Tag Archives: lost

Second chances, they don’t ever matter

I’m an impossible person, a total mess

I haven’t got any clue

I lose my grips on foolish contrivances

That much is all true

But I found someone, a damaged man

Though I never knew

You are the only one who understands

And now I lost you too.

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don’t count your coins in the wishing well

the way

the fields

collapse away

it’s beautiful,

isn’t it?

I thought it will

save us all.

a million dollar

painting

for a museum

on the moon

making us

look

like anthills

on the mountain.

this planet

is too dumb

to avoid despair

wholeheart;

and they’ve

been nursing that

cup of coffee

for ten hours

now,

hoping to reduce

the headache;

but like

cigarette stains

and ink

on their lips

and red and gold

medal ribbons,

it never

does fade.

yet,

the way

the revolution

sings with orbit

and crashes

with lives,

it’s beautiful…

isn’t it?

i thought it

will save me.

so where did

everything

go?

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Lost Work

As a writer, you have had those insanely frustrating moments where, perhaps by your own careless fault or perhaps by unforseen circumstances, you accidentally delete your work, when it’s already a lengthy output and you’ve been slaving at it and typing it down for literal hours. And no matter how hard you tried, begged, or prayed to the million feasible gods, goddesses, and any ethereal entities that may chance upon to listen to your unfortunate situation, it’s all futile, and you’re still unable to get it back. With no backup copy and unwilling to recreate the same rendition, you just sink in a depressing state of regret and drown in an ocean of violent expletives, as you think vexingly about how your work is forever, vanished into the blue, swallowed down the drain, evanesced into nothingness, ultimately disintegrated into the goddamn aether where all lost ideas all go to fucking die.

…Now only if the problems and anxieties that you inputted in that lost work would just as easily disappear with it.

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Scollegare

Words woven together

A lacework of articulacy

That once veiled under

A taciturn you and me

.

Words dragging knives

Into the ruined tapestry

Now laid in tatters for

A seething you and me

.

Words hung like clouds

Of a settling fog, heavy

Enveloping lines around

A wayward you and me.

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Equilibrium

Gaining fervently

Your momentum

Against whorls of

Chrysanthemum

Planetary gravity

In a moratorium

Knocking it away,

Our equilibrium.

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★ you home ☆

♫•*¨*•.¸¸♪

shall i spend eternity

waiting for a sign, and

flip wishing wells down

the tarnished dimes?

doomed to wander

and to ponder and

to be rended asunder

waywardness forever?

that, i’ll accept humbly

my wanderlust, wish

of worlds in reverie

never one with a roof

but nay will you be

dragged along my mad

adventures, you ate

your fill, you’ve had

never mind the roses

that get tiring after a

bit of a while, empty

as your shot glasses

shall i wait for you to

dance the pub roam

or finish another drink?

you proclaim no’m!

perhaps i’ll wait until

you see monochrome

and pass out and then,

let’s get you home.

♫•*¨*•.¸¸♪

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Filed under Poetry, Southern Constellations

Vanishing Point; All That’s Left Are Traces Of You

And without you is how I disappear
And live my life alone forever now
Can you hear me cry out to you
Words I thought I’d choke on
Figure out I’m really not so with
You anymore, I’m just a ghost
So I can’t hurt you anymore…

~This Is How I Disappear; My Chemical Romance

~*~

If you found me gone one day, with nothing but a whirlwind of scattered letters and notebooks and papers, with one parched fountain pen dying of dehydration in the middle, lying forgotten in my dislimned room like an ironic tableau, to indicate the figure, the mass, the emptied space which my once-corporeal missing body once occupied, what would you do?

Would you silently shut the door, lock the house, and leave, leave that damned place that swallowed me whole, and start afresh, burying all memories and preludes of mine, allowing it to be covered in dust and cobwebs along with the crumbling papers, in that lonely dark room in a restless abandoned house, doomed to become another cheap haunted tourist attraction—?

Or would you take a deep breath, gathering all your aplomb and composure in a single oxygen intake, preparing yourself for the worst yet still hoping for the best, grip the knob with sweaty quivering palms, open the door with a prominent creak, and step in cautiously, allowing the darkness of the shadows and the lingering ghosts of what once was to chill your bones and embrace your every being—?

And if you were to choose the latter, if you were to gather all the papers, crumpled, clean, torn-up, every scrap and bit scribbled upon in a fit of either ennui or frustration, and put them together, as if they were the puzzle pieces that will finally solve the complexities and mysteries of my shambled life, and you read them, word for word, letter for letter, line for line and rhyme for rhyme, the mindlessly scratched punctuation and intentionally scratched out words blurring into a singular monstrous emotion that discreetly ravaged and poisoned your child’s system internally, now reforming and threatening to tear at your soul’s throat, as you read the unorganised pastiche of all my regrets, passions, agonies, jubilances, those things that I wanted to say, those things I never said, and those things that I will never get to say, what would you do?

Would you tie those anthologies of pain and paradise altogether in a messy little bundle, and without so much as an apology nor prayer, simply toss them gracelessly into the raging hungry fireplace, letting each scrap of paper curl up like dying butterfly wings and be devoured by the rising flames, starving for memories to destroy, turning my thoughts into bitter ashes, no longer to be sifted and repaired, rather only left to the whim of the wind, to get caught in people’s eyes, leaving my life to be an open case, speculated and falsified upon, leaving the words of the dead to remain dead and only an unspoken echo, a pale blot in the fabric of time—?

Or would you tie those florilegiums of hurt and happiness altogether in a neat little bundle, and with utterances of faith and assurance, share them eloquently with the others wanting in hope, letting each page be turned with eager fingers like flourishing petals of blue forget-me-nots and be devoured by the willing masses, voracious for memories to engrave, turning my ponderings into a spectrum of colours, no longer to be ignored and rotting away in a locked grey vault, rather to be left in the whim of the breeze, to get caught in people’s hearts, leaving my life to be stipulated and validated upon, making the words of the dead come back to life and to gain a voice of their own, a universe itself in the tapestry of time—?

And if you opted for the second decision, and you succeeded, what would you do if you returned to my room one day, and found me, sitting casually on my bed, with an overflowing ink jar dripping murky tears on my desk and a flurry of blank sheets of paper like a hurricane of unconceived literature on the spotless carpet, taciturn as I write out brand new compositions with a faint yet genuine smile on my solid scarlet lips, content with my slowly unfading existence, colliding shades of carnation and pastel tints efflorescing on my pallid cheeks and everywhere else that the bleeding colours chances to touch, revived by your efforts, revived by the memory of my name fresh in everyone’s sentience, unaged and youthful, looking as if I never left, this place, this world, and a void in your mind, in the very first place?

Would you tell yourself that all this, was simply nothing but a tired delusional dream of yours, disintegrating into the aether as soon as you make contact with it—?

Or would you dare step in again, completing a full möbius strip of the vanishing cycle, into my bright phantasmic room, and touch my skin to see if the bubble pops…?

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The Towers of Santo Dominique

That letter I sent

Lost at heart

Lust—

Indited…

A floral destiny was mine to be.

Over which

Constables and

Troubadours and

Knaves and the

Jesters and all

Aldermen have

Fought over, yet

Gone, begotten by

The nary prince that

Stood forth upon the gates

Of the limestone castle

As he passed along for my arms,

Hearkened unto ballads,

Holding a mint envelope,

Hoping to be desired.

Fourscore years hath he

Travelled over glebes and

Moors for a princess

Hence he inquires now.

I refused mine hand,

Why, which sensible dame

Dares to cast even skin

For a roaming heathen

Wild eyed and contraband?

Yet; goodly as I erelong,

Forthwith his compeer begins

Persisting and pursuing

The masks that he now put

For a show of cavalry, mayhap

And severe generosity

To make milkmaids surely faint

Oh, dear sire, but not I, said we

I am a stubborn lot, I fare

And one ritual is all it takes.

So I held my stone heart

In one lithe hand;

Lightning pendant in the other

Glim of light betwixt,

And prayed for redemption.

My wishes were painted,

Yet, in a cruel djinn act

And, on the morrow

The bricks began to fall

And the rain wept in agony

As screams intertwined with

Death church knells, tolling;

Warning for oncoming doom.

Yet, oh tragedy—! Not too soon

Did it come, all too late, and

The towers crashing

Over Santo Dominique

Twisted a thousand fates

And claimed a hundred souls

I wailed in bereavement

And I proclaimed to fled

Thinking myself a wretched witch

A damnable soul, I.

But still he, braveheart,

The chivalrous gentleman,

The unfaltering prince,

He pulled me from the wreck,

As he did hundred others,

He did the work of an army,

A battalion borne to save.

He claimed with intensity,

And passion forsooth,

And calm forgiveness,

And faith in his God and I

For mine spare emotions

Yet humanity is a fragile thing

And hearts more fragile so

And two of such broke

As I realised my cruelty,

As he passed on within my arms,

Hearkened unto dirges,

Holding a tattered envelope,

Hoping still to be wanted,

That neither

The constables

Nor troubadours

Nor jesters

Nor knaves

Nor alderman

Can even begin to pertain

Yet asunder our destiny was to be.

Indited…

Love—

Lost at heart

The letter I sent.

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Souvenir Youth

Not so innocent
On the street hustling
Never be Miss America
In the backseat of a Celica
Crashing with a deadbeat
Living large on a love seat
In a small town, no scene
Turns out it was a pipe dream…

~*~

Daddy’s little princess

Moonlighting as a crack whore

In the dirty streets of LA dark

Her body is a dollar store

And her boyfriend paints her

With bruises every single night

And she cries in her sleep

And smiles at desperate dikes

Mummy’s little champ

With a joint and a tramp

And he earns his rolling dough

With illegal backdoor grow

And he hates his fucking life

And he beats up his wife

And his children are wasted

For luxuries they haven’t tasted

Little Princess and the Champ

Now that they’re all grown up

Saw the harsh reality of the world

As their innocence has burned

And it isn’t all just pink glitter tiaras

And it isn’t all just golden trophies

And sometimes they grow up to be

Just like their mummies and daddies.

~*~

Expectations
Go to hell
Prom Queen, Miss America
In the backseat in a pair of cuffs…

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A Wayward Child’s Empty Pen

((The following entries are transcribed from a waterlogged brown journal, found along with a dried blue pen, in an abandoned park bench in Southwark, London.))

~*~

01/13/??; 01:25 AM/PM.

It’s so cold.

The Arctic rains pour angrily, beating down in relentless torrents

The languid sky is shaded with an amalgamation of sickly grey

Under my tattered umbrella, I attempt to figure it out but I can’t

If the lost sun is falling out of its orbit, or just breaking the day

Perhaps I wasn’t meant to know.

.

01/13/??; 02:00 AM/PM.

Nothing but unadulterated trouble, problems arising from the start

A cautioned winter’s tale as thorny and ancient as Eros’ pierced heart

It warned, leave that wayward child to find its way in a crooked path

For avariced Hell hath no fury than wicked disappointment’s wrath

At my current state, I know they’re right.

.

01/13/??; 02:26 AM/PM.

So I shattered all the best of china dinnerware, and bent all the tines

So I melted my sister’s only set of crayons and lied to waste their time

So I played hooky, hung in alleys, and started a chaotic playground war

So I scorched half our house, maybe a pet, just for a speck of warmth

But that fire was just so pretty.

.

01/13/??; 03:15 AM/PM.

I plead and begged and beseeched, but unfortunately, to no such avail

It seems that my dearest loved ones wish for me to simply fail

Wounding thorns clung to my sullied dress like demented hands

For they’re the only company I find reassuring and I can understand

Hello darkness, my old friend.

.

01/13/??; 4:00 AM/PM.

I know I’ve been a guilty bastard, I’m all but holy, or God forbid, saintly

I’m a cragged diamond, cracking under the pressure of my turbid sins

My weak conscience wrestles and grapples with my slippery sanity

Perhaps this time, I’ll cease being the referee, let one of them win

But I know I’m not that strong.

.

01/13/??; 4:55 AM/PM.

Counting all my remaining days away on my bloodstained fingers

The tragicomedy death of my feminine art nouveaux still lingers

Withered skin falls in fragments, peeled from my chapped ivory lips

Catch it like fairy dust or white snowfall, and make a quaint wish

Snowflakes taste like faith.

.

01/13/??; 5:01 AM/PM

You’re lost, you’re lost, my scalding mind accuses, accrues, accosts

An inane foulness of its profoundness breathlessly traipsing around

I’ve been nothing to seeing stars and dottiness but a gracious host

Honestly, why dare I even complain, what dare I even maunder about?

I saw it coming from miles away.

.

01/13/??; 5:27 AM/PM

Why thou’st I abated thy tempt, thy lust, gluttoned thy forsaken monster?

Borrowed words I’ve spoken now, chagrined regrets not mine, all rust

I was caught unawares in a graceless predicament tryst lacklustre

I discovered amidst the fuss, I was never worth my weight in stardust

I’m so sorry, mother and father.

.

01/13/??; 6:00 AM/PM

As this wayward weather ages, the jaded hurricanes growing much old

That lush aftertaste of bliss’t twilight indented within the fiery cosmos

I nearly hit a brick wall staring upwards, waiting for comets to unfold

Once again, I’m stuck at a dead end, regent shadows my blanket close

Ah, so it was afternoon, after all.

.

01/13/??; 6:30 PM.

Cold…it’s so cold.

I wish for a coffee, chamomile tea, or maybe a chocolate chip cookie

The frosty mist from my mouth is actually my frozen soul leaving me

An ebony feather drops from my back, searching for my palace free

I will amuse myself with black burnt matches and burnt out reveries

Yet no chthonic demons cackle nor heavenly Seraphs beckon me back

Rejected by both sides of the cruel horizon, sky beat blue and black

Walking like a spectre, even though I know that I’m no longer breathing

Cold…I’m so cold…please…why won’t anyone just…please…let me in?

.

01/13/??; ??:?? PM.

I’m all out of ink.

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