Wednesday, 2 January 2019

On the road

(c) Impression, Sunrise. Monet.

I have been listening to the things I've heard before, and it's not for reminiscence, it's more for peace of mind. The year passes, and everything is still the same. I don't believe in new year resolutions because every day I learn new things, old things, and things I never knew I needed. And by listening to the voices I didn't take as much close attention to before, I find that they were the gifts of reason for the universe to condense into a single idleness that takes the form of my current being.

Doing nothing pays a lot more attention than being busy. So if you must know, I intend to be more silent in loud ways this time around. It makes perfect sense to me how highs and lows correspond and harmonize, to conspire into the epiphany I always needed. Confused? Me too. But it made a lot more sense when I said it in my head.

The train of thought has brought me completely lost but left trails for me to be found. Therein, perhaps, as once an innocent rose blooms soon dies and let its ashes be one with the earth- is probably what happens when one is growing up. To die doesn't necessarily paint a flatline, one simply goes on to another life. Probably. I'm off-track, see what I mean? Train of thought, lost, but found.

The whole ambiguous and indefinite path brings me to a confusion that I often celebrate and fail to pen down (until now), simply because they are the missed trains that I refused, once upon a time, to trust and believe in its destination. But I found the trail back home simply to find that home no longer had a fireplace where I hoped for warmth. Home simply said, "not now".

So I threaded my feet to the ground as needles pressed my skin, slowly but surely, so my heart would learn to be content. I have been listening closely to the screeching missed trains and I stand by them just to claim some solace in my solitude. I have been silent. But I have my way in being so, by being even louder.

Friday, 2 November 2018

Smart Mouth

Cy Twombly.

The pleasures of being
hasn't nestled into rest;
for all fire plays
and numb toil
had failed in sleep -

In dark turmoil
does logic gone to rust;
for all things gold
will turn to dust.

Hear my pray,
beseech my need;
for every time it plays
it nips its tougue to bleed.

In every torture
there lies commanding drums;
for much like pleasure
the fools all sleep in slums.

If like this -
heaven reaches
for many hours of day;
I think it might've had too much to say.

So sit back your braided thought
and come what may the speech;
the sounds that click and clock
will melt in time we preach.

Sit silent, lie still,
for autumn dreams tomorrow;
because life in painting
has nightmares promised in sorrow.

[NaPoWriMo 2018]

Tuesday, 24 July 2018

Grey Matter

Untitled (Bacchus). Cy Twombly.

My fingers drag across the keyboard
like missed devil tongue on silk sin
and felt the strangle of my thoughts
that grew days too old and too soon
to emit a dark burden
that is unfamiliar;
I couldn't taste the new chili
the sun brought down 
I only felt my sweat cursing 
at the back of my knees. 
my palms have never dried this much.

Structured poems? What are they,
I laugh, like horrid jungle fear
with eyes bloodshot and busted;
Structured poems, I learn,
I fail, I come alive, 
I dance with the fainted possession
of waterworks that reek my bed.

I landed on my knees 
wondering if I'd die like this
one day too old or too soon.
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