and pray
Remove oneself from the box
by simply opening the lid
Breathe
Step outside
And pray
You removed yourself from the obstacle
Yet the solution was never found
Perhaps the box
Is the question
And the answer
Is simply to remove it
And breathe
And pray
The Sun used to shine
upon the people of spring
The streets were once void
of filth
The ground had been spat on,
leaving traces of poison
The people grew restless
in the cold of day
Grey infiltrated
turning color into shade
Flowers died prematurely
blackening the streets
The Birds never returned
forcing the people to hunt
their own kind
Spring never came
and the people suffered.
I'm alive! I thought it would be better to post something (finally) a little less than par rather than let another un-posted week go by.
I don’t understand you
With your whispered words
Hating
Tongues full violence
I don’t understand the way you think
And how your words affect me
They make me hate
And cry
And scream
Until one day I’ll rip my heart out
And lay it at your feet
A willing sacrifice
To counteract all your words
Mostly to free the things
Unspoken.
I hate to feel
Anything
Crying’s for the weak
It makes you weak
Until your bones turn brittle and you crumble to the floor
An ornament
For you to step over
For your decorative pleasure.
My muse ran me over after reading/hearing Marta's beat poem.
One-
the beginning of something, which eventually leads to an end
Yet one is infinite just like the soul
Or so we are told
by scholars who knew little about the world
yet held ideals stronger than those we grew up with
The beginning can perhaps lead to something new
Exciting
Until one eventually despises something which was loved
Too often
Love turns to hate
And then we are back at square one
However, one is not squared
It can be shaped as an octagon
Nothing substantial can be fabricated
Into something concrete
Except ideas
Except those who hold no ideas
Those like me
Who have nothing to look forward to
Only looking back
At what could have been
Can one live for the past?
When the future means nothing
And the present is a dull grey ache
Residing in one’s chest
There we go again,
One.
One day, they say
One time
At one point
One step
These all mean nothing
Until something follows
One day I will grow up
Into what?
Hopefully something more substantial
One time, long ago
Hope was blossomed from an idea
Except we already know that ideas lead to danger
They cause irreversible damage
At one point,
I wished for many things
Until they never came true
And I stopped wishing
One step into something unknown
And one can be lost within the void
Perhaps one is not all that bad
If they look away from the consequences
Of ideas
Thoughts
Wishes
Hopes
And most of all
The fact that one is just a lonely number
I should know,
One dictates lives
It is after all one of two binary numbers
It’s the start of everything
It’s what makes the world spin
While little kids can dream of one far off day
Where they can win,
Come in first place
They can be number one
For an assortment of ridiculous things
That will one day no longer matter
Until that one day though
They have their false ideals
And miss-represented schemes
On which one number is higher ranked than others
One should be last,
It is solitary
And lonesome
One however, is all I have
And all I know.
So here’s to you,
The ignorant
The deprived
The lonesome.
The streets are cold and empty,
as I pass by a horde
of shuffling people
who mumble grievances
A couple, speaks to each other
without hearing the other
The air is crisp
My hands, cold
find refuge in pockets full of lint
and a forgotten candy
escaped from it’s wrapper
A homeless man shivers
while the rich ignore
He, underfed
caresses his dogs
who fed not an hour ago
I give him change,
nothing substantial
He might buy food
or drink it away,
at least he’ll be warm,
if only for a minute.
These bones lie still
in graves dug out of
Pity.
The bones they shake
in shallow holes
meant to cover up
Dirty secrets
They shutter and break
Bones made of brittle
My bones lie still
in shallow graves
meant for another
These bones
they lie on solid ground
as the earth crumbles
swallowing them whole.
“What were you thinking? Go to the chair.”
Time out used to be dreadful. I had to sit in a chair, plain and wooden and do nothing. Absolutely nothing. A few times I tried talking to myself, except I always got shushed. As soon as I had entered that space between reality and time out, I became sullen and mad. I never deserved to be there, no matter what my parent’s opinions were. It was never my fault that I threw tantrums. It was never my fault.
The chair was conveniently located in a nook next to a Chinese armoir. The patterns sketched into the wood would be my only source of entertainment. I traced them with my little fingers, waiting until the moment that I could go back and watch tv.
I used to try and fall asleep in the chair, but I was always screamed at. I wasn’t supposed to be comfortable, or enjoying myself.
As a child, I had quite an active imagination, yet every time that veil was infiltrated and my little butt was seated in that chair, my mind went blank.
Tears never helped, nor did threats. I always felt as if my mind was slowly shutting itself off, and I would eventually die of boredom.
“ OK, your five minutes are up, you can leave now.”
Freedom had never tasted so sweet.
Wow, I have not posted anything on here in what seems like months. Writers block had its firm grasp around my hand. So to hopefully make up for it here are two poems.
Beams
I used to smile
until one day it became forced
The corners of my mouth grew weary
from the lack of usage
so I sewed my lips shut.
(For some reason the word usage bothers me but I left it in there)
Reverie
Too long have the words dried up
left aside by an abandoned highway
where a suicide once took place
The crumpled papers mock
as the words bleed out of a fools mouth
and drip so ever slightly upon my skin
staining it.
Fingernails are bitten off
raw and bloody
and lifeless
They match the eyes of the woman sitting next to me
a living corpse
even though her breathe tickles my neck
as her whispered words lull me to sleep
It reminded me of the time when
I slipped
when I was younger
by telling them (the others)
about the man behind the nightmare
I tripped
falling up
yet still landed on my feet
She yearns for something of significance
Instead the darkness evades
A hole dug thoroughly
filled with creeping maggots,
ready to claim the living flesh.
Eye sockets bulge,
comprehension dawning within the iris
A void has taken place within the chest,
Spanning the entire distance of the corpse
She years for meaning within life
Instead she cries herself to sleep every night
afraid that when death comes,
no one will remember
and laughter will ring out
Her tears drown her
as a shotgun creates a hole
inside her head
She yearns for acceptance
from people she will never meet
and for things that will never transpire
Fame, which will never be seen
is hidden away
far from prying eyes
and mirthless shades of non- acceptance
She yearns for understanding
As her heart speaks through her mouth
No one would listen
They all change the subject,
they look away
She yearns for their acceptance,
instead she receives silence
So she ripped out her tongue instead.
Words, they flow
from opened lips to closed ears
Turned away heads
Ignorant ears attached to far away heads
Screams escalate as ears sew themselves shut
tears leek out
Vacant eyes, they don’t see
Glassy eyes that don’t hear
Sounds escape and tamper off
Mouths close from lack of words
Words, they flow
from opened lips to closed ears.
Words, they flow
passing indifference straight to ignorance.
I can’t eat,
I can’t sleep.
Inspiration, she left me
Broken fragments of ideas
remains of little pieces
spread out across an ocean
full of spilt water
that overflowed from the heavens
tears that were cried,
now dried up,
suddenly forgotten.
Conceptual ideas presented as wisps
intercepting ideas from thought to reality
An occurrence that was once ended,
brought forth
as clouds roll by languidly.
I dreamed of things,
in a previous time
as they now haunt me,
taunt me.
A smile is sometimes forced
it is shown within the eyes,
lies hide beneath orbs
lies hide within the self.
I lied to someone the other day,
it ended up hurting me accidentally.
Mistakes were made as the tongue rested
yet words were still heard
through closed ears.
A dream in repetition,
only the scenario remains
characters change,
they fall apart,
break
disappear.
Haunted dreams linger
as wisps of longing dissipate.
I've had no time to post on my day (Thursday) this week nor yesterday, so today will have to do. This is a piece I wrote last week, except expanded as per Marta's request.
Existence of Words,
slipping through sand
As the trees of silk sway,
within the moist air.
Sounds echo,
carried out to uninvolved ears,
to whom the noise sounds like music.
A tuneless orchestra sits within the inner ear canal
waiting for a cue.
Dawn arises as music lifts itself up
driven by a conductor; miniscule in form
broken notes discarded,
left aside to be taken away,
to a place full of forgotten words,
undisruptive words.
Broken notes linger, creating distress.
Sun has risen, music stopped,
words are all that is left.
This is something that came to me one day and I thought hey, why not? Let's post this, even though it is not something I usually do or am even comfortable doing. (Tabia, this has no effect on my now demoted/ not for long demoted title)
It was a mistake, and she now knew it. Stubbornness had always been a negative aspect that couldn’t be fixed. She wasn’t fixable, yet it was a secret that only she knew. No one was willing to listen, no one wanted to be proven wrong; knowledge was held too high above everything else. If there was no knowledge, then there was nothing. Right now there was nothing, a barren landscape spread in front of her. Yet all that was left behind needed to stay that way, it was necessary for her survival. Back there, she couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t think, too many machines, too many machines. Her legs were starting to give up on her, she laughed at the irony, she laughed at herself. Her voice was horse and raw, yet it was hers and under her influence. She controlled it, she was finally in control. She was invincible, untouchable and free. Free to fly, to soar, to glide. She couldn’t recall the last time that she was free, she was always held under someone else’s control, someone else’s desires and wishes. It was her turn now, her turn to live her life the way she wanted. A few steps into her hike, her legs collapsed under her while her head was spinning in all directions. Spots appeared, followed by stars, finally concluding with bright pulsating lights then blackness. She wasn’t afraid of the dark, on the contrary, it used to be her friend, it used to keep her sane. Lights showed the truth, while the dark hid it well. A moment passed, perhaps minutes, maybe hours, either way time had no meaning in that moment, for once time did not rule her life. She shakingly stood up, got her bearings and continued on, she had no other choice. Her choice had already been made, and she was going to stick to it even though it was to result in her death. She was clearly aware that she planned her own suicide, she was walking to her own deathbed. Breathing became harder and the pauses became longer, yet she continued on. Her mind raced with thoughts, was she doing the right thing or did she make a mistake. Mistakes could be fixed though, this couldn’t. A few more minutes into her hike and she felt like her body was on fire, eating her up from the inside out. The pain threshold had increased within the last few months but this, this was more than anything she had ever felt.
This was torture.
