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The surface

Had I any other way to put this, I wouldn’t

Of all the ways one can embrace to be

The most impactful is our necessity

Of eachother, of no one outside of ourselves

 

The more the words, the less concentrated the meaning

What good is expression? If it narrows down doors that should’ve welcomed, all minds, all sorts

Of integration, in this disintegration

Call me. I probably won’t pick up

 

The danger isn’t in disagreement, it lies in our bereavement

Would you walk with me till your feet are sore?

What if I told you the journey has nothing to do with physicality?

Mind-fuck

 

And just as I’m about to rediscover the pieces of the puzzle

I am no longer intrigued by what I can’t shuffle, with my own hands

The lesser beings of a man, surround the profound errors of his ways

Concluding with the One and Only

 

The surface signals towards internal state, time and again

The hollower the guitar, the more the senses raise, in retrospect

The size of a melon, the tapping of the knuckles on its skull to predict taste

None but ourselves can hit bull’s eye without first imagining the dartboard with our instincts

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Halt

There is this imperfection, this almost “too soon to see” the light can blind, the path unseen

Frightened of the tightening of the hands that take a second to understand

What it takes of you to let these fingers slip the sand

The tracings and the viewings of the child

“Why is the night dark, daddy?”

As if innocence knew, but protected

As if no one knew yet perfected

Their wishing according to their needs

Their proceedings a revealing concealing of the self

And its arms, the shelf and its harm, the cave and its charm

And I neglected in you, what took of me a decade to renew

Age has nothing to do with it.

Tangles

I’m wide awake, yet working on autopilot

These generic modes we delve into, the aftermath so specific

 

Fierce is he who wanders through the jungle, and becomes civilized

Coward, who crucifies the Holy for not handling the beast within

 

I am talking to that one person that might just listen

If he understands, it’s as I’m talking to the world entire

On behalf of all those that mean the same, only in different tones

Language and sight a barrier to those that seek what they have lost

Don’t they know, boomerangs are knives wanting to slit

The pure?

 

Protect me from this, crusader

Your cause has won, but you have lost of me, what empties the secrets in the mud

As they reveal themselves to the rain

 

She will walk as walking is done, subtly

They will see not where she came from, nor where she is going

But the meaningless meaningful stingings that have staggered along the way

 

It might just take a minute

But all your life has lead you to that one minute

Days pass like they were nothing

Then why do some things stay eternal?

 

You are a shape unsizeable

You hold volumes uncountable, in your mystery

I wish I could leave off on a simpler note

How could I? Knowing that these tangles will only unfold when I understand the purpose of complexity

Euthanasia

I am here

Flesh and bone

But that one time keeps luring me back

To this state of timelessness that engulfs me away

 

Every house that I’ve ever lived in

The balcony is where I sit, in my mind

The outside looking in

All the places that I’ve been, animate now

 

It is your voice that gives all this meaning

Pointing the obvious, the red in the red

But somehow, without you saying it

All these shades, I wish I was colorblind just for them to burst

 

Reaching out through the inanimate

Stone cold, transitioned into this, we have adjusted

The moral dilemmas in our heads, have justified themselves

Mercy, mercy. While I’ve given in to one aspect of life, I have conquered another.

Honest mistake

It’s everywhere, it’s everywhere

I feel crowded in this empty room and alone in a crowded room

Paradoxical only when you haven’t been there

Only when you haven’t felt the same words mean different upon repetition

LEAVE me alone” “Leave ME alone”

STAY gone” “Stay GONE

 

Serenity

Where have you abandoned me?

It happens everywhere now, did I tell you? It happens everywhere

Triggered

What theme do I fit you in? You were everything

I see a glimpse of you in every tangible, intangible only in these distorted memories

 

I’m doing it again, this little thing where I trace back my steps

To make sure I don’t step on the lines I’ve already stepped on

Mistake

noun

Definition 1: “an act or judgement that is misguided or wrong”

Definition 2: “something, especially a word, figure, or fact, which is not correct; an inaccuracy”

verb

Definition 3: “be wrong about”

Definition 4: “wrongly identify someone or something as”

 

I burnt every page, except the corner of the last one, last abstraction

Because every time you ended a thought, you pressed the ballpoint a bit too hard

Almost to the point where, the next page, inherited, the pain of the precedent

Your subtle ways a secret I have kept

You, on the other hand, have vanished

“Just because you’re around doesn’t mean that you’re around.”

Don’t dream about it

Undulating on our way to the finish line

At docks with ships waiting for nothing

I pace

You starve

We figure eachother out

 

The difference between your cunningness and his naivety

Is that one thread that holds the soul intact

Had you an art for it, rather than a way to get away

With it

I wouldn’t have to spell it out for you

 

Portions, fractions, ratios

To stigmatize the dog for being restless

For the night to be too demanding, on the loaded, rolling on it

Find a better way to say it, man. What does you in?

 

Do you, buddy.

Kindle on the flame that remains pure

After burning off all that you look for, about, like firewood

Lay it to rest. Don’t think about it, don’t talk about it, don’t dream about it.

Kudos

The fragility of it, the harshness with which you face it

All these patterns, we fall in love with

You have taught me to be gentle with myself

And for that, I am indebted to you, all these lives

Unaware

Of their own power

This is what I’m putting forth; sue me.

All these secrets, we’re butchered with

Time and again.

<<>>

I don’t know what’s worse, an explosion first thing

or little ‘coming togethers’ of complexities

that in retrospect, make less sense in isolation

It’s funny

Almost as if you could explain it

But I mean hey

Kudos to comedians and illusionists

Who make it seem effortless

while we all waste away in the trance of these happenings.

Wakefulness

Crippled by this insensitive take on what surrounds
These surroundings

Have you ever been so close? Parted the biscuit symmetrically, only for it to be submerged in coffee that is meant to be just THAT, detached from the tips of your fingers

The sea of your worries, the foam bubbling, trouble lurking

For a way in

These attires

“Nearly had fucking everything!”


I am dribbling with the sanctity of life

Whirling in the wind that has befriended my weak condition

Only in my favour will it be, until I seek denounced salvation

Of the kind that requires of you wakefulness, piercing focus

The lack thereof, musings, deserving diversions

Had I known all my deviations would lead me back to You

I would’ve been a lot less fearful, of everything else

A handful of sand slipping, happily, serenity now

In all that falls in place

With Your remembrance.

At full capacity

Here’s a preliminary

Explanation

To how today is different from

The past hundred days

Had transparency solved anything

There wouldn’t be so many someones

Hitting themselves against glass

It’s as if we all kindof expect to be done under these days

Bilateral relations, specie to element

The beating of the drum, the duty we have disregarded

As man-childs manifest the deep seated root of all unprecedented evil

Early stages of development spent isolated, and now we can’t get you out of the house for mere sunshine

Honest. Don’t think me wrong

Or better. You know what? Think me wronger than wrongest

Think me insane

And see how that brings you back to the beginning

Probably, if we took due care of the seedling

We wouldn’t be so clueless about its growth

As simple as that seems though, the changing of the tide

Does change the current, hence, the surf

Turns out the cat scratching the door, didn’t have rabies

A genuine ‘tale stuck between its legs’ sortof context

What would you know? You cheating bastard. Its tail was stuck in between doors you shut at 2 am.

It’s just the wind, darling.

My heart’s not big enough, to let you get away with it

But it’s weak enough, to endure it even though

I’m at full capacity

I wish I could empty these reasonings into that empty existence of yours, how could you claim yourself deserving?

“There is no time to rest. No time to sleep

Your search, in the winter and heat

Unceasing. Keep hurry

The footsteps of your beloved, you may not find. You may be overtaken by darkness, dense and deep.”

November, bleak midwinter

Raw

In the name of You for whom my blood bleeds

Its existence

This slight blizzard, teasing my weather to loosen up a bit

But what I found has been blurred and brought back to me

In this confusion

My limits outstretched, false hope dangles. Maybe these walls represent the bland, in us, in it all. Can I use this for my advantage? What is self-interest, but a dying man profiting from all the visits, all the crumbs left after tea for the floor to sweep. For the mop to clean frank dismay. It’s been a year. It’s been a fucking year.

Never contemplated it. Figured there’s way more to ruin in ourselves before ruin is brought to us. Pain exclusive. The boy kicked out of class for fidgeting too much with his pen, can now turn your world upside down, with just a blink.

But you’re still shameless. You rub the chalk before they sense the screech. You drag on the wood but it’s your burden that stays. A marble you toss on a moving staircase…path of pride, circular shapes sure are funny, ain’t they? No side to corner, every reflection: yours.

And then I think about what I just wrote and who’d read it. About how I can’t be bothered to edit.

Order such chaos. Would you fucking get it?

It’s alright, I mean. I’m supposed to get it, write it, talk it, walk it. Screwed up by this order. Let’s just say I’ve walked it, gotten it till I lost it, could barely get my message across had I talked it, but whenever I write it

It’s as

I’m

I don’t know

This

One minute

I’m still. The world happens. But the world inside my head happens for me as I question my entire being and look like a lost, bent over, fleer of war for a word that’ll not make these bombs detonate as I stand on a landmine. Enduring every.single.fucking.day.pre.and.post.this.bloody.minute. Where I wait as it all comes back to me and I wonder why I ever signed up for this shit.

And no alpha infront or omega behind will get flustered for anything past his poor life to watch out for. Yesterday was for me and tomorrow will probably be for you but who’s got to explain as of today to someone who needs to wake up and see it for what it is?

And as a thousand images flash like a cassette stuck for being played in the wrong time. I pick the images that stuck and let my giddy gaze form a sentence or two, in this dim frame of mind. What I could’ve said, what it all meant.

And then a stranger takes on, and writes another sentence off of that, elsewhere. All individualistic, of course. Your pain does not precede mine. Your imagination is second hand.

Why so sour, honey? I have mended to your stretch marks, your shade, your scars. I have counted the spaces in your hair as the sun pierced through it and set my eyes ablaze, for wanting to, shelter you in me.

Two utility bottles tripped over some trivialities and bowed in the same 45 degree angle. Does that mean we look the same if struggling with, the exact same, catastrophe? Or should we finally give due credit to gravity, for letting us feel more than we should because the lighter the heart, the easier it is to flee to its whereabouts.

I can’t write more.

Maybe that’s why books have numberings and pages have word limits. Because. If you take all the trips it needs, to come to a conclusion of a final thought, you wouldn’t ever write it down.

You’d throw that draft out the window.

As of all the others that didn’t make the cut.

Because, who’d be insane enough to write this?

I can’t.

I fucking won’t.

Or I’ll break again.

“But it is in the breaking that you’ll find your strength, my friend”

Bury it all with me.

Make me the enemy, take your revenge.

I’ll be here.

All the way…

Places in faces

IMG_20171124_001725“Do they not think that their words have weight?”

There has got to be a face that is read for what it is
Should time really account for innocence lost?

I mean, to lose that which you left behind in childhood and go back to it again, aware

God knows how much I’ve stored, meaningful in its meaningless description
And how much I’ve discarded, only to be met with it again, in another form

A feather in the stream
Trying to regain in flight what shed it

“The mysterious weakness of men’s faces”

“Smooth and smiling faces everywhere, but ruin in their eyes.”

Had I expression enough, to walk you through it

It’d feel like I’ve robbed you of His revelation

My bones shiver, my voice trembles, as this thought becomes concrete

Pale as dusk, disillusionment; two-fold

Subjective and objective truths

are not enough