Visiting this comfort city
always bring you back,
by chance a bar away, and
pretend we’d never met,
I’d introduce me, you’ll be shy,
we’ll drink, rewrite our destiny,
but what new ending could arise
from that consigned to fantasy.
Visiting home has its disadvantages. A flickering hope – the most insane of kind.
Cherished silver strands of age
and wiser, weathered wrinkles
could not detract at all from you,
my quiet muse most noble,
whose graceful right hand still I kiss
with pilgrim lips of younger days, and
though forsake us slowly senses may,
a soul-stirred bonfire does not fade.
Some days, I jump beyond this confine to an older age, and steal back with me a piece my older self would have liked to write.
Abysmal always sip of parting wine,
a coveted promise sweet and bitter
for tongues too seasoned and drunken minds
half-accepting their last supper,
the mutual laughter drowned in music
resisting vainly this moment ending,
with one last stolen kiss as wine excused
a bitten lip for tomorrow’s lamentations.
Today is not a day for sadness, but then again I am a couple pieces behind so the next couple or so may rectify. Late night introspection can be so erratic. One moment a blissful exploration and the next a chaotic torrent of unceasing affects.
Settled in old comforts now,
these dusted wooden chairs,
the place will leave upon me
that rusty coffee odor
from the many pots of day,
perhaps a couple over-brewed.
I once was waiting here for you,
greeting me at the door
your strawberry blonde strands,
like rays of dawn breaking
past the clouds of stormy past.
And here I find myself again,
mere inkling or hollow hope at most,
a purchased coffee, sitting lonely
awaiting vainly for a ghost.
I missed having a 24-hour coffee place around. So many happy, sad memories attached there. All the cast of The Bit have moved on. All that remains are fragments of a longing.
Taunting cursor of an empty white,
demanding daily scribbles,
another wish or dream of day delight
recorded ere dismissal.
Insult me on then, blink away,
my thoughts will stay secluded,
a confession buried without ink
is a longing best concluded.
It’s amazing that we’re almost 1/3rd of the way through since this project has started. The constant racking of the brain for ideas inevitably leads one to keep treading down certain pathways…
Fight, fight that urge to quit,
an ounce more stubborn yet,
a lucky few grow painlessly,
but you will bleed and sweat.
A scarred heart too, unhonored,
awaiting righteous recompense,
though some are healed by helpers,
yours is for your hands to mend.
Suffer then this drink of hope,
and rise to fight again tomorrow,
silly, yes, how progress comes,
but silly same to wail and wallow.
Fight or give up. If we pull back far enough, it’s all just motions in a briefest moment of time. Might as well have a hand in the pain and mending.
Silence is a noose of sorts
to that crime gone unconfessed,
so desperate wish to tell
but held for heart’s behest,
accepting then the wordless sentence
as appeasement to the pained,
allowing closure for its sake
being worth the price condemned.
From condemnation to sympathy. I might yet have hopes of being a good human being.
If only I could have summer back,
eating watermelon lazily
on a hammock overlooking grass
and watching squirrels chasing merrily,
forgetting of that dreaded summer sun
or stalking in the nights mosquitoes,
that for all those blisters, bites,
the past remains a golden mellow.
There never was a good ol’ days that some tomorrow could not match.
Dream as big, fantastic, as the boundless night of starry sky,
and wide as the waves of oceans would traverse the world.
Dream then, of love so magical the blind will even see,
that time stood still for long enough to outlast uncertainty.
Perfect that story — weave that plot — until the tapestry created
would befit your royal heart, bruised and aching for companions.
Dream away then, these minutes sacred that you’ve sown,
the world is sleeping now — you dream freely on your own.
It is important to have a style, but more importantly not become shackled down by it. Dream away I shall then, and find myself in what state upon becoming awake?
Adrift with loneliness,
the cousin of lament,
aspiring to divorce now
life’s quiet malcontent —
And blessed are those happy
self-married down the aisle,
but wanting someone to confide
was never out-of-style.
Some days, reddit really gets me down. So many lives’ confessions and struggles put into words in the internet anonymity. Strengths, weaknesses, beauty. Societal expectations and our collective livelihood. Hearing that some people would have preferred that their chest pain was a heart attack, so they wouldn’t have to return to what they knew…