Tag Archives: books

lights, camera, action!

i am a candid facade—

i am no longer the crashing wreck

portrayed in movies and books

bleeding out question marks and

bad decisions to the open ocean

.

i am the jaunt in your sunday steps

and the gaily tip of your hats

and a million dollar movie star

with the confident mouth and purple hair

.

i am a candid facade—

i am not me. i am not me. i am not…

i am dissociated from all my

failures and collapses, from my

depression and desperation,

.

from me, from myself, from i;

i am not me. i am not me. i am not…

.

until i am not becomes i am me.

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Filed under Poetry

Will The Real Author Please Stand Up?

Do you ever get envious of other people’s words?

The way they’re so intricately, elegantly, genuinely made. The way that the sentimental fervour and tortured passion rings out plangently from beyond the curled pages of the book and strikes sharp aches and twinges in even the most desensitised heart. The way you could read them for days at an end and never get tired of the intangible shapes they form, the sophisticated literary art they create, the breathtaking stories they tell. The way that you can never really understand what that individual meant, what they truly felt, and you aren’t quite sure if you could even place yourself in their perception and situation, but despite all that, they’re still your emotions. They’re confusing. Messy. A foreign tongue that no soul, living or deceased, can ever know how to speak again. But you can feel them latching in your hair, your skin, your eyes, your lips, speaking your mind, all the words you don’t know how to say, all the senses you never knew existed in the first place, all the thoughts you don’t know how to feel.

And so you feel inspired. And so you attempt to write.

But your words, on the other hand, are rather insipid and unamusing. They’re the proverbial rain that never gets written about. The damp, stuffy, erratic kind of drizzle that relents to the point of irritation and drips down cracked ceilings and forgotten open windows. The kind that’s well-meant by the dear weather, but never makes its humble way in poets’ thoughts and poetry books, except occasionally to emphasise a depressing thought. You could stand outside that downpour for days at an end and get not a single drop of water on your skin. Your words feel cheap and secondhand, sharp edges worn-down to cliches and dull torpor, no wit to be found anywhere. Your words are no one else’s and you aren’t quite sure if they’re even yours, or just by the ghost that resides behind your empty ribs. It’s confusing. Messy. A foreign tongue that not a soul, living or deceased, knows how to speak. They’re all the words you can’t say, all the thoughts you don’t know how to feel, but you try to make sense of them anyway.

Do you ever wish…that you couldn’t write?

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Filed under Prose

Odes And Dedications

I’d write you a million letters

You left me at a loss for words

Halfway around the world, yet

You stole my breaths unfurled

.

I’ll compose until my hands ache

And my quill protests ‘no more’

Until I dried up all the ink I have

And literates stop keeping score

.

I’d write you in ballads and sonnets

Limericks, haikus, and silly rhymes

I’d write you odes and lengthy epics

That shall withstand the test of time

.

And all the troubadours and minstrels

Will speak of your name for centuries

Immortalised between yellowing pages

Of prose and verse and lines of poetry

.

I’d write you a million novels and books

‘Til I run out of words to use in every language

And even then, it still won’t fully express

Just how much you truly made this bard change.

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Filed under Poetry

451

Fahrenheit 451—the temperature at which book paper catches fire and burns…” ~Ray Bradbury

~*~

4 days…

Dandelion tickles her soft chin

Montag, are you in love or not?

Childish star girl of evergreen

Dial watch face and whatnots

Life with you, in pretty whims

Until a beetle ran you over flat

.

Her liquid mercury eyes staring

Where did we first meet, Millie?

Her snowless island, yet hailing

Faux laughs of a parlour family

Life, with you, lacklustre feeling

Until a snake expunged toxicity

.

5 hours…

Mechanical hound, metal growl

What are fires, but clean lauds?

Captain, with a solid-set scowl

His knowledge, logically sound

Life with you, exhilarating goals

Until a dragon melts your ground

.

Brittle bones creaking with age

Books bleed pores, do you see?

The clever professor assuages

With green thimbles, philosophy

Life with you, easy plans staged

Until wolves chased relentlessly

.

1 lifetime.

A silver salamander button melting

Fill this sieve with sand for a dime?

A fireman with his joys misguiding

A forbidden hobby to pass the time

Life with himself, scary, confusing

Until books made him feel sublime

.

In a monochromatic dystopia, a future glowing bleak

Yes. Chicago. Beauty. Yes. Can’t. Answered his insights

Wars waged in twenty seconds, and families of static

Watching butterfly pages curling, words burning bright

Life as Book of Ecclesiastes, walking with his fellow literaries

I’ll save this passage for when we finally reach the city lights…

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Filed under Poetry

Snapshots.

Indulging our shallow jubilance and sanity lost

On 3D images and abstractions and patterned loops

Playing a strange round of hide and seek amongst

The towering stacks and tall shelves of intoxicating books

.

Screaming out lyrical chords with poor throats setting fire

To try to sing my bleeding ulcer away

Dying with elation and concinnitic laughter admired

Entertained with our silly little games

.

Chasing away the enveloping gloom that dislimned

Running along the dark nimbus clouds that the skies were tinged

Eating some bubblegum-coloured soothing ice cream cone

Under the cool drops of rain, as I lead my contented soul home.

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Filed under Poetry