Tag Archives: memory

Macrocosmic Defiance

Heaven knows that I’m born too late
For these ghosts that I chase
With these dreams, I inflate
Painted skies in my brain
Every day, I’m Carl Sagan in space
To escape this old world

~*~

Lift me up to where the sun hits my eyes just right

Ascending the ardent blurriness of reality itself—

.

Hushed diatribes alongside dug molehills of promises,

Reaching the peak of Everest itself, our still momentum;

The gravity of the situation feels as heavy as lost comets

On the ground, daydreamers with their heads crushed

By nimbus clouds, the senseless thunder that lingered

And threatened to take a strangle at wispy-thin necks

.

Caught in a modern guillotine, but who pulled the twisted rope?

.

So hold my hands and twist my wrists nearly backwards

We shall let the gallows humour simply speak for itself again

And carry every fleeting memory to where it aches—where it matters.

~*~

And when I fall to rise
With stardust in my eyes
In the backbone of night
I’m combustible
Dust in the fire when I can’t sleep
Awake, I’m too tired…

Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry

Festive Dissociation

Everything’s just

Loud noises and

Abrasive strangers

And complacency

Take a fake apology

Dripping dead grins

Photographs taken

Just after the screams

And numbness, their

Madness, look happy

Forcibly, and pretend to

Be the perfect family

When everything’s just

Another bad memory

With noisy strangers

In a throwaway insanity.

Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry

Directions to Heaven

the memory of my father

clutches at my coiled stomach

he heeds—‘if you’re going

to die, don’t you bleed all over

the emergency room floor’

.

the fight draining out from

my critical fluids, and right into

that little plastic bag with

the yellow smiley faces, as if it

is glad to watch me suffer

the memory of my mother

sweeps down my shallow chest

she heeds—‘if you’re going

to die, don’t you leave your body

on the steps of the morgue’

.

cold light seeps in from the

corners of my eyes, like ethereal

tea; and at teatime, the doctor

looks at his clipboard and pulls my

line—so now i’ll be on my way.

Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry

Ornate Messes

Don’t react when I tell you
That bright lights mean
Nothing to you
Because no one would know
The sound of a ghost
And I might be something to you
Beyond beautiful…

~*~

aching fingers

and lavender sunsets

a collection of

scrambled letters

disguised as your name

.

dusty lines scribbled

on the back of a

twice-used post-it note

in this long stretch of

afternoon torpor—

.

creaky guitar strings

played out of tune

exhausted calluses

a step in the right key

still proudly smiling,

.

two hours of strange

dreams, and excitement

before awakening;

a walk into stunning

darkness, mere glimpses

.

of moonlit epistles,

coffee after midnight

existential wishes

shooting stars dragging

out hope and lost love,

.

rekindled aspirations

blooming into memory

a song finally taken

to heart, after years of

waiting for the right time.

~*~

My darling, never rest
Until the darker gets
The best of all we had
Can the cold carry on?

Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry

amnesiac

11:15 PM, 04.12.19.

i remember

how you used to have

a place in my

memory

but i’m so forgetful

and the shades

are fading

away to a dull grey

like it’s a static

vacation

turned off to

a lost radio station

and you knew,

you knew…

didn’t you?

um, i can’t recall it

anymore—but

all i know is that

i’m fucked up

i fucked up

i fucked it all up.

and i ruined

everything

we had going on

in that warm

summer conversation

where you made

sense, and i

made amends

and the music wasn’t

bad and flat like

a can of unopened

lime soda—

now nothing will ever

be the same again.

i wonder

i wonder much.

i wandered too much.

my head hurts.

everything hurts now.

it’s weird,

but my thoughts

are so numb

and i’m starting to

forget again…

i’m sorry.

who are you?

Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry

Makeshift

Break the parts of my skin

That don’t seem to be bleeding out

A schizophrenic memory

No one could fully understand

.

A word in revolution

No lies, no truth, just sighs

Bruises on icy emotion

.

They make it out to be madness

Ad nauseum, I paint the plastic with flesh

.

Windowpanes screech against

Moonlight, flooding me with false lavender

Tones, but only in eventide

My bones blush under time spent

.

The stars scream. The stars flee.

.

Impressionistic? Or plain sadistic?

The apparitions pass away again

Smitten with the notion, the concept,

Of wrongfulness, of change, of nothing

Of monsters and messy closets

.

I hide, as I always do. I hide.

And I bide my time like it’s downcast silver

Like a broken harpsichord, I play the night—

.

If only that would prove that nothing else I feel is right.

Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry

smudged

a thousand flights,

of worn-down stairs,

of hymnal bells tolling,

of careless bodies,

a forgotten memory,

no more than a mere

smudged imprint in

the edifice of a tower

overlooking everything—

and until then…nothing.

.

day in, day out, cycles;

in rapid gyroscopes of

existences so barely free,

almost; not freely, out of control,

spinning, revolving, rotating.

until then, those thousand flights,

once holding melting footsteps,

a clamour that praised each sunset,

and even a few reckless bodies,

now holds back ire history for them.

Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry

nocturnes, numbers, nyctophilia

It meant nothing to him any longer, only a faint tinge of sadness—and somewhere within him, a drop of pain moving briefly and vanishing, like a raindrop on the glass of a window, its course in the shape of a question mark. ~Atlas Shrugged, Ayn Rand

~*~

i.) the jealous penmanship

clever words left tears forming in my brain

ones that i have to open up my healing bruises

just so i could let them out somewhere

somewhere my veins wouldn’t be affected severely

(it was late at night, and my stars called out from nowhere)

sensations poured out from every letter and departure,

as it entangled itself with my nerves and wore them down,

and wore them like a dirty dress, and wore them out to town

until they were worn-out; nothing but a few stray threads.

i burned half of my journals when i turned 16 and stopped trying

to imitate being an author, because writing for me isn’t an expectation–

it’s nothing but another puzzling lock without a skeleton key

and because the most delicate daydream wasn’t mine

because selfishness, to me, is not just another bland adjective

because my bones screamed with the weight of a black hole

because your reveries were enchanting. and mine were f a d e d

n o , i ‘ l l  n e v e r  b e  a s  g o o d  a s  y o u

~*~

ii.) softness, like his heart in the shape of a newborn galaxy

i faded into an ugly shade of something that’s neither monochrome nor coloured;

on the verge of collapsing onto the other side of the fence, threatening madly

but never quite having the contemplation to choose a losing side

as i fell down into the blue of a stranger’s wanderlust eyes.

someone else had taken most of that vibrant shade already, but i managed

to steal away just a sliver, a glimpse, an infinitesimal shiver

and it was the kind of lasting cold that froze summer hurricanes

and kept my breaths visibly foggy and crisply sharp with every inhale

(you never warned me. you don’t know me, but you knew me too well. and i never listen.)

i’ll always be an insignificant detail in the cyan tapestry you painted for yourself

and i’ve accepted that long ago when i said i loved you in my nightmares,

tossing and turning on the bed covered in plastic arrogance because

no other blanket felt warm and comfortable enough for my body to sleep on

until then, i could only sink deeper into the fathomless wish that this universe would end s o o n

i t  w a s  a  k i n d  o f  l o v e  t h a t  m a d e  s u i c i d e  s o u n d  l i k e  m u s i c

~*~

iii.) an abrupt goodbye/the guilty party often disappears first

i was mad at something. i didn’t know what it was, but it was foolish enough

for me to take it out onto the embracing autumn sky, on the taciturn smiles that

were supposed to hold me when tempestuous desolation grabbed at my twisted throat…

and on you. you never meant anything. you just wanted to talk, and so did i,

but my tongue was a spilling box of blades, and every time i opened my

wounded mouth to make you laugh, i always ended up cutting you by accident instead.

(friend, even if i said i’m sorry, can you ever forgive me for what i’ve done to you?)

it was an unreasonable apology, and i erased myself because of my own self-hatred,

but not before leaving footprints of a migraine in your head, which you will inadvertently step on,

slip at, and hurt yourself…fuck. i don’t know why i’m like this. i don’t know why i have

to push and pull apart the only semblance of logic in my life, the only anchor

that keeps me from towing away from the tides, the last person that still feels real to me

when everything else has blurred into an amalgamated indistinct static background;

i don’t know why i feel so smothered, when you’re the only attention i’ll ever have and need.

at this point, the only thing we have is each other’s problems, and the way we both

jeered at it, taunted it, and blocked it out with our own shared playlists until we felt better—

but now that summer was just a distant memory, and so was the scarlet artwork we made of it.

you also needed comfort. but did even try? no. i ran away from the colliding wreckage

as if it wasn’t my fault, and i numbed myself out because i couldn’t do the same for y o u

i ‘ m  s o r r y  i  m a d e  y o u  s a y  s o r r y  s o  m u c h . . .

i  d i d n ‘ t  m e a n  t o  d e s t r o y  e v e r y t h i n g

~*~

iv.) the midnight closes. the violent curtain falls.

the cold glow of my computer screen was rude and restless

and it made my fingers promise, crossed and uncrossed, that i would

stay with it until it slips into comatose. i have rinsed my mouth with lukewarm water

a hundred times to try to wash out the taste of stale coffee, but it never came out and now

i’m stuck with it until morning, until another astrological moon cycle, until i lose

myself in the chemical moments of something that’s so artificially natural.

i’m constantly starving myself, stuck between confidence and relapsing withdrawals of

my past life that i thought i discarded when i finally held on to my shooting star,

but it was always tethered tightly to me by a crimson string. and it always probably will be.

i’m alone. i’m friends with people that talk shit to me in the mirror, and when i bite

my chapped lips and draw blood by accident, it almost feels like atonement. almost.

(i got what i came for and i can’t try again. this is what i want…..isn’t it?)

i know that there are people out there making fun of me and rolling their eyes

petulantly as they bask in the trite, whimsical “perfection” of their storybook existence

but not everything has a happy ending, and not every sad story has to end badly.

i don’t know. i’ll never know. i’m tired and i have responsibilities that i’m not

built for, and every crack turns into a break, and a break into shattered p i e c e s

t o m o r r o w  i ‘ l l  d o  t h i s  o v e r  a g a i n  .  u n t i l  i  r u n  o u t  o f  t o m o r r o w s .

~*~

v.) nocturnes.

( a n d  i ‘ l l  s t a y  h e r e )

u n t i l  i  r u n  o u t  o f  n u m b e r s  t o  c o u n t ,

a n d  t h o u g h t s  t o  f e e l ,

a n d  n i g h t s  t o  s t a y  a w a k e .

Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry

sulk

influences

on the red of

her lips, and

her cornflower

hair glowing,

an autumn moon

sulking by a

riverside bank

as pastel waves

kissed out the

drought of spring

and i remembered

how to forget…

bruised knuckles,

twisted hallways

filled with ghosts

that no one can chase

but her all alone,

and a room which

held my dark fears

but never let them out.

and left nothing but

silent discontent,

wrong phone calls,

her umber eyes under

the influence of tears

until they turned red

and drifted off into

a sleepless dream.

Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry

Colourblind Memory

And when I see you
I really see you upside-down
But my brain knows better
It picks you up and turns you around
Turns you around, turns you around
If you feel discouraged
That there’s a lack of color here…

~*~

It was an easy kind of self-destruction; the one I never had to beg for.

After a few nights of staying awake and listening to cheaply-constructed songs on the static radio, I was already haunted. Copper chain links that stabbed at the fictional horizon and left unstitched scars on the exposed wind. Shy vespertine flowers that bloomed in the most coruscant spectrums, but only when no weeping eye was there to witness their exquisite grandeur and compose concerto symphonies about it. An infinite, arrogant, wakeless kind of blue that rivaled every transatlantic and pacific direction that I chased; but, unlike the oceans of this planet so drenched and cold and jaded to the bone, no one is ever able to cross it, and no one ever will.

And violet. A damnable shade, akin to roses-not-reds and forget-me-nots, that violet. A bleeding, dirty kind of violet that left filthy, undecipherable Roschach stains everywhere. Splattering the bruises of my halted tongue, shading the asphyxiation of my untouched lips, violently overtaking the rock-steady sorry secret that was divulged and diluted all too late. It painted a tragedy that only the most damaged and paranoid artists could understand, and rending shreds of the purest agony down my colliding ribs that not even the most genius maestros and starving dilettantes could begin to dissect; for it was a foreign anatomy. A different unknown. A beyond the beyond. It was brutally twisted inside my veins and gauchely discarded somewhere in between sense and sanctuary, photographed and arrested in another postcard vintage lie. I could write graphite letters at the back all I want, but I’ll never swim away from the indigo waves in front. It was our holiday memory, drowning me again and again and again.

Absolutely useless. It couldn’t aid my breathing. It couldn’t save my sleeping. It was a disease that was highly susceptible only to my atrophied words and comatosed syllogisms—the same unfortunate ones that are now leaving my chafed fingers but never my wornout mind, like you, like you, like you.

Unrelenting. Unsuspending. Unending.

All my colours were inverted. And no one can turn it back the right way.

If there even was one.

~*~

Please don’t worry, lover
It’s really bursting at the seams
For absorbing everything
The spectrum’s A to Z
This is fact, not fiction
For the first time in years…

Leave a comment

Filed under Prose