letting all the bad feelings out through “poetry”

messy_art_by_amalitsa

Artwork from deviant art: amalista

unsavory, like salt,

a scrunchy I left wet, hanging

on the toiletries rack, the

morning couldn’t get any sweeter

with awkward dances an­­d words

I was too sleepy to say, I don’t

have the tolerance for unironed shirts

today. Stay, we kept holding up

hands against the sun, grass and shoes

were about to give up, cold sweat,

unsatisfactorily everything, from half

hearted laughs to always one step apart.

I was pulling but breaths kept

at it until the quiet was quite as desperate

as fried chicken for breakfast. There is the

illusion that forms meant to taste like

cake, chewed on by a thousand dreams I

had for a fifteen-minute nap. It was

just as I thought it’d be with misspellings

and mishaps the saints in my head invented. We

were just as they told me when I prayed not

too long ago to do what the common

folk to with their tongues, for the sheer thrill

of being normal, in the streets there was

shouting instead of constant nods to hats tipped

off. I was no longer awake after more

than a day of crickets and throbbing and

the light showed itself out of my eyes until

I wobbled. My bedroom floor tasted like cement,

now that I think about it.

Advertisements

how do souls brush against each other?

 

d3ce14f7d76ef69451484a7029d06cec

Photo credits: Pinterest (Mishal Benson)

 

to remember that it was a kind of brown,

one that looked like a Monday, like coffee overflowing with sugar,

tucked away inside the eyes of someone who had a lot to say.

there was music and it sounded like pieces of piano keys falling, one by one, like

childhood and the last second before falling asleep. the room knew what was happening,

letting itself be occupied by vacancies and paint splattered on the walls. the paper knew

what it felt to be remembered, so it offered itself to idle strokes and the silence thereafter. in

that instance, there was a universe created, a silent agreement of

allowing the breaking of defenses and taking a step closer. there were secrets

unexplored still but it was then that looking into someone’s eyes meant

seeing them. (finally.)

because secretly, i’m a mermaid

105698800_the_daughter_of_the_sea__final_version__by_marcobusonid65ku5c

Photo credits: The Daughter of the Sea by Marco Busoni

There had to be sunlight somewhere. For fish hungry for water, it seemed ironic to first look for heat. But there she was, feet already sprouting, yearning for the sort of warmth she didn’t even understand.

What does it take for breaths to have meaning? Swimming around, she came to know air only as something you need for catching up. The sea was just a place to go. The waves were just a means of passing by.

Inside her, stuck in between bones she called her body, was more water. Her lungs were a well of salt and saliva, thickening with every inhale. Was it dark there? Was it dangerous? (Nonetheless, they were still just transparent.)

What did it mean to be buoyant? Sometimes, when she touched her scales, she can imagine herself floating. Though in her head the surface is also the sea, she knew she really didn’t need to escape water. Drenched, she only needed a small flame to hide underneath her shell.

Poems found

here— as if words written

on tissue meant something.

truth, if it allowed itself to be

relative, would reveal the same:

“I have never given it thought,”

And yet, still. But because.

perhaps —say it— during breakfast,

despite the cold, we become. We

let Friday settle in our shoes so it

can turn into dust. Unless songs, one

without feet to play it, can

exclam: “Be yourself”. Maybe then.

permanence never was; it only

existed in fragments. And I’ll 

remember which table,

when it drops.

A Happy Poem

Mt. Manabu peak

​I’d like to write about happy things

again. Sometimes, I look at the sky

and come up with words like ‘soggy,

brow-beaten cheeks’ instead of 

‘tomorrow’. My best work is defaulted

that way – to be of uneaten

breakfast and bottled coffee left

under the bed. Sunlight, if ever

it comes, barges in between cracks

on the roof while I wish to stay

asleep, and my pen reaches for it,

merely to immortalize the pain

of waking up. My handwriting sounds

like birds, drilling the concrete, because

it tells the story of a little girl 

crying. There is no air to breathe 

in my poems, should I write 

one. If there were better things,

happier things, maybe I could.

The significance of comfort things

 

cropped-m8_piggy_large.jpg

There’s a reason why it’s red.

 

When asked about dreams and

limits, she resorted to

the cage inside her head

and the

shackles that bound her

to the darkness she tried to reign.

 

It was in a milk tea shop.

 

To think she could be

anything, only if

she believed in fairies again

and tried to

fix the way the puzzles fit

like building

blocks in her muddled brain.

 

Pillows, in plural.

 

She finds that it is easier to

fool the self

to perform the impossible with

things you buy in a store

that you

develop an attachment to.

 

Give me spaghetti in September.

 

In truth, the mind dictates

the possible and

accepts what it is that can be,

and can be

learned, for faith is a matter

of acceptance.

 

There’s a reason why it’s blue too.

In which we attach meaning

cropped-m8_piggy_large.jpg

When you look at it this way, it’s easy to say that power is all in our head. After all, it is in our head that we give someone or something the power to mean everything.

Say for example, you find yourself walking home under unlit streetlights at an unholy hour. Your knuckles are turning white and your legs, jelly, and the only thing you feel is keeping you safe is holding your breath until you reach the gray gate you can hide behind. Of course, once someone jumps out to drag you and stuff you inside a rice sack, you’d have no choice. But in desperation, you cling onto beliefs, actions – that gush of air you aren’t willing to release – that you think would illogically save your life.

On a lighter note this time. Say, you were a baby and say, you were sad. There’s that one thing, be it a pillow, a blanket or a stuffed toy, that smelled like Mom, and it fought the monsters away. It made you braver, stronger and at one point of your life, it was impossible to let go. Until it’s gone, because, older now, it didn’t matter to you anymore.

There’s that piece of candy you’ve hidden away in one of your wallets and an old coin in one of your socks. Stuck between your favorite book is an old convenience store receipt and under your bed is a Grade 4 art project. At the bottom of your inbox is a message with a smiley at the end dated five years ago. You have a slightly worn-out shoe losing its pair and a woolly red shirt you aren’t ever going to throw. Unable to keep what they represent, you hold on to the physical; it’s all you are capable of.

In truth, we just want to get pieces of what we cannot have – our life, a smile, a moment and the beyond.

So comes the attachment. Other than naming, this is another that denotes value and finality. It means to distinguish that something ordinary is special without any special reason. Just because you said so. Doing so, also gives a false sense of permanence that the value stays and it does, as long as you’d like it to linger.

In the middle of the night, you look for a star and even if facts say it is different, you insist on the sameness and ask it to grant you a wish. We see what we see. And we love who we love.

Right now, I have a rosary bracelet around my left arm. It’s loose, barely breathing and I could almost hear it warn me to brace myself. Something is coming, I don’t know what, but the thought of my shield wearing down scares me. (I am excited to discover where finding a new one would lead me though).

The things that have power over us, those that mean the most, are valuable the way we are because we say so. To be attached is a choice and so is to escalate meaning.

It makes the world more complex in a way other than just a dumpsite of possessions. It explains why people are greedy and stubborn and materialistic. It keeps superstitions alive. It facilitates the transfer of emotions and the rest of the intangible. And, interestingly, it can even give value to what we can achieve as ourselves with a simple change in mindset.

(It’s a lovely thing, these brains of ours).

To belong to someone (a poem)

beautiful-girl-balachandar-asokan.jpg

Photo credits: images.fineartamerica.com 

Her footsteps are heavy, imprinted on
Sans; perhaps, she wore a cloak
of secrets; perhaps, she stared
at the burning
concrete for too long.
Wasting away until she, black under her
nails, stopped bothering; maybe it
was instinct, or maybe the
ancient need to
be heard somewhere.
But the collar, like a camping song around
fire, encased her neck; perhaps she
was a little desperate; perhaps it was
fear of actual contentment
that comfort
washed over her despite.
Her breath smells like soap, boxed until
needed; maybe that was the
system of change; maybe time hits
like motorcycle-wind
and the thrill of adventure.
Gazing at the blankness of tonight, she
sleeps; perhaps the signals meant
no harm in trying; perhaps
she knew
how to walk now.