Tag Archives: self

Echopraxia

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I am not as truthful with my words

As I am with the mirror of another person

Irritating, a mimicked eloquence in my every verve

A quiet death in between the lines of reason

.

Yet I yearn to be autobiographical

To move the hills with my own sorrow

Bleed ocean waves with the sound of my voice

Crashing, cresting—swollen abyss

.

No one will touch it with a paperweight

My skin itches with healed sores, my mouth

Itches with the desire to be heard,

My mind is severed from my body; regret, culminating

.

They hear my suffering but not my thumping heart

I think it to be nonexistent—am I the truth?

No one notices me. No one comes near. No one

Prays for the crying shadow in the corner of the room.

.

So I atone with my own subtle mess. The ink stains

They praise me for my joy—my lack of it, my lack

Of self-respect, my lack of nerves within the soul—as soon as

This chapter closes, my lies become no more than another neglected tale.

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come on, skinny love.

Skinny love, what happened here?
Suckle on the hope in lite brassiere
My, my, my, my, my, my, my
My sullen load is full
So slow on the split…

~*~

confidence in taut collarbones

and sinews of soft flesh sticking out

from these slowly-crumbling ribs

hoping they won’t notice the excess

counting macros and scale numbers

on the package of chewing gum

.

i promise you, the hunger’s not real

but the ugly bulk on your arms are

and on your legs and chest and neck

so suppress it all, ignore the growing pain

and perhaps all the consumed water

will revive this withering flower

.

brittle hair falling like twisted snow

too tired all the time from staying pretty

a dull glow from behind skinny eyes

hoping a skinny heart will keep me alive

tears dripping off like the clothes on my back

as the mirror sneers, it’s not enough

.

so i’ll just suck my skin in even tighter

and chew on empty air and constant disgust

never satisfied with my toothpick limbs

until i’m certain that my body could easily splinter

if i was given a hug, by the people who like me

because i finally look the way i forced myself to be.

~*~

Now all your love is wasted
Then who the hell was I?
Now I’m breaking at the britches
And at the end of all your lines
Who will love you? Who will fight?
Who will fall far behind?

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Dissimilitude

Obscure thoughts
And manic visuals
The king of deception’s
Repulsive ritual…

~*~

I am unable to mend myself anymore

Instead closer to discomfort, adoring the

.

Minor slip-ups that further slip me away

Into a state of feeling infinite nothing

.

Because my ribs are starting to close in

And propane seeps into the bones of the aether

.

I find myself struggling to reach out beyond

False epiphanies and this cultist chase

.

Just to seek out disproportionate happiness

For what else is there left to trip on?

~*~

A throne of dissimulation
And disfigurement
King of deception, hell sent
A thirst for corruption…

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atonal

you’re just

n o i s e

you open

your lips and

monsters

crawl out

vile creatures

while they smile

and daffodils

bloom from

their dimples

a symphony

of synesthesia

those pretty

little strangers

and you’re stuck

singing—or

is it shrieking?—

another out

of tune lie

convince your

throat to try and

convince your

mind to die

you can study

all you want but

if the notes

don’t fit you right

then maybe

an unscholarly

failure is all you

will ever be

because nobody

wants to listen

and no ears

need to bleed

i think your voice

is better off

simply humming

soundlessly, so

that no one

will ever hear.

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closer to closure

Consider this, consider this
The hint of the century
Consider this the slip
That brought me to my knees, failed
What if all these fantasies come
Flailing around, now I’ve said too much…

~*~

fucking upset.

why is that so?

is it thinking about

the deliberate act

of running steel beyond

your muscle enough

to hit bone, or is it

the happy thought that your

friends won’t give a

fuck about you anymore?

self-pitying act, you

find yourself repulsive

and reel back more as you

find yourself glorifying

the tasteless apathy

.

won’t be missed.

a face like wiped fog

on the windowpane

awkward jokes that never

hit humour quite right

undecoded personality

no one will want to

put up with anymore

won’t be missed?

tears might fall at a

funeral, but it will quickly

wash off, along with you

and the way you laugh

and your paper body

won’t. be. missed.

.

and still, no one.

but why do you even

pretend to be surprised?

the curiosity of their

imminent reactions

burns a giant hole

in your dysfunctional

brain and makes you

grimace, deceptive smile

a burning impulse to

get it over with and find out

are you fucking upset

that you know no one will

give a fuck, or because

you already saw it coming?

~*~

That’s me in the corner
That’s me in the spotlight
Losing my religion
Trying to keep up with you
And I don’t know if I can do it
Oh no, I’ve said too much
I haven’t said enough…

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anglerfish

tiny anchors around my soft waist

pull me under—it was all my

fault, for i’d swallowed them whole

.

the bottom of the ocean holds

great pressure, and strange creatures

constructed of paper and bones

.

poking, prodding, peeking out

beyond their weary calcium sneers

yet they look so fascinating to me

.

whilst the absence of sun has long

bleached their complexion to a

ghastly paleness, the kind i would

.

literally die for, and only the barest

hints of trembling oxygen occasionally

bubble out of their thin blue lips

.

perhaps their anchors had long dissolved

and they’ll rise to the surface soon—maybe

if i embraced the cold, i’ll finally be one of them.

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Dies Irae

“And in the end, the love you take

Is equal to the love you make.”

Quite frankly, I’m a bit jealous of people who have the casual nerve to fall in and out of love all the time—as if it was simply as bothersome as changing the frayed shoelaces on their trainers on their wornout trainers, or replacing old guitar strings because their sound has long gone dead from overuse. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course, but just;

How ever do they manage it?

I also desperately vie for that graceless, apathetic minuet—for your jaded body to queue into those monotonous cycles of halfhearted flirtations and shamefaced unspeakable nights, for your eyes to linger and your skin to prickle whenever some form of a chance draws near, to have your mind so far detached from your own overbearing sentimentality that when you crave, you simply act upon it. No love letters. No second thoughts. You don’t even have to know their name. Back into a I-V ostinato, humdrum and most times repetitive, but callously familiar all the same.

Meanwhile, I could barely make sense of all these dissonant polychords before another stray minor third or suspended ninth is forcefully thrown into the chaos, stacking up with clashing sharps and muddled tritones and making a colossal mess—and all of this coming from a singular source, no less? No consideration for modes or solfeggio? The absolute heartless anarchy.

Why must I be cursed to be a cynical romantic? A rational poet? A corrupted lullaby? I have discovered where my affections fully lay and have viciously fought tooth and nail for it; but only within myself, for myself, against myself. They need not know. They need not care. They need not suffer the awful way I have, only for nothing to come into fruition at the bittersour end, mainly because my terrified demons have their lacerating claws wrapped around every struggling limb, holding me back, screaming don’t you dare!

Aha, but what if? I hear another resolute little voice at the very back of my head interject, their rather coy tone heavily slurred with infatuated chemicals and heaven knows what else kind of drugged illogicalities. Mayn’t you take an actual chance first and maybe haphazard throwing a rose to your preluded hope, before you hang up your coat in defeat and throw it at your pre-dug grave instead? What if such an unexpected act of courage takes you where you needed to be and…more perhaps? What? If?

Courage, sugarcoated tongues call it. I call it blind and utter foolishness. Yes, I know that I willingly write about fate and destiny and the skinny scarlet threads potentially intertwining our two-syllable names at the A; but beyond that, I dare not stake my chances for a temporary happily-ever-after, nor do I refer to the gathering dust on my windowsill as fairy glitter. I know fully well what is beyond my means, and my means, in turn, know better than to continuously contradict me.

My palpitating heart and tremulous breaths, however, do not. For I have tried my untrained hand at a foreign chord inversion, and now all the blood has rushed into my skull and poured out of my gaping orifices. Everything feels so exhilaratingly t h i c k . . .

Well, curse me and my one-track mind, then. And hex/jinx/potion/burn-at-the-stake combination my asinine brain with its obsessions and hyperfixations and aspirations that focus solely on overblown proportions, it finds a shiny object that it likes and, akin to a stubborn, rabid magpie, it harshly grits its beak until one or the other shatters and even then, it does. Not. Let. Go.

Sooner or later, the hardheaded magpie will starve to death.

Honestly, I would sorely like to believe in cosmic mysticism. In soulmates and “the ones” and in pure, innocent, whimsical luck. I want to believe that if I close my eyes and daydream vividly enough, some of the pieces will slowly melt and start trickling right into the infinitesimal cracks of reality, and when I gasp awake, there shall be more shades of colour beyond my imagining—like the quaintly iridescent hue of their iris—waiting patiently in front of me. To live and to dream and yet to do neither

But in the end, no matter what I choose to believe in, I am still unfortunately a victim to reality. In reality I rightfully reside, and so in its rules I must abide—no matter how demanding, or unfair, or just plain disappointing. C’est la vie. So I must do my very best to stifle my raging adoration and love in secret—otherwise, must they think me so childishly petty?

Long ago have I ceased caring for physical intimacy, anyhow. For satiating a strange hunger that was never actually within me to begin with, like a rather curious augmentation dot in a measure that has long since ended. And I personally find it much easier to think without such fantastical denouements further clouding already-confused judgment. I simply seek another life to hold out to. Another arrangement to harmonise with mine in more pleasant overtones, and create a completely new melody once unheard of. I simply seek someone to understand with.

But even that, particularly during these trying times and ages, is already far too much to ask for. Even more unfortunately so than the former. I have found mine allure and yet lost it in the same clumsy risk. It’s affected me so much that even as I write this down, I can’t help but speak in constant musical metaphors. For I love in the same concentrated frequency as I devote my life to music. In unexpected eleven by eights and stiffer four by four cadences, in novelistic sonatas that dance around in dizzying triptychs and roaring otherworldly symphonies without a conductor present to keep it at bay; music and love and [?????], so tightly intertwined together, practically stitched at the smallest seams, inseparable, infinite, molto allargando. A trifecta of syncopated synergy tethered directly to my pulse. No wonder it is absolute agony whenever I attempt to pull one away from the other.

But music, just like everyone and everything else, desperately desires resolution. Life rarely ever offers one.

So, where do I go from here? I am hopelessly stuck tapping my fingers along to a singular timbre, and since I know all too well that there is no other exact same (or even similar) intensity nor perfect pitch that will ever come close to matching this one, I chose to deafen my entire hearing instead. There shall be no more lighthearted serenading melodies or serendipitous harmonies playing in bloom after this cantabile. I have completely given up trying. I am simply far too tired of it all to even bother anymore. I just want to get over this reckless charade and move on with my life. Better to have nothing than too much, one supposes.

Ah, to be young and in love. I quite feel as though I barely even fit in one category anymore, and yet I still vicariously persist in the other; like an octogenarian layman nearly drowning in the same river many times over the course of their entire four decades of living, whilst somehow vainly hoping to catch a pretty feathered dove. Existence is admittedly rarely too dull—but it is, however, messy and pointless and full of cacophonous noises and obnoxious plot holes. That’s what makes it exciting. I’d very much rather be bored to death.

So tell me, how does one love if they do not know how to—and do not ever want to? How does one get rid of love when this exhausted cliché has nothing left to give, yet invisibly clings on to them like an unpleasant earworm just to suck them dry and make their stomach feel relentlessly sick? And how does one ridiculously fall prey to love over and over again and still keep crawling back for just one more bruise—when I myself have already stretched out every aching muscle, squeezed out every drop of vital liquid, and fractured every bone in my abused and protesting body just to get rid of one person, like a frenetic rondo without decrescendo???

Perhaps it’s an acquired taste. Perhaps the primal survival of our specie deems it necessary. Perhaps I am simply fucking weak.

Truly, I am not jealous of most people’s normal ability to let themselves loose and dive headfirst into everything at an uncharted whim. I am only ever jealous over my own lack of self-control with my incessant, irrational, one-sided reverence; though the mercurial world’s unpredictable rhythm pushes past like a steady heartbeat as it constantly heeds me to move on. Move on. Move on.

If only I were more human than that.

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Filed under Prose, Valentines Poetry

Febfair

Pondering all alone

Sitting with cold grass

Between curled fingers

And unfinished coffee

Making lips quite sticky

My unplugged earphones

Afraid to make sounds

.

Myriad stands flickering

With flashes of neon colours

Selling dresses and candy

And music and rowdy revelry

But just tell me, Mr. Vendor

Please, where can I buy

Someone to walk with tonight?

.

The crowds passing by

Friends, family, familiarity

Cheering, laughing, enjoying

When there is none for me

Surrounded by old strangers

White noise for humming ears

White noise for sad eyes

White noise in my tired mind

.

From thinking about eternities

Until there is nothing but space

Lost and loved and lost again

An unsent greeting hovering

Anxiety creeping and crawling

As I patiently wait for a person

Who doesn’t even exist at all.

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fine [print]

With me understand
These patterns
How can you live forced
Into parallel lines
All functioning under
The same mind?

~*~

i’m so tired

that my skin

is beginning

to drip off my

bones and pool

on the ground

and i think my

brain’s going bad

again, it’s curling

up in a corner and

it doesn’t want to

be found out now

.

the rushed high

felt fun, but it’s

quickly wearing off

and the usual numb

is back and oh, it’s

more numb than ever

i thought i was going

to be fine, and it’s staying

that way if i really tried—

but is that just another

one of my famous lies?

will life never feel alive?

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black mold

the clock strikes five, and then there was one.

bathroom floor. feels cold. unnaturally perfect. comforting. alone.

fingers pointing to every tile—faded pink against mouldy lavender

grimly counting the grimy walls peddling for some peace of mind

mindless indulgence, please don’t run out, pleaseplease…but it does

148 tiles. not mine. five sleeping bodies outside, blissfully unaware

five dreams i struggle not to rudely wake up with my silent screams

one. one face. hounding the very verge of my panicked wiles

melting me into an incomprehensible mess. maddening, blaming

the perpetrator of the crime. blue. perfect blue. haunting blue

angel blue with cumulous hair, have you ever seen golden clouds

before? sweet and dimpled, stifle back a sour laugh, i’m falling before

i realise that i can’t fly, oh shit oh god, i can’t fucking fly—!

pulled back. 148 tiles. small cube. no sky. hell below. my shivering hands

prayer. tired kind of mantra, no don’t want this anymore, please i

just want to be okay, please i just want it all to stop stop stop stoppp

numb but hurt, reduced to fine shreds on 28 of the 148 dirty tiles

five unconscious bodies, enviously euphorically ignorant, another storm

but not from outside, it’s too chilly for that, my eyes blur as they fog over but

better than sorry little pissbaby tears trickling, i have to face this now anyway

there’s no proper decorum for dismantled fools like me. only life. only life.

light flickers shut. 148 tiles hide beneath the shadows. five bodies toss fitfully. one.

the clock strikes six, and then there were none.

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