Flawed acts of nature

My feelings lay before me, on a silver plate
I see you taking your chop sticks
Intending to roll them up and digest
But your hands are stuck
Taken aback, forcefully
By a chain made of the fragments of your wits

My soul is poured in a glass
Standing brightly and proudly on your dinner table
Glowing, with the little sparkles in it
Begging to be drank
But your mouth is knit
With filaments of your own flesh

I sit in my bed and
I mourn moments like these

Sometimes I wish
I could vomit all my emotions
In one big jar
And throw it in the deep sea

A start of something beautiful*

I lay my head next to his
We share a moment of silence
We listen to the soundless noise
Of our breaths
Playing symphonies
Along with that river below

We stare at the ceiling
For hours, until dawn
Comes creeping out
From behind the mountains
Reminding us about a concept
Of time, we forgot about
The whole night through

Sweet morning comes
After a sleepless night
Tripping on the scent
Of his skin
Drawing his picture
In void space
With the top of the unfinished
Bottle of wine
Sweet morning comes
Sunrays rest on his lips
And I feed on this sun

We hold hands
Dive into a void ocean
Balancing between its extremes
Sliding from edge to edge
From fears to haven
Between nightmares and dreams
And I wonder
If the stillness inside
Could last more in reality
Than it does in our daydreams

Pleasing unease*

When your dreams and your nightmares share the same bed
Tell me, how can you live undead?

When your obsession exceeds the realm of your existence
To land on a cloud six feet under your hopes
Tell me, how can you still on your passions depend?

When you are torn between two satisfying extremes
Tell me, which yearning are you longing to most feed?

When your lightness becomes heavier than your weight
And the gratification from both turns out to be just great
Tell me, which will you chose heaviness or its slight lack of it?

When you close the door on your fears
And decide to embark on a journey full with risks and unease
Tell me, would you let go of your dice one last time, please?

Of Purple Thoughts.

Dare
To stare
Into my soul

Glare
Then share
What’s in your thoughts

Refuse
To diffuse
The weakness inside

Exposed
Controlled
Do you feel left behind?

Your flare
Your stare
Show how lost you are

My glow
You blow
When you tread too far

Come close
I will dose
On the stillness of your war

I need
You to feed
On the musing of my scar

Everything and Nothing.

Her groin
Host of infinite little creatures
Her wits
Artifact of an eternal life
Her scent
The color of blood and snow
Her taste
Of strawberries and striped clouds
Her moans
That even a crowd could not silence
Her gaze
Porthole to a reverie world
Her scars
Counterfeit, vacant and odd

She is everything and nothing.

I can't remember when this was originally written - but definitely sometimes between March and April 2009.

you*

Shall I be dead now,
You should know
You were the last thing
On my mind
No, I did not see flashbacks of my life
No, I did not see absolute white void
No, I did not hear the car crash
Or think about my own death
It was you I thought about
How you told me a week before
That you could have died
In a car accident
How ‘the sky was moving sideways’
How you thought that that was your last moment
Your last fraction of existence
Your car going round
To impede under a truck
No, it wasn’t the wall I crashed into
Nor the highway my car flew over
Nor the seaside route I landed on
That I thought about
When my own death approached me
It wasn’t ‘the fear of a blank planet’; No
It was you
A probable reason why
Life chose to hold on to me
Maybe a reason why
Death hesitated in taking me
Was it you there?

I got a scar where all my urges bled*

a blue confession.

I have a confession to make.

I did get your attention with my first sentence, didn’t I?

It is interesting how we humans can turn the silliest statement into the most valuable just by labeling it a “confession”.

Anyhow, this is not what I am intending to write about. What I will write about is something silly and not so interesting for most people. But you know when you have this urge to say what is going on inside that sick mind? You know when you HAVE to let things out before they explode inside and reach the outside undisguised – pure sick human emotions thrown down on your created pink world idealized and protected by the people around you?

Ok I am off limits again. I should write about my confession instead of blabbering around analyzing the natural and the concrete.

So, my first thoughts about this confession occurred last night; while I was having a drink with some friends.

It occurred to me then, that I am an extremely fastidious person. The threshold of my sense of satisfaction is too high; I cannot even see it anymore. Now this could be treated both positively and negatively. It could mean that I will not settle for less than my ideals, but it also means that I might end up shoving my ideals up my ass when I am eighty-four, in my corner, alone and still philosophizing and being my arrogant self around people I supposedly care about.

Maybe I will change, mature. Maybe my brain cells will mutate and start to accommodate the feeble minds. Maybe it is only my perception, that this phase I am going through determines who I am. But in reality it doesn’t. It is just a phase – like any other phase. Maybe it is my extended adolescence. Or is it all in my head?

A soul with an attitude_

I am thinking soul’ stripping
And maybe shark back diving
Into some deep African ocean
Would souls actually bleed?
I tell you, I don’t want to be tainted bloody red
After discharging my fantasy

I tend to be irritating
When my cravings wind up disregarded
But I have a propensity for being infuriating
If the repercussion of my urges
Cease excruciating

So please my yearnings
Strip my soul
Throw me into the ocean
Then clean my soul’s wounds

I am done being bloody red

Byblos*

He took her in his arms, under starless skies, after a walk by the seaboard of the old city; and its tight modest streets. It was a moment of lure, which she wished could last for more than few hours; which she wished she could absorb for longer than everlastingness. But time – defector of years-bound-powerless humans – was never on her side; why would it this time be?

They talked about a million things that night; of the mundane and the supernatural, of their dreams, passions and fears... And for a while she sensed the line drawn earlier beginning to wane - that desire is taking over the rules of the ordinary and the pre-assumed. It was only natural to have these thoughts in her head. It was only natural for her yearning to be colored, with the colors of the sea, skies and night reverberations. But the colors were misleading. They were placing her in a sense of steadiness that was only made of imperceptible nonexistent threads linking his captivating words to the enigmatic scenery around her.

Could it be that her imagination is taking over again? Could it be that her infatuation with the magic of the night is affecting her senses – again – drawing what she would like to see happening while at the same time wiping away what reality is giving her? Could it be that momentary madness has extended and exceeded the limits of the moment; to take shape in eternity while reigning over a single night?

His words blocked her contact with reality and shifted her senses to the realm of illusion that he has created, facilitated by the moonlight, the scents of the night and the ambiance of the old city. As they sat by the street watching late night passers-by, she found herself stuck contemplating the darkness up above, and that deep within. Should she surrender to her daydreaming mind one more time, willingly leaving space and prospect for it to lead her to another calamity? Should she draw back the line that started to fade earlier that night and draw with it the breaks without which she will constantly be living her double life? What is more heart aching; not living up to her dreams, or lacking any dreams at all?

... On a sticky note*

I am not rational, I am emotions
Most of the times my words do not make any sense at all
My consciousness of what you call reality is drastically underdeveloped
My senses are mutated, from over-usage
My whole understanding of existence revolves around myself
It is not enough being originally distorted, and figuring out ways to cope with it
Why waste energy normalizing myself - just to look like everyone else around me?

mutation stop*

I am naked
And pieces of my body
Are shattered on the floor
Right before my eyes

I am not a cadaver
But my organs are not one

We are on different clouds
It is true
But you are collected and I am not

I am not eternity
Yet I shall be remembered
Not by the many, but by the few
Who were prompted by my scent
And elicited by my fixation

Few moments until I become weightless
But I will still exist
On your cloud? Maybe
Yet definitely, in your thoughts, memories and aspirations

Grant me one last wish
Conceal my echoing moans
Silence me
It is enough crashing the carnal into pieces
Let the screams of the trodden soul be subdued