Tag Archives: beg

The Division

Let me count the ways you kill me;

1.) You carved promises at the notches of my brittle bones, mercilessly enthralling and hypnotising me under the anaesthetic assurance that everything was fine, that I was fine, and that I wouldn’t ever have to destroy myself again; but all the while, you crushed the very foundations beneath my suspended feet and made heaven shatter all around me like an ethereal motion sickness. And as if that wasn’t enough, you set everything on fire and watched this wretched phoenix turn to listless ashes, never to rise again; a demented conflagration.

2.) You promised me for better or for worse, but as I tried to find new names for the shade of red in my lips, you forgot about the obscene sickness that’s violently heaving inside my compromised chest and without so much as a twinge of second chances or point-blank hesitation, you injected every indistinct symptom known and unknown to man, turning my shaky breaths to crystalline lilacs and my selfish ribs to impure glass. I asked for a cure, and instead I received a despicable panacea, a myriad riot of plagues that irreparably devastated my system, ripping me to irreversible shreds. “You can’t get hurt if all you feel is hurt, right?”

3.) I’ve got hands like houses, and you rejected my severed hospitality as you broke down every locked door and deceptive boundary like it was nothing; like I was nothing. I constantly find myself lost in complicated syncopes, as I’m trapped spiraling and crawling back to the same self-sustaining cycles of parabolic grief and hypertensive schizophrenia, predicting premonitions that never came true. This eternal winter freezing over my bloodline is stitched together by a million blizzards and snowstorms conspiring exquisitely at once, but this difficult tantrum of a weather is not a tribulation to you, is it? Your cold temper is intolerable, a thousand suns melding together and detonating convulsively in the empty vacuum of space, and there’s no one else around to hear me scream one last time. I wanted to burn. You took it too far.

4.) Were you even sorry? Did you even feel a single taste of contrition when you watched my starving, pathetic soul grapple for life at the very nave of that decimated altar, asking for the silhouetted universe to fall on my back so that it wouldn’t be my fault, nor yours, that everything got screwed over? Did you see what I’ve done, just so I wouldn’t be what you’ve become? I couldn’t find my way back on the ground, so I swallowed my pride like pried coffin nails for the sake of a more poignant memory to remember; retribution heals what time cannot. Yet now I close my reckless eyes and softly coalesce in sadistic plumes of the miserable discourse you call an intravenous love, and I beg, and I beg. Were you even sorry at all?

5.) You are me, and I am you. I have no one. You are no one. When you lived, I died; and when you died, I along with you. I called it genocide. They called it desperation. For I am me, and you are you. There was no one else. They called it suicide. I call it salvation.

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Filed under Prose

Wedding Hells

A quiet hush descends

From the church halls and it wends

And it wends, and it wends

And it bends beyond the bells

Of the bells with their clamour

And the clangour and their fervour

Like the fervour of the crux

Hid in every sacred pews

But the pews with their kneeling

And their ever-silent praying

It grows louder—oh what terror!

Oh, what draconian, pure horror!

For the altar—yes—the altar

Though as empty as can be

‘Tis not as empty as should be

Can you see? Can you see?

Can you see the weeping plea?

Oh, the ever-crying plea

Falling free, calling me—

Calling out beyond the sea

Calling out so helplessly

Begging me, can you see?

Can you see the melancholy—

Of my forgotten bride-to-be?

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Filed under Fixed Poetry, Poetry

The Girl With The White Bracelets

Oh, pretty girl, keep batting your eyes
‘Cause when you breathe you lie, lie
Oh, pretty girl, you better think twice
‘Cause second chances are rarer than I
How can we forget who we have become?
I’ll give it all up, please wake up
Every breath you take is a lie…

~*~

She asked for death, and who was I to refuse

She got sick of the radio and wanted the noose

She didn’t want another dance, just the last one

She sold all the bullets she had just to buy a gun

.

She was sick and she was tired of feeling pathetic

She didn’t like the smell of the hospital antiseptics

She was the class-act patient but she was no victim

She fixed her wounds but got worse off and broken

.

She screamed for mercy to taste all their cruelty

She was running away from all their emergency

She emerged from hell, to be thrown back again

She asked for demise at the tip of her bloody pen

.

She tried every method and every single execution

She went by the blades, gas, a wrongful transfusion

She beat her body in bruised painting of a night sky

She didn’t look for any help and nobody asked why

.

She was the girl that I still dream about in my head

She was the girl I wanted to save from this deep red

She was the girl begging for this chance, but instead

She’s the girl who is restrained and laying on my bed.

~*~

How did you ever see me broken?
Well, you forced me to find out everyday
Did you ever see me open?
Well, you forced me to find out everyday…

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Filed under Poetry

of gods and gold

i am not

who i say i was

and aphrodite

is crying gilded ichor

.

i am not

who i adorn in lies

and fragrance

peripheral

.

i am not

who i wish i was

and demeter

begs for stolen grace

.

i am not

a god bathed in truth

my predicament

is callisto’s eternal.

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Filed under Poetry

Emergency Call

I saw you move from across the room
I knew who you were
You act like you are afraid of who you are
I’m afraid for you…

~*~

I don’t want to be here

Constantly begging to be saved

By the hearts that don’t care

If my tongue is set on fire

.

Unsettled and reduced to hiding

Counting every line obscured

In the hopes that maybe this time,

I don’t have to hurt anymore

.

I don’t want to look inside

I don’t want to see myself again

And see nothing else but nothing

I don’t believe in anything else

.

I don’t want to ask stupidly again

And receive stares for an answer

It’s not like me to be fully aware

I’m better off lost, staying quiet

.

I don’t want to be here

Constantly saving to be begged

By the hearts that never cared

If my hands are set on fire

.

Unnerved and reduced to nooks

Creating every line unveiled

In the hopes that maybe this time,

It would hurt just a little more.

~*~

I can save you
If you ask me, just ask me to
There’s hope for you tonight
I can save you
If you ask me, just ask me to
I can save your life…

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Filed under Poetry

Pockets With Holes

‘Cause I’ve broken bones for you
And for you only
I make money but we just can’t
Keep this home…

~*~

i don’t ever want

the world to fall apart

just because of avaricious eyes

begging for fool’s gold

i’ll burn all the money i have

and let my house collapse

into a decrepit debris

if that means i could keep you

because this isn’t all about

shiny pennies and diamonds

that we try to mine under our flesh

and yet only unearth coal

this is about all those prospects

we threw to the faraway moon

how our unfortunate fates

aren’t spun into twisted infinity signs

yes, our mouths may be empty

but it doesn’t mean our hearts have to be

so set your faith past obscuring greed

and cease bleeding for the sake of worthless riches.

~*~

Give me your heart
And your hand
And we can run
(You’re my hope)…

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Filed under Poetry

Ipse Dixit

You’re begging for the impossible. You plead the fifth and proclaim it’s the inevitable, but I am as solid as the philosopher’s stone circumscribed within the third chamber of my arcane comatose heart. A paralysed blood flow. A coronary heartbeat. The monitor sinks into an eclectic deadline. You perceived the evidence, assimilated the apnoea, penultimately confirmed the apoplexy with an exorbitant sigh and a commiserating disposition. Castigate my otiose conniption if you must, but it wouldn’t make any goddamned difference if I’m a cello strung across a rainbow crossing in the welkin of the Valhalla or a bagpipe resting against a river of magma and hellfire in the very eviscerating core of the earth. It is but an expendable prestidigitation, smoke and mirrors reflecting spectres in the illusion, so why abjure? He himself said it. It is a moot point in a Van Allen Hyperion. For if the very man Himself cannot prosecute it, then let it occur to your benighted follies that your playing God cannot save me. Don’t make me go back. I won’t do it. I won’t.

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Filed under Prose