"i wish i believed you when you said that this was my home"
i miss the thrill of your voice and how your eyes seemed to shine in the right questions. they still do, don't get me wrong; they're beautiful as ever but the thrill,
oh no the thrill
is gone like dead among the living. you're not even trying to save us you're just tired of the whole damn thing and i'm tired of being surprised by the stupidest of words
the art of keeping up silences
okay alright there's no need to be poetic. i'm not poetic and the whole thing is just plain fucking absurd. it's like i'm living in a constant white noise and it's repeating your name, your name in the darkness and in dreams. it relives the past that i can't forget and maybe you believe that it wasn't such a big deal. like seriously how can't anything be but a serious fucking deal? really? i admire the capacity you have of keeping me thinking and keeping up the art of appearances when i think i might just be the most t r a n s p a r e n t human in the city. and it makes me strong, you know. i'm not afraid of who i am, i'm only afraid of who you think i am. really. where are you? where are you?
Labels: love, me, silence, you
weekly messages / stranger's disease II
there's a stranger living in my chest. it carries its own burden, i guess. acid refills the top of my lungs a floods my head in a whirlwind. i tell myself to take a deep breath but then i wheeze and ooze and it can only get worse. would sleeping soothe me? i don't know. will smoking soothe me? probably not. will you? will any of them? no. i'm sure this person is here to stay. it's probably telling me i need to grow up.
there's people who dream of floating away in outer space as stars call them back home. there's people in an intermittent type of future who survive their present day by day in the hopes that it will come to them. they plan and the dream and they save up emotions, time and money, to splurge once the desired times arrive. those people scare me: what if when the moment arrives they can't leave? what if when the moment arrives they're alone and nobody waves goodbye? who pushes the rest of the world away, afraid of settling down in affairs for the long run when one is human and has a heart? it's not something comprehensible, i guess, living in the future. especially when your present is what you've always wanted and you want to settle down. have a house and live in peace. there's nowhere else i would be, except chasing after future people.
Labels: afterlife, gone, prose
karma keeps on rolling
namely i have followed the path of others.
she might be right,
hear? she might as well be.
i do follow traces,
scrapes of the unknown
just to deem with a little panic
a subtlety of my own soul
in the hopes that if will begin
to sound familiar
when you wake up.
then it's the only one who i can't be,
don't want to be,
but always wished to see.
the goddess that has crumbled my temple
with nothing more than a memory,
like the worst hangover
you can have.
karma keeps on rolling
i'll play with my wigs
karma keeps on rolling
baby i'm not the one you see
Labels: archetypes, call of attention, disregarding, dive in, lies, love
there's absolutely nothing there. i tried, believe me i'm trying to understand how the heart races for someone else, but suddenly i'm distracted by your actions and i get lost. all the same, i'm not trying to find myself. maybe i'm trying to acquire feelings i know i don't have, and understanding the birth of nothingness is kind of impossible. get me thinking, i don't know. tell me stories about yourself. let me build you up. trace the peaks of your ribs. give me something i can hang on to. otherwise how can i label this?
Labels: nothing, prose, you
there should be a flow of words distinctively coming at me in this thoughtful moment. i've tried, hard enough, time after time for it to be real and pleasant. at some point when the noise was louder than my will, i gave up. i kind of guess you noticed, but still, it isn't as poetic as i imagined it would turn out to be. it wasn't poetic. it never has been and it never will be. however, i find poetry in some of the strangest details. when i'm talking i am noticing and i notice that you're listening. i got used to you. but i don't like this out of routine. i like this because it wasn't as cold as the weather report said and the bus didn't take long to come. i like this because i push myself to new places where i can never settle down. i like this because if i push hard enough, i can see the tiny cracks. i'll never get them to pour in. but i'm okay with it.
leaving and breathing
leaving and breathing the same rusty contents. a year ago has nothing to do with me. whoever's new hasn't come to stay for long. otherwise, i would have known. it isn't surprising anymore when the game plays itself in front of my eyes and i just fall asleep before the right cards come in hand. a year ago has nothing to do with me. it's not me. she died beside the hospital bed, in a frenzy for packing her will up; she died, she died.
Labels: death, family, love, me, memories, new year, prose