Tag Archives: human

Peripheral Vision

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What a stubborn thought; to be loved, to be lost, to be loathed.

My initial mistake was to get myself foolishly caught up in the former instance, without carefully considering the ulterior consequences of my despicably reckless actions. I dived headfirst without peering in to see if there was a tangible ocean beneath me, and cried out in regret when my body got viciously torn apart by the jagged rocks awaiting below.

But, what else could I have done? And what else should I have not? I could spend my entire life painstakingly sifting through the showering grains of the hourglass, attempting to find a diamond until time runs out; or I could simply let the sand fall away to its own accord as I willingly hold out my roughened hands below—hurting, helping, hoping. The unfortunate namesake “human” is deeply threaded through my innocent nerves, shutting out the callous pessimism which only seeks to permanently cease my blood circulation; still withering against the gentler stings of anguish.

Though I have slowly faded out most of my past anamnesis, all of their phantasmic chimeras are still somehow luminously vigilant, almost even barbarous in its unremitting pursuit to frivolously preserve my already-squandered youth. Yet I suppose, no matter…no matter. For now, you are the overgrown wildflower field lulling my tired providence to rest, under fluid stars and unplucked scars and quavering sympathy—the only thankless relapse fully able to keep me awake for multiple infinitudes every twilight’s eve.

What a stubborn thought; to be loathed, to be lost, to be loved by you.

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Filed under Prose

Dies Irae

“And in the end, the love you take

Is equal to the love you make.”

Quite frankly, I’m a bit jealous of people who have the casual nerve to fall in and out of love all the time—as if it was simply as bothersome as changing the frayed shoelaces on their trainers on their wornout trainers, or replacing old guitar strings because their sound has long gone dead from overuse. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course, but just;

How ever do they manage it?

I also desperately vie for that graceless, apathetic minuet—for your jaded body to queue into those monotonous cycles of halfhearted flirtations and shamefaced unspeakable nights, for your eyes to linger and your skin to prickle whenever some form of a chance draws near, to have your mind so far detached from my own overbearing sentimentality that when you crave, you simply act upon it. No love letters. No second thoughts. You don’t even have to know their name. Back into a I-V ostinato, humdrum and most times repetitive, but callously familiar all the same.

Meanwhile, I could barely make sense of all these dissonant polychords before another stray minor third or suspended ninth is forcefully thrown into the chaos, stacking up with clashing sharps and muddled tritones and making a colossal mess—and all of this coming from a singular source, no less? No consideration for modes or solfeggio? The absolute heartless anarchy.

Why must I be cursed to be a cynical romantic? A rational poet? A corrupted lullaby? I have discovered where my affections fully lay and have viciously fought tooth and nail for it; but only within myself, for myself, against myself. They need not know. They need not care. They need not suffer the awful way I have, only for nothing to come into fruition at the bittersour end, mainly because my terrified demons have their lacerating claws wrapped around every struggling limb, holding me back, screaming don’t you dare!

Aha, but what if? I hear another resolute little voice at the very back of my head interject, their rather coy tone heavily slurred with infatuated chemicals and heaven knows what else kind of drugged illogicalities. Mayn’t you take an actual chance first and maybe haphazard throwing a rose to your preluded hope, before you hang up your coat in defeat and throw it at your pre-dug grave instead? What if such an unexpected act of courage takes you where you needed to be and…more perhaps? What? If?

Courage, sugarcoated tongues call it. I call it blind and utter foolishness. Yes, I know that I willingly write about fate and destiny and the skinny scarlet threads potentially intertwining our two-syllable names at the A; but beyond that, I dare not stake my chances for a temporary happily-ever-after, nor do I refer to the gathering dust on my windowsill as fairy glitter. I know fully well what is beyond my means, and my means, in turn, know better than to continuously contradict me.

My palpitating heart and tremulous breaths, however, do not. For I have tried my untrained hand at a foreign chord inversion, and now all the blood has rushed into my skull and poured out of my gaping orifices. Everything feels so exhilaratingly t h i c k . . .

Well, curse me and my one-track mind, then. And hex/jinx/potion/burn-at-the-stake combo my asinine brain with its obsessions and hyperfixations and aspirations that focus solely on overblown proportions, it finds a shiny object that it likes and, akin to a stubborn, rabid magpie, it harshly grits its beak until one or the other shatters and even then, it does. Not. Let. Go.

Sooner or later, the hardheaded magpie will starve to death.

Honestly, I would sorely like to believe in cosmic mysticism. In soulmates and “the ones” and in pure, innocent, whimsical luck. I want to believe that if I close my eyes and daydream vividly enough, some of the pieces will slowly melt and start trickling right into the infinitesimal cracks of reality, and when I gasp awake, there shall be more shades of colour beyond my imagining—like the quaintly iridescent hue of their iris—waiting patiently in front of me. To live and to dream and yet to do neither

But in the end, no matter what I choose to believe in, I am still unfortunately a victim to reality. In reality I rightfully reside, and so in its rules I must abide—no matter how demanding, or unfair, or just plain disappointing. C’est la vie. So I must do my very best to stifle my raging adoration and love in secret—otherwise, must they think me so childishly petty?

Long ago have I ceased caring for physical intimacy, anyhow. For satiating a strange hunger that was never actually within me to begin with, like a rather curious augmentation dot in a measure that has long since ended. And I personally find it much easier to think without such fantastical denouements further clouding already-confused judgment. I simply seek another life to hold out to. Another arrangement to harmonise with mine in more pleasant overtones, and create a completely new melody once unheard of. I simply seek someone to understand with.

But even that, particularly during these trying times and ages, is already far too much to ask for. Even more unfortunately so than the former. I have found mine allure and yet lost it in the same clumsy risk. It’s affected me so much that even as I write this down, I can’t help but speak in constant musical metaphors. For I love in the same concentrated frequency as I devote my life to music. In unexpected eleven by eights and stiffer four by four cadences, in novelistic sonatas that dance around in dizzying triptychs and roaring otherworldly symphonies without a conductor present to keep it at bay; music and love and [?????], so tightly intertwined together, practically stitched at the smallest seams, inseparable, infinite, molto allargando. A trifecta of syncopated synergy tethered directly to my pulse. No wonder it is absolute agony whenever I attempt to pull one away from the other.

But music, just like everyone and everything else, desperately desires resolution. Life rarely ever offers one.

So, where do I go from here? I am hopelessly stuck tapping my fingers along to a singular timbre, and since I know all too well that there is no other exact same (or even similar) intensity nor perfect pitch that will ever come close to matching this one, I chose to deafen my entire hearing instead. There shall be no more lighthearted serenading melodies or serendipitous harmonies playing in bloom after this cantabile. I have completely given up trying. I am simply far too tired of it all to even bother anymore. I just want to get over this reckless charade and move on with my life. Better to have nothing than too much, one supposes.

Ah, to be young and in love. I quite feel as though I barely even fit in one category anymore, and yet I still vicariously persist in the other; like an octogenarian layman nearly drowning in the same river many times over the course of their entire four decades of living, whilst somehow vainly hoping to catch a pretty feathered dove. Existence is admittedly rarely too dull—but it is, however, messy and pointless and full of cacophonous noises and obnoxious plot holes. That’s what makes it exciting. I’d very much rather be bored to death.

So tell me, how does one love if they do not know how to—and do not ever want to? How does one get rid of love when this exhausted cliché has nothing left to give, but invisibly clings on to them like an unpleasant earworm just to suck them dry and make their stomach feel relentlessly sick? And how does one ridiculously fall prey to love over and over again and still keep crawling back for just one more bruise—when I myself have already stretched out every aching muscle, squeezed out every drop of vital liquid, and fractured every bone in my abused and protesting body just to get rid of one person, like a frenetic rondo without decrescendo???

Perhaps it’s an acquired taste. Perhaps the primal survival of our specie deems it necessary. Perhaps I am simply fucking weak.

Truly, I am not jealous of most people’s normal ability to let themselves loose and dive headfirst into everything at an uncharted whim. I am only ever jealous over my own lack of self-control with my incessant, irrational, one-sided reverence; though the mercurial world’s unpredictable rhythm pushes past like a steady heartbeat as it constantly heeds me to move on. Move on. Move on.

If only I were more human than that.

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Filed under Prose, Valentines Poetry

Cosmic Comatose


ʟᴏᴠᴇ, ʜᴜɴᴛ ᴍᴇ ᴅᴏᴡɴ
ɪ ᴄᴀɴ’ᴛ sᴛᴀɴᴅ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ sᴏ ᴅᴇᴀᴅ
ʙᴇʜɪɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇʏᴇs
ᴀɴᴅ ғᴇᴇᴅ ᴍᴇ, sᴘᴀʀᴋ ᴍᴇ ᴜᴘ
ᴀ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ɪɴ ᴍʏ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅsᴛʀᴇᴀᴍ
ᴄʜᴇᴡs ᴍᴇ ᴜᴘ
sᴏ ɪ ᴄᴀɴ ғᴇᴇʟ sᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ…


am i insane, stars?

i made exposed promises to you that i am far from keeping,

melted cosmos and calliope leaking from the corners of my eyes

as his fickle thought is ever missing from the warm embrace

that you provide, only for me to find out that it was just a lie.

flowers grow from my pink bones, the longer i starve myself

and soon enough i have a lithe bouquet with a pretty bow

thorns and boughs left in virgin snow, where heavy cherry

blossoms couldn’t hold out ’til spring to shake off the cold

like me. like me with my corrupted lungs and corrupted lovers

and mute corruption in my light, so much so that when it passes

through the stained glass windows of our unmarried chapel, all i see

is grey. and yet, i still pray. i still cast my bruised eyes to the ground

and wipe away the profanities from the corner of my mouth, where he

left them festering, evergreen, so sweet, bittersweet—where he never

was at all. but god, he didn’t cause this! i caused this, most this

lost this, i took the losing chance and loved until my bastard heart

choked with dopamine and plasticine and oxytocin and strychnine and

still…and still! it just wasn’t enough. no. all i could see is the faint outline

of his hands and his cloying laughter and his blurry eyes so blue you’d

have thought an ocean was trapped beneath it. i would know. i would

have drowned. maybe i’ll still have drowned. i’m already drowned.

skin. finite. nothing. the current that carried souls along to solace

love in the time of scarlet fever, and him, and him, and you? and you.

nothing more. nevermore. neverwhere. we’re all here, now.

so tell me this, stars. am i insane? or am i just too human for my own good?


ɢɪᴠᴇ ᴍᴇ ᴛᴏᴜᴄʜ
‘ᴄᴀᴜsᴇ ɪ’ᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴍɪssɪɴɢ ɪᴛ
ɪ’ᴍ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍɪɴɢ ᴏғ sᴛʀᴀɴɢᴇʀs
ᴋɪssɪɴɢ ᴍᴇ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ɴɪɢʜᴛ
ᴊᴜsᴛ sᴏ ɪ, ᴊᴜsᴛ sᴏ ɪ
ᴄᴀɴ ғᴇᴇʟ sᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ…


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Filed under Poetry

Quantum Immorality

find caution, cascading in

myriad throes of guns and

faded starlight, held back

only by the darkness, stark—

bleeding. animosity presents

in the manner of a wornout

theatre pantomime, painted

faces, lacklustre marionettes

scarlet eye and lithium inhale

redolences and sedated mire

platitudes forsaken by saints

cathedrals of human blasphemy

and in absentia, soulful requiem

chanted towards their heavens

crescendo. swelling lamentation

a bitter reluctance held forth by

admonition of sins baptised for

vile manipulation, underwater

torture, clergies in brothels and

a tempest in allegro—a visceral

cacophony revolted and created

polarised transgressions feeding

on facsimiles, cautious, nebulous

sleep now and forever hold your peace.

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Filed under Poetry

deconstruction

mistakes,

i am built of

pencil shavings

lingering with

backaches

bitter sugar

a life-changing

flick of the wrist

stuttered change

homeless thoughts

gloomy showers

drenched in loneliness

small conversations

smaller smiles

overthinking

and undermining

deaf solfeges and

melodic dissonance

coalescing into

lucid obsessions

for somebody who

doesn’t exist

desperate need

pretty in pale purple

cruel in wrong red

damaged boy

starving for salt

like a suicide slave

hunger-crushed

ribs, leather scars

underlining the

scribbled prose

inkstains bleeding

nonsense, rambling

anxiety, trembling

neverending lies

nothing more

everything less

plain as paper grey

human unbeing

still unbecoming

j u s t . a . n o b o d y

is somebody…there?

bad and better

not so clever

tired of counting

can’t fall asleep

it’s been months now

centuries of waiting

yet still dying just

to find out

something, else

anything, right—

nothing’s right;

i am built of

mistakes

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Filed under Poetry

The Devil’s Vision

Must I denounce myself as a monster while you refuse to see the one growing inside you?” ~Hannibal Lecter

~*~

He drips blood from the corners of his sightless eyes

And wipes it off silently, praying no one has seen his lies

But the devil drew smiles just as he drew out red water

Devour the mind and heart, teeth a grim rorschach splatter

“What do you see?” asks he, as the clock begins unraveling

He pretends the blindfold is tight enough to obscure sin

Enemies will flee as their friends are turned upside-down

The blunt instrument glints, a masquerade of gruesome frowns

And at the edge of the madness, the verge of suspended hell again

The devil sits with discretion, adjusting his veil of human skin

As he tends to the fear, crying in vain, losing their very humanity

And the devil is hungry, oh-so hungry—“do…you…see…?”

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Filed under Fandom Poetry, Poetry

Swallowing Diamonds: Does It Hurt?

Don’t even know if you left a note
Should we blame the Dekapote? Or vilify the Abilify?
You were trying to find your vanilla sky
Then you unravel, facedown on rock bottom
Fucking chewing gravel, because
A human’s so fragile, what can you do?

~*~

Got another issue

Pressing like a migraine

And all the healthy “bless you’s”

Can’t repair, can’t compare

To the amount of extraordinary pain

That’s felt with every angry stare

.

So I take a pistol that’s pink on one end

And swallow it whole ‘cause my life depends

On the gunpowder chemicals

Checking up on my broken physicals

Recycling my blood through and through

10 out of 10 doctors recommend that it’s true

.

They all thought I was blissful

‘Cause they never wanna hear about

The things that are fucking awful

Trained by clinical trials, trained by pharmaceuticals

So I’m still saying “I don’t need your help!”

As I choke on my fucking gavel

.

I’ve got a teaspoon of anxiety for my head

And a glass of borderline thoughts before I go to bed

As my body fights every request and rejects my skin

The strangers may praise me, but I will never win

Even if I had all the money in the world to sell out what I love

Would that change the happiness I lack in my blood?

.

‘Cause everyone’s a critic

And a cynic and they all “get it”

When they’re living in glowing cities

With their missus, acting clever

With their 9-5 IQ’s and 401k GPA endeavours

Feeling guilty their children didn’t get their Nerf Guns

.

But monsters don’t discriminate, it’s all fair game

No blame on no names, every label is the same

You could be sitting in gold and still don’t want to get old

You could be in a prison cell and don’t do what you’re told

Or you could be like me, contemplating a straitjacket tee

On my way out to an existence that doesn’t cope out too badly

.

So maybe there are issues that cannot be fixed with tissues

Or underhanded “you’re fine’s” or endless rounds of “bless you’s”

But it doesn’t hurt to compare and it doesn’t hurt to repair

The amount of extraordinary pain that no fake adrenaline stain

Nor serotonin on our hair, taken with a beggar’s angry stares

I’m only human like you and them after all, would it hurt me to care?

~*~

They press our teardrops into diamonds
They change our sorrows into gold
They’re gonna turn our blood to rubies
We just need someone we can hold…

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Filed under Poetry

Andromeda

Can anyone reveal the bloodstains

Hiding underneath my torn lips…

Would anyone kiss it all away?

.

My thoughts are arrested at gunpoint

As if they were guilty of something—

.

But the crimes hanging my crown

Heavy on one side are nothing new

I’ve already paid for them time and time again

But why am I still being punished?

.

I can’t escape the incarceration from

What everyone else calls their brain

Try as I may to scrape off the slivers of light,

A jailbreak only makes for broken bones

And a rather crueler atonement…

.

I’m crossing thin lines inside my head

And all over my skin, precarious and fatal

Until humility becomes my illness

.

And manipulation my only chapel of truth

.

For I am no longer human; rather

I am simply a galaxy of constellated scars

.

But not a single one coruscates any longer

And my flesh becomes just another dead star

Extinguished quietly in the infinite darkness.

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Filed under Poetry

It’s not like I want bad dreams, but anything that’s a breakaway from the pure hellish darkness I see every night would be quite nice for a change.

In an ocean of noise, I first heard your voice
Ringing like a bell as if I had a choice, oh well
Left in the morning while you were fast asleep
Into an ocean of violence, a world of empty streets…

~*~

I don’t sleep anymore.

I forgot what it feels like

To slow my heavy breaths,

To dream, and be paralysed,

And be afraid that I’ll never

Wake up from the nightmare.

.

I don’t even remember the

Goriest of dreams, even if I

Swore to myself that I would

But as soon as my bleary eyes

Open up beyond the reality, it’s

Like nothing ever happened at all.

.

I don’t know how it happened

But now all I do every night is

Stare up at the dripping ceiling

And think about everything and

Nothing, and imagine that I was

Levitating lucidly, and I’ll wonder

.

What it was like to breathe and to feel,

To resemble a human, and I look back

On the days when I still pretended, and

I did it very well, but now my skin is just

Beginning to peel and melt off like petals…

And then it’s morning, and I don’t wake up.

~*~

You’ve got your reasons
And me I’ve got mine
But all the reasons I gave
Were just lies to buy myself some time
I’m gonna work it out
‘Cause time won’t work it out…

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Filed under Poetry