Tag Archives: paper

arts and crafts

paste a

paper moon

over my

windows

and tell me

that it’s real

and i will

give you some

glittery stars

to sprinkle

and tell you

what i feel.

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Filed under Poetry

pens in pain

pen in paper

in hot water

ink in horror

feel no better

pen in paper

‘til i’m sober

write to conquer

pain in paper.

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Senbazuru

Complexities feel like japanese origami cranes

Floating solemnly past silhouetted windowsills

Crumpled papyrus beaks inching their way into

.

The fragile throats that dared not utter a scream

And again I find myself folding a hundred cranes

Wishing for a thousand to bleed into my dreams.

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Grounded

We’ll dive around and never let our bodies touch the ground
And right now I’m feeling like I’ll never go back down
Till then, taking flights around the corner ends and bends
I’ll soar up higher to admire when, fly away with me…

~*~

You used to be the folded

Pastel paper aeroplane

I threw over hanging

Chandeliers and ceilings

To watch my hopes soar

Past and beyond nightmares

And my fettered inklings

But I realised that you can

Be easily carried away

By the zephyr if you wished

You’re not tethered to my

Fingers, you may do as well

As you’ve playfully pleased

And this child can only watch

In melancholia as his dearest

Papercraft friend navigates past

Weathered clouds and cool rain

As his own toes lift from the ground

But pulled by gravity, always returned

To land, away from the skies again.

~*~

Fly away with me
Try a little harder to flap your wings
High above the sea
Get a little higher, follow me…

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Fauxtographic Memory

I keep losing sleep in beds still made from soaking sheets
And I’m still haunted by the ghosts of people still breathing
I already hate the words, they’re not a thing we even share
Stop looking for a metaphor, it isn’t there…

~*~

Photographs in negative slate

Cigarette ash on his fingertips

A lock of hair on the pillowcase

Faint redolence of perfume sweet

Keys hanging on floral keychains

Abandoned stilettos by the doors

Pastel sticky notes on beige wall

Milk spoiling in the refrigerator

Dusty corner in solemn shadows

Familiar strain of a phonograph

Soft touch but a distant stranger

Faltering echoes of ghostly laugh

Red lipstick stains on sheets of silk

And aftershaves of musk and cedar

An empty closet, dirty bathroom sink

His eulogy written in crumpled paper.

~*~

Fauxtographic memory
A mind that’s still developing
I turn my back on all I see
Cause everything feels make believe
You tried to stay, I made you leave
And made the world give up on me
I can’t accept reality…

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Filed under Poetry

stains

inkstains

of the words

that never

made sense

but i write it

down anyway

.

tearstains

from the music

i never believed

in, but felt with

every heartstring

that snapped

.

bloodstains

from the razors

i grasped with

conviction, but

left smudges of

trembling fingers

.

stains

from different stories;

chapters of the tales i’ll

never confess out loud

dark taint in pages pure

damaged paper that has

been through a lot, from

a damaged person that has

been through a lot more.

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Filed under Poetry

scorch marks on paper

burning, flaring

used to be my creation

writing, scribing

abundance of emotion

tiring, wearying

numbed onto sedation

stifling, muffling

this lack of motivation.

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Filed under Poetry

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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Filed under Prose

Paper Hearts: Scorched

One blot I spilled

Of stale gasoline

Embers it twilled

By cold nicotine

.

Days of acidic futures

Held by shivery hands

Sluggish gold sutures

By girls in the stands

.

A match you spilled

Onto my paper heart

Raging fire it twilled

Turned ash and dust.

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Paper Hearts: Waterlogged

One blot I spilled

Into a parchment

Suspense it killed

Soak endowment

.

Days of longer pasts

Held in trembly hand

Quicksilver’s repasts

For boys in the band

.

Tears you spilled

Onto my paper heart

In oceans it killed

And easily torn apart.

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