Tag Archives: self

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 my 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 time 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 combo 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, but 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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aggressive

all this aggression

unchecked, just left

shaking in my chest

knuckles sore and red

the need to distress, find

anguish, and cause pain

and feel pain, be harmed

and do it again and again

.

all this aggression

repressed, recessed

clouding common sense

coppery taste of bruises

the urges, uncontrollable

and one of these days, it’s

going to get me in trouble

but i’ll be too angry to care.

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sceptic

this doubt

will outlive me

and will be

the death of me

all the same.

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treachery, and then some

i’m the disconnect

the reset in the corner

of a lacerated brain

a troublemaker with a

causeless cause, if

only to destroy, if only

to wreck and rectify

if only to be the liability

that leaves beggars

and bastards cursing in

the end, cursive cry

hide myself with gaslight

to burn another home

and thrill all the stars with

these glinting claws

and fever dreams, allowing

me to pluck them out

and crush the last remains

beneath my own sins

so disconnect me—before

i scream once again

before their clocks retreat

after i’ve caused the

shame which left my own

bruised head in ruins.

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laggard

uselessness

is not a virtue

nor a talent,

it’s simply just

an honest waste

of one’s time

.

it consumes

the mind and

salivates, just to

watch the drywall

rot and infest

spreading cracks

.

no longer within

the wall, but already

inside one’s furious

thoughts, seeking

a weaker barrier to

fully break down

.

until it reaches

a deep trench, where

all ends meet, and

the gap widens

just enough to drive

one quite insane.

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Filed under Poetry

Sick Sickly

I go through all the trouble
Of keeping it within my walls
I try to be as subtle as I can
Assume that nothing needs me
All I’ve done defeats me
It looks like you were right again
And again, I let you find it on your own
Then I found myself alone…

~*~

I feel kind of sad today

It’s the type of sad where

I somehow feel physically sick

Of everything and nothing

Of myself and everyone

Of whatevers and howevers

All at once and all I just wanna do

Is curl up until the hurt starts

To wane away—if it ever

Wanes away—and yet I don’t

Even know why I’m so sad

I don’t know why I feel wrong

I don’t know why I’m complaining

When I have scars to remind me

That this is what’s supposed

To be a normal feeling for me

And it shouldn’t come as a

Surprise that I still missed this

I miss feeling like shit, feeling

Like I’ll always miss you, feeling

Like there’s really nothing left

But this miserable stasis I

Locked myself into, and it will

Always be that way, no matter

What I do and how much I try to

Distract myself because it’s

Always going to be what’s left

For me in the end. Just me and

This fucking sickness, the type of

Sad that feels so unreasonable

The type of sad that sticks in my mouth

The type of sad that makes me

Feel okay that it will never be okay

And I should just learn to live with that.

~*~

The more I want in, the more I want in
The less I know, the less I know
But I’m forgotten, I’m forgotten
I’ll be alone, I’ll be alone, I’ll be alone
With everybody watching me
Uh oh, where can I go?
Everybody’s watching me…

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what’s it like?

what’s it like

to be liked?

to be a face

that someone

else adores

with quirks and

smiles kept in

a doting score?

.

to be the start

and the end

of someone’s

best dreams?

to be the lost

afterthought

in their head

still lingering?

.

what’s it like

to be liked?

to be anyone in

a person’s eyes?

to know that you

can mean a thing

so what’s it like

to not be me?

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Filed under Poetry