Tag Archives: troubled

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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Filed under Poetry

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