Having a strong imagination sucks sometimes.
It’s always a whisper how she passes through slowly.
She looks at me, every single time, clawing and crawling towards the surface of comfort, surely, but again slowly.
I see her, gazing and staring at what could be, at what will never be. It’s disappointing sometimes, but life usually is.
I know sometimes that I should’ve tried harder, or maybe pushed further, but talking is easy and doing isn’t breezy.
She approaches me, gets close, and all of a sudden I realize how my imagination is just the frustration, of a man so willing to imagine.
She never really knew I was there, and I don’t find that not one bit rare. You know, all I ever wanted from a stare, was something I thought could be there.
Yet again, I was wrong.
My imagination never ceases to play tricks on me, and that’s alright. At least I can still imagine, which is fair, but life sometimes is truly fucking unfair.
Some things will never change.
The dripping stains I see them clear,
with every passing wave,
I stay still and feel,
the tears falling onto my shirt.
They plummet with a heaviness unseen,
unwitnessed and unfelt before.
Like the rain in October,
slightly felt and clearly seen.
With the foolishness of a fool
I tread heavily into maze,
full of despair and agony,
burning like indistinguishable fuel.
My heart clasped with a cumbersome
ashamed feeling of a daze.
I feel sick in my stomach
as I never fail to amaze,
the belligerent fool in me.
The same mistakes over and over again.
I get disgusted with myself sometimes,
from the pathetic, finicky heart of mine,
that never seems to give me any time,
to process things,
and tread with refrain.
I fall in love too easily,
and I will always remain a fool.
Someone please help me,
to find the fucking cure.
Gravity is bound to catch you.
Your teardrops fall and drip,
blasting heavily onto the floor beneath
with gravity taking claim of the salty,
and heavy sadness.
Gravity carries your ample tears
anxiously and without doubt.
It is always there for you.
Grappling with a major calamity,
you tremble with mighty agony
as pieces of the puzzle around you,
fall and tumble down onto the ground.
They are carried by gravity.
Your knees tremble
and your hands shake.
Your entire being descends,
and crashes onto the surface,
with all your burdens,
carried by gravity.
WHOA what a throwback. I was digging around through the books I own, and out fell a piece of paper written on it the first poem I ever wrote. I remember I was maybe in the tenth grade, and it was about a girl, and let’s just say, things were quite messy. This poem made me realize that writing and expressing yourself, no matter the outcome, can be truly therapeutic.
The day I knew it will never be,
Jasmine, I thought she would set me free.
My heart beating faster, waiting for a reply…
It was devastating, I vowed never again to try.
Overwhelmed with emotions I almost died,
never anticipating such a wry.
The girl you loved and dreamed about, day and night
never shared the same love for you,
what a surprise.
Tears filled up my eyes, my heart was broken,
every expectation turned out to be
I was madly, insanely, deeply in love
and I linger…
But it will never be.
Knowing it will never be, I wait for the night,
hoping to see her in my dreams,
hoping it will turn into reality.
The night is a long way away,
and day dreams are stale, obsolete.
But I knew it will never be.
Jasmine, I know you’ll be happy someday.
You’ll shine in the sky for your lover one day…
But why not shine for me, Jasmine?
Oh yeah I forgot.
It will never be.
Children laying down,
broken, exposed and frail beyond comprehension.
Shadows strike within the glass,
reflecting the reflections of the tiny,
up towards the sky.
lost in the mystery of deception,
screaming with no perception
of what happens next.
Locked and bound
to their everlasting demise.
The only memory left of them,
the one reflected towards the heavens,
where heaven is nowhere to be reached.
Their hands tangled into one another,
with the footsteps getting closer,
they pray to the heavens.
They pray to the only thing that can save them,
yet the prey,
the prey devours them inside the house of heaven.
The Children shrieking their confessions,
shouting at the haunted curse,
that took their childhood away.
The curse approaches them,
noises made like the sound of skulls
rattling and signaling,
the voices of a null, beast-like,
and unforgiving savage.
The clock is ticking
and the Children pray,
as the prey gets closer.
Skulls and bones.
I hate this time of year.
The spring is ending,
bending all in it’s way.
Summer on the horizon
with disappointment and regret,
with failure stacked up,
like an organized stack of hay
embedded within my being.
The sorrow, the sorrow,
nothing can be said about it.
It hits while you’re on your way,
That’s the effect of springtime on me.
I’m going towards the unknown,
or better yet,
the unknown is chasing me.
Fuck you spring,
I sincerely mean that.
Round and round she goes.
I could hear the noise
coming from a near distance.
sweat trickling down her forehead,
whirling and running
into a synchronous of perfection.
Hopes and fears,
and realizations of a life lost,
with nothing dear,
a hefty price and cost.
The screaming and the circles,
all what’s left now.
The only perfection she managed,
a soul abused and damaged,
was the spirals she forged as she wept,
the cries she shouted with neglect.