Tag Archives: questions

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

Come, Morning Light

The fire that left your blanket in ashes

Won’t trouble your cold heart anymore

And the angels that carried your parents

Will not return to take your heart to soar

.

As your little grey ragdoll sits by the ruins

Of the playground you once called “home”

And the shadows that used to play with you

Have disappeared, and now you feel so alone

.

Your tears have mixed with the relentless rain

That put out the wild flames alighting the city

Blossoms wilt and thorns flourish in the grass

The bloodred sunset is more scary than pretty

.

Your brother and sister went off with toy guns

And never returned even after they all promised

So now you sit by the orphanage’s cellar stairs

With others who lost their mummies and daddies

.

Are you alone in this world of detritus and rust?

Every light is killed with a dropping bomb again

Death is your lullaby, quiet music behind the dust

Faithless, will there be someone to save you then?

.

But no, don’t you cry now behind that gas mask

I’ll keep you safe from all the questions unasked

I’ll sing you a song, as this sky falls in fragments

Shield you with my wounded arms from the glass

.

Please don’t fear, you will never have to be hungry

You might dream of hell but heaven is yours to see

Asphalt grey and storms of gloom, as wind billows

Muffle every disaster, sleep soundly in your pillow

.

The war was never meant to be fought by innocence

Just machines to tear apart and men with losing sense

To your damaged soul, fettered with doubts and fears

No one will hurt you now…you’ll be alright, I promise

.

Someday the battle will end, and hope shall soon arrive

We can’t take back what’s lost, but we can change our lives

Open your eyes when the sun returns to shade the dawn

To see the rising daybreak where all your nightmares are gone.

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Mood Rings

I never have to carefully shape sentences
When I’ve got some words to say
They’re falling from my mouth from the time
That they hit my brain
‘Cause we built a picture made for frames
We live in chemistry away from all the wasted time and taste…

~*~

There’s a reason why I like the pink in your mood

My words hit the ground, but you catch them so we’re good

If time’s running out for me, I’ll be sure to take it slow

I may be high on conflict but on your sights I’m low

.

The amount of space between my smile and eyes are closing in

But frustration and disappearing sense is not a problem

Because if you laugh, then I laugh, and if you cry, then I die

The city’s a slow waltz into the colourful cocktails we have to try

.

I may speak my mind but I talk with my heart

And it only takes one skipping beat to know where to start

I keep falling for everything that wants nothing to do with me

But I’ll keep trying until the blondes stop being pretty

.

I change so quickly, I don’t even know what to think

And your face goes from soft violet to vivid blush like a 90’s trick

I’m the rain that you chase, you’re the lone cloud in May

Our weather’s too erratic and unstable, but I adore it anyway

.

So don’t get me wrong, your fingers may be pointing

But I’ll take them in my hand and yell bang, the bullet’s flying

You’re troubled by the clothes you wear, confused looks good on you

It accentuates the glow in your halo, but you never had a clue

.

I’m asking all the wrong questions, but you still answer them right

And I’m hoping to the moon that you’ll answer the most important one tonight

I’m dirty red, you’re canary yellow, let’s collide together and be orange fire

A hurricane’s sleeping in my bedroom, can I stay over? We can dream until we’re tired.

~*~

My mood’s dictated by our conversations
And if you don’t text I get too frustrated
I want you all to myself this time, t-t-time
Conflicted looks good on me, I’m trying desperately
I want you all to myself this time, t-t-time…

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The Game Played Right

Is there anyone who can make me see?
Help me breathe
Is there anyone who can make me feel alive inside?
Sink or swim is all I know tonight
Well take me to the bed, it feels so right
Wake me up…

~*~

I keep on lying. The silent pieces remain unapologetically in my lips, melting and melding together and apart, clashing like shades of blue and gold, until my smiles are mutated and my bated tongue is in shreds. Fear is an embrace I’ve learned to take upon myself, selling myself short to it, buying away the final remaining original thoughts I’ve slaved over in myriad sleepless nights until I’m a-la carte. Change is to blame for the causeless effect, and I’m asking for more from what can’t be taken away from me, cutting corners and targeting the contrition with a bolted gun, as if that would solve my problem. Would that open the deadlocked box of hope, containing those transient reminiscences of what used to be faith, keeping my wrists from giving itself up to bladed handcuffs and abrading ropes?

No, because it’s been open all this time. I’m merely pretending that it’s fully out of grasp, stuffing the sunshine in a pocket with a hole, then feigning remorseful surprise when I grasp the cloth and fail to feel its reassuring outline. I won’t get away, just as the moon can’t break away from its cruel mistress, no matter how hard it tries. Dependence requires sustenance, never mind if one’s getting hurt, never mind if one’s just wasting time and lightyears, never mind that there’s someone who sucks on the cigarette and there’s one who gets snuffed out in the ashes of its former companions, and both are slowly dying with each harmful, addicting, nicotine drag. Perhaps it’s better to move on, burn my house down with the lighter, and stab a flag on top of a desolate mountain, letting the frigid Arctic breeze pierce my lungs, reminding me that I’m dead inside, day by day, every single night.

Yes, the truth hurts worst when you’re lying on your back in a hollowly-carved bed, watching the tick of the sagging clock draw frowns on your dripping beige ceiling, the crude notches on the bedpost your only substitute for a calendar, not even the gathering dust on your windowsill keeping track of your blunt existence, but is that really such a bad plotline to read into? After all, I’m a mere instrument of conflict, and if I do not fulfill my function, I have no point, and dull instruments are of no use to anyone but the junkyard. So, what’s the point but pointlessness? What is there to release from arrogance, from selfishness, from egocentric human needs and desires, shallowness sucking away the will to speak in freedom, constantly starving for lust and lusting for starvation and dying from either loneliness or hunger in the end?

Give me that. Give me an answer that would morph my vulgar counterfeit laughter back into a purely genuine jubilance, give me a reply that would wash away the contracting fallacies in my conflicted mind and make my craving lecherous soul finally taste the decadent truth, give me a statement to swim in and sink under as I ponder deeply upon it and spend all my cashed-in stars to figure it out until I may finally repose in peace, give me an oratorical rhetoric that would drag me out of the hands of the angels in the ambulance and shock my heart into sinus rhythm, give me something, anything at all that would set this hellish perpetual carousel in a dead jolting halt and wouldn’t throw me off the cutthroat ride, give me—give me what I want. Yet, is what I want really what I need?

Never. Because in this reality, the parallel cruelty prevents any chance of a perfect alignment or even a destined intersection between any limits, and it’s all we can do to keep walking in the thin line and keep a painful positiveness, because backtracking to the negatives would devour us whole, render us irrational, and count us as impossible. Yet, despite knowing all of those and sharing such meaningless contrivances to the eyes that refuse to perceive and the ears that refuse to listen, I still want you to lie to me. Lie to me until your lips are mutated and your bated tongue is in shreds, lie, lie, lie, until the wrong turns right, until forward becomes backwards, until the truth is the ultimate lie, and I’ll gladly do the same to you. After all, we’re just doing what we need to do. We’re just doing all we can do.

~*~

These self inviting auras
Made me bring out the sun
Your body’s played its role
It’s ruined my game
And now I can’t believe I’ve done it
But somehow I still feel
But I still feel, so far gone…

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Filed under Prose

farce, fake, false

how long do

i have to put up

to my friends

with such a farce?

how long do

i have to keep

on ignoring all my

internal wars?

how long do

i have before this

apathy starts to

shatter and break?

how long do

i have left to live

to atone for all my

abhorrent mistakes?

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Filed under Poetry

Adventures in Counseling

(Disclaimer: All accounts are purely fictional, highly dramatised, and do not necessarily reflect the views and opinions of the author. And anyone who says and believes otherwise is an idiot.)

~*~

It’s so exhausting, having to play pretend and act normal. Having to pretend to be mentally stable and mimic the actions of someone who’s having a ball of a time, as the smiling fucker, oh sorry, you meant counselor—honest mistake—grins as she dissects your brain with your fallible lies and a razor glint of her diabetes sweet teeth, faker than fucking plastic surgery. The wall clock ticks softly in excoriation, and with each tick you die a little inside, bit by bit, nerve by nerve, line for line.

You don’t know why you were called here in the first place, but shit, somehow it’s inevitable, and here you are now, caught up in the viscous web, sitting in the red plush couch of a pastel-drunk room with pleasant hues, looking at a hulking woman that looks like she’s going to bite your head off if you dare even move as much as twitch your eyeball to the left. This sucks bollocks. Now you have to have to act, smile, play nice, calculate your answers, and take precaution in every word and letter, because a single minor slip-up and congratulations, you’re fucking insane! You win an all-expenses paid trip to the asylum, and please take a complimentary straitjacket on your way out! Them’s the breaks, you mentally incompetent loser.

But despite everything else, you’re still trying to be as truthful as you can be, giving her a predisposed glimpse of your personality without showing the grotesque, starving, slobbering, hideous monsters that are itching to unsheathe its fatal claws and spring on her. Surreptitiously hiding and suppressing all the possible yet cunningly undiagnosed anxiety, depression, bipolar tendencies, borderline symptoms, insomnia, paranoia, apathy, psychopathy, insanity, and the mixed-up mental maelstrom that’s rampaging and crashing internal systems within you as you forcefully laugh along with her and lock your glassy dead eyes upon her taunting stare; judging, scrutinising, analysing, like a blinded omniscient deity, all-knowing but never truly seeing.

So, how are you today? I’m fine, thank you. How’s school? It’s okay. How’s life? I’m doing great. How about your family? Four siblings, one parent, we’re all good. You are? I am completely fan-fucking normal. You’re supposed to fill in the blanks but it’s all multiple choice. Nothing but lost question marks, rising intonations, spat inflections, blah, blah, blah, and all the other prompted scripted questions, cliche and well-practised, disgustingly clean. The interrogation is designed to intimidate, blasting and shot off like machine gun rounds, jarring your senses, making you duck, tattering you with bullet holes. The professional iciness sending shudders down your spine, chills through your nerves, and profanities ricocheting off the back of your gritted teeth and lips. It’s nothing but insipid, asinine, fatuous inquiries that make you want to answer badly with a mockingly loud tonsil-performance yawn and a crooked middle finger raised proudly like your personal country flag.

But no. That’s unacceptable. And frankly, doing what you believe to be right at this point will get your foot sinking further in the shit you stepped upon. So you smile, faker than the reality you’re facing right now. Flash, flash, flash, smiles colliding against smiles, expert lies rolling smoothly off your numbed tongue like honey, and she’s the childish bumblebee suckling on the pistils and unwittingly getting corrupted by the words, your parasite infestation transferring under her skin without her consent. It’s hilarious, almost enough for you to drop your charade, but you fumble, fix your mask, and regain aplomb and composure, continuing to answer her with a placid expression that tells all but gives away none.

You know you’re a fantastic fucking actor, but somehow you still can’t help occasionally avoiding gazes and being at a loss for words and substituting lame sceptical replies for rational answers that never present itself in your mind. You try in vain to stop yourself from impulsively raising your jumper’s sleeves in trepidation of the idiot in front of you spotting the crisscrossed scars on your arms that cover your skin like a sculpture design and declare you a threat to yourself and legally wacko. You nervously making frenetic titchy motions and fiddling with your hands in order to prevent an oncoming thermonuclear meltdown from dislodging itself out of your suffocating throat. Suck it up, you can get through this. Stay calm, and countdown. One, two, three…

After what seems like an eternity of awkward silence and a gazillion fucking questions and omitted details and convoluted conversations, she finally sets down her pen and her scribble-filled paper and ends it. That will be all for today, thank you. No, thank you, you reply automatically like the perfect little demon you are. You amble away and let the door hit your ass on your way out, but before you carry on, you come to a halt at the doorway, grip the doorknob into a crushed metal lump, crane your stiff neck backwards a-la Exorcist, and ironically grin back at her just one last time, shockingly faker than your fucking will to live, a derisive leer that screams a silent “fuck you bitch, I’ll see you in hell”, and you finally saunter out, feeling no better, feeling even worse.

So you slowly walk back to class, half an hour late, plagued with clashing negative emotions and cynical thoughts, feeling more vindictive, more depressed, more fucked-up than usual, and ultimately wishing badly to slit the throat of the tattletale asshole who ratted you out. You’re hating yourself for no particular reason again and at the same time congratulating yourself victoriously because you successfully managed to deceive and manipulate someone who deserved no less and even more. You smile, but this time a twisted, deranged, maniacal one, undecipherable as either a smile of jubilance or a grimace of agony, but unsurprisingly realer than all the smiles you’ve ever outputted combined. You can breathe easy now. you can breathe now. You fucking did it.

But inside, your acidic guts still churn like a heavy washing machine load, and you’re unable to pull the plug, so you short circuit and burn out, and you head straight to the bathroom to try to put out the fire that’s threatening to spread in your body. You grasp the porcelain sink, splash water in your face, heave once, twice, thrice, but nothing comes out, only spit and empty tears, but not from sorrow, rather only from triggering and abusing your gag reflex. Within the furthest reaches of your mentality, you’re still rational, but it’s all discordant, damaged, deranged. It will take a miracle and another universe to salvage what’s left in that chaos. “Guidance counseling”, yeah fucking right. More like 30 minutes stuck in purgatory, sleeping with your worst nightmare screwing you against your goddamn will.

Your heartbeat finally slows after a while, and ragged breaths resonate from the tiled walls of the solitary room that you’ve confined yourself in as a temporary solace. You raise your head, touch the cold glass of the mirror, and shut your eyes once to blink away the fear, before you finally have the courage to look at yourself in the stained mirror. What returns your stare is a hollow vessel, all skin and bones and muscle and no soul, devoid of life, nullified of any joy, pessimistic, sunken, washed-out, sleepless, depleted, useless, tired as all fucking hell, uncaring, pathetic, apathetic, lost, cliche, inhuman. You know you’re fucked-up, too far gone, you’re not and you’ll never be o-fucking-kay, you get that, and that’s exactly why you hate being psychoanalysed. You sigh in defeat. It’s exhausting, pretending to be human.

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Filed under Prose

Keen[e]

The messages

Of innocence

Of contrivance

And eloquence

Stories of gold

Spun like satin

Tongues of old

Continue talking

But it ceased to

Flow like blood

And we ended

Up playing God

Fluent ablations

Stars in the sky

Lost destinations

So ask me why

The metronome

Changes its beat

Your heart starts

S l o w to f l e e t

Communications

Simmered down

It happens, I guess

Sensations drown

And the letters left

Severed by a line

Of bits and bytes

Hey, are you fine?

Your words were

Algid, dripping of

Viscid reality and

Broken up doves

As you spoke with

A hatred, maudlin

Confessions seethe

Prayers so sullen

Worst is confirmed

By a ticking hunch

My reminisce turns

Into a hard punch

My pulse running

Frenetically now

As I attempt in vain

To reach somehow

Am I too late?

Bite nine inch nails

Did I lag behind?

Are you but a tale?

Neurotic storms

Caught in the gale

Again and again

I stumble and fail

Questions fettered

Answer my calls

Scars, lacerations

Clock strikes to fall

Are you there?

I worry, I fret, I fear

Void scenarios flare

I’m here now, dear

Too late comes the

Tears, sliding clear

Please, I do, I care

Are you still there?

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Filed under Poetry