Tag Archives: secret

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…

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Simple Explanation

Driven by passion, outward away from family and friends
But what they can’t see is that everyday I’m drowning in a sea
Of faces that I miss so desperately with each flashing countenance—
And the weight of their absence has brought me more than once to tears
I wake from sleep violently only to witness those lives and faces
Disappear slowly behind me…

~*~

I.) Mismatched Cultures And Dead Parents

He’s got a bullet where his brain should be

And broken toys where a heart should beat

The stripes on his sweater had begun to fade

The nostalgic photographs lied except for one

So he’s turned to smoke to keep himself awake

And he’s turned to secrets to keep himself alive

But it wasn’t enough to save him from phantoms

Now he’s carried on the wrong side of the casket

No one saw it coming; no one can figure him out

Whispers of self-sacrifice, but quiet murder hung

Of the boy who played with fire but didn’t put it out

It was a mystery—it didn’t make sense to anyone but him.

~*~

II.) False Cancer And A Secret Trip To Rio

A dying man seconds away from his final breath

And his wife by the bedside that couldn’t take any

Collapsed on the floor, the debilitated cried for help

Of what seemed to be a miracle, a feigned recovery

They would die for the other, just another ancient lie

There’s no love without guilt and no guilt without love

The operating table was prepped for a wrongful death

To save the irreparable, it’s too late for her, but not him

The grief was mistaken and the medicine was not taking

All because of a surreptitious slip to a beach without sun

He lived to tell the tale of how she flatlined before his eyes

Under premises of a truth confessed too late, and what it had done.

~*~

We savored the taste of our sweet youth
And now, with calloused hands, gather the remaining fruit
To go any farther, we must endure further pains
Skinned, mashed, and finally strained
Fermenting in the time spent away
Only to return with a fine vintage
To cheers to the health of those who stayed.

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Filed under Fandom Poetry, Poetry

violent self-deception

I’ve been crawling circles in my skin
Leaving trails to where I’ve been
I’m still following
I’ve been tying knots in my muscles
Grinding down all of my bones
I’m paper thin, paper thin…

~*~

arrest the cloying hope

like the blood in my mouth

clotting, bitter, deep red,

barely letting me breathe.

i can’t justify myself

and my repeating hypocrisy

but i want to leave it all

behind…even if that means

being consumed by my

own fool’s ideology

and suffer disappointment

over and over and over again

for the sake of a dream;

just another tragic cliche.

that’s why my secret

is still a secret, and why even

the most vicarious pleading

won’t force it out of me

because if cold laughter is

the answer to a pending question,

then what good will it do me

to add my ambition to

their comedic entertainment?

it’s the only thing i have

left to fucking fight for anymore…

it’s the only thing i have left.

no, i don’t want anything grand;

i just want to have a little faith

even if that means lying to myself.

~*~

Give me something to believe in
I’ll give you something to forget
Just give me something to believe in
I’ll give you something to forget…

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Back To The Red Tapes

You are a handful of roses
Thorns and a cheap bouquet
True, I’m a walking disaster
They told you to stay away
Seems like I’m making
A deal with the devil…

~*~

I remember when we loathed each other

And what we wouldn’t do to one up and over

Subtle poison in each vindictive word and verse

Poised to hit the most vital organs and curse

.

We smeared the walls with our cold fresh blood

Leaving basilisk messages for another pitying god

And undertones of candy-coated punches in stitch

In plates of ‘hope you die, you conniving little bitch’

.

But sometimes the relapse was felt in compassion

A confusion of collisions, casting the condensation

I didn’t know if it was coincidence, or I was insane

But the universe parked parallel, changed the game

.

Passing the halls with the same songs in our mouths

Composing about the same things that gave us doubt

Secretly racing the other one for covert little challenges

And trying to push at each other’s buttons and nuisances

.

It was a mess, and the bleak battleground ain’t so pretty

But the smoke cleared up and the aftermath forgot me

Where the sun was aglow and my coffee tasted less bitter

And tears only came in the form of erupted endeavours

.

Now I read the past stories and I want to laugh out loud

Enough to disturb the anxiety that’s keeping my head out

The snide smirks, the loose lies, the entertaining electricity

Who knows what’s meant for you and what’s meant for me

.

After the sheer mayhem that came after each round of drinks

After every conversation held and confessions begging not to think

After all the chaos caused and the devastation left in its wake

It’s a lot easier to admit I’ll miss it—I’d listen again for a rewinded take.

~*~

‘Cause I feel like a bad joke
Walk the tight rope to hold onto you
Was it real? Or a love scene
From a bad dream? I don’t think
I can forget about it…

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pain(less)

Midday delusions
Of pushing this out of his head
Maybe out of his mind…

~*~

you didn’t use to hurt

but they said it was okay

so you made up some smiles

and you hid it all away

but the smiles have bled out

and your secret is all they could say

you didn’t use to hurt yourself

but you just wanted to feel okay.

~*~

All alone he turns to stone
While holding his breath half to death
Terrified of what’s inside…

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Mad Mary Lennox

I still remember the world
From the eyes of a child
Slowly those feelings
Were clouded by what I know now—
I still remember the sun
Always warm on my back
Somehow it seems colder now…

~*~

You were the tears I could never release.

I am imprisoned for centuries in an impenetrable ribcage, feeling the lemongrass harshly piercing my calloused feet but never allowing my deprived senses to take in their ethereal fragrance, holding blossoms by their fragile throats and quietly wishing for their efflorescent scarlet to return and splash colour on my filthy grey dress again, and forevermore shackled and watching the suspended horizon; but a mere intangible memory playing tricks on my open lips.

It was beautifully haunting. My demented secret garden.

You alone held the key to the concealed gates. That particular key was crudely carved from roses and bones, finely forged of romance and blood, chiseled from my consumed heart and threaded with my vulnerable veins, but akin to the overflowing ocean of the tears trapped within my tired, pondering eyes, you released me not.

But will I despair? Never. I shall merely smile at your vicious cruelty and wait for patience with all the grace and forgiveness the pallid moon has adorned me with. I’ll peacefully sleep on my bed of fallen feathers and butterfly ashes, and I shall awake again the next day, my marred body still glimmering in a breathtaking fairy tale iridescence, to tend to my own share of bruised paradise and to sing my laments to the ardent stars in the missing sky once more.

Because this exquisite garden shares my every pain, my solitary desire, my one secret, and not simply the very secrecy itself. This sanctuary is mine to hold in eternal memoriam, and in an infinite someday, these silver chains will rust off and unfetter, as the reckless revolution of this damned planet will halt and reverse, away from the sun. And when that happens, you will find yourself starving for sweet freedom and clawing at the iron bars haplessly, forever banished in my grotesque heaven, where all the scathing thorns bear your broken name and all the flowers wilt at the very despicable thought of your nonexistent soul.

And you shall weep. And I, finally, along with you.

~*~

Where has my heart gone?
Trapped in the eyes of a stranger
Oh, I, I want to go back to
Believing in everything
I still remember.

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The Bulls Are In Broadway

Some people have it and other people don’t
You’ve been making some threats, got my name and address
I’m breaking habits you don’t want to know
Though I’m wearing my clothes feeling cold and exposed, yeah
Don’t say you miss me, you probably don’t
Well, I’ve been crossing some lines that most folks won’t…

~*~

This is the academy of wasting second chances

And the maggots in my eyes are drying up my tears

My intuition knocked itself out on cheap champagne

As the discourse turned to an allegory dance severe

.

It’s a sociogenic alacrity, and my dress is on too tight

But I’m far too smitten by repertoire to call it a night

So remind me again, what’s my capacity for secrets?

Tell me with a gun to my head and I swear I’ll keep it

.

My lips are shivering from these hemlock-laced canapes

So admonish me for all my bad manners and mistakes

I’ll just downplay the lust for another fractured spine

The consequence for saving the best for the worst lines

.

Mismatched manipulation, but they will take it in anyway

Blink back the altercations and accusations that ricochet

With a sympathetic sigh overstepping the plague’s carnage

Like finest red wine, tragedy gets better when it’s aged

.

This transition was intransigent, an accolade for incoherence

Bent backs turned upon lacquered lies and marble-carved doors

You don’t get to die on me, not after my life has taken the perfect end

So won’t you let write the last chapter on my unresponsive monitor?

~*~

Oh, don’t say you’re more than this or above all this
With your blah blah blah and all your friends
Don’t say you think you know, when you know you don’t
Because tonight the Bulls are in Brooklyn and you’re still at home!

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Let’s Talk About Not Talking About It

Well I’m sick of it, over it, however you want it said
I’m telling it straight ’cause it might be the only chance I get
Just shut up, just shut up, would you stop telling me who I am?
I’m sick of it, over it, however you want it said…

~*~

Some people find it really easy to write about themselves.

I respect them for that. For being able to express innermost thoughts and more private sentiments in articulate ways, and for having that certain imbued capability in their writings where other people could read their catharsis and be able to feel all their emotions, sympathise with their plights, and look at the world in another perspective, in their own personal perspective. Of course, even if they can’t exactly relate to whatever situation that person is caught up in, they could still nod their head understandingly, dole out some hopeful dime-a-dozen platitudes, and perhaps even offer some needed advice to them, just as normal human beings should.

Whenever I attempt to write about myself, my life, or my current feelings, I tend to drown it in cryptic nuances and fuck-all metaphors that are so incredibly twisted to the point where even I don’t find any sense in it anymore. That’s why I’m more adept with poetry than prose, and why I find music to be the most therapeutic outlet for myself, above anything else. And also why I hate the shit out of essays and formal writing so much. But in the rarest blue-moon times when I try to abandon that sort of familiar style and write something that’s concise and straight to the point, in simple words that are the closest to the truth, it always makes me so disgusted with myself because I always sound like I’m whining too much and making such a big deal out of nothing. And even then, I couldn’t help but add way too much labyrinthine sentences and complicated head-scratching quips to sugarcoat the naked ugliness of it all. Case in point, this very write-up itself. Sweet irony to further press the point.

I’ve always found it difficult to talk about myself. I don’t know exactly what what happened to me that made me turn out to be this way, but whenever I try to open up, a million desperate hands pull me back inside as a thousand alarm bells seem to scream and flash red lights inside my head, all of these, all at once, giving me a major dose of anxiety that takes a long while to wear off. I never know how to be completely honest without feeling awkwardly uncomfortable, and vice versa, it’s a great struggle for me when people start getting too real and personal with me. I tend to be a very secretive person, and I’m not a great support to come running to when you got problems and need to talk it out, because I’ll probably just intensify the headache that you already have and turn it into a full-blown migraine. Trust me, some of what-unsurprisingly-scant friends I have can testify for that fact in front of a court jury with both their hands on the bible.

(But on the plus side, being a secretive person also means that I’m basically Fort Knox when it comes to keeping the secrets of other people, so…redemption??)

I try my very best to be comforting and truthful when times call for it, but somehow, I could never completely shake off that vague feeling of uncertainty, that constant nagging voice at the very back of my mind that tells me that I’m doing something wrong, or tells me that I’m not doing enough, or tells me that I’m fucking overcompensating, or whatever stupid made-up issues it has with my attempt to act like a decent human being. I’ve always just found it easier to repress everything, every difficulty and emotion that’s going on in my overwhelmed mind, to simply keep it all to myself no matter how dire it is, rather than to bother anyone else with it, and I’ve always found it easier to keep people at a ten-foot pole’s length with acerbic witticism and sarcastic dismissals, because when they get too close, someone would always get hurt, and it always ends in a devastating fallout.

To put it shortly, I don’t know how to be empathetic. And I don’t know how to make people empathise with me. Up to now, I’ve always convinced myself that it was my biggest strength.

But perhaps…it just might be my greatest weakness.

~*~

I know I have issues
But I don’t need to hear it coming from you
It’s something that I’ll work through
The beating of my heart’s not stopping anytime soon
It’s not stopping anytime soon…

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Filed under Prose

Secret Catastrophe

i am lacklustre—

butterfly wings devoid

of floral-rose shade

lost within asteroids

.

i don’t seek cold seas

or gift-wrapped love

i wished desperate throes

from broken-bent doves

.

only pain lit in purple

unveiled under a night sky

all-consuming death—wanders

in my azure-blinded eye.

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Lost Paradise

In my young boyhood—should it thus be given
T’were folly still to hope for higher Heaven!
~Dreams; Edgar Allan Poe

~*~

A shot of nepenthe lay waste to ruin

What might have been a clandestine heaven

With dreams that gazed upon the yonder

Of mysticism, limerence, and wonder

Altercations, though idyllic its lambency

Spare nephilim hearts and exquisite reverie

Wherefore doubt may have and doubt may be

Upon befallen tears of quiet syncope

Empty grave rather dreamless, hellfire cold

Rose above rampant flames that scourge the soul

This solitude threats me more than mercy

Lost in the spirits upon a past that never shall be

Yet, still I lay my hands upon dark lilac skies

Wishing for a memory that even seraphs dare defy

A sip of nepenthe lay waste to overtaken

What never was and never shall be my secret heaven.

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