add one balloon
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
You, you who make me squirm ever so much, distasteful at a whim's choice, sweet for the most inanimate times, I detest you, but not really. Change is most desired, but I don't have the strength to really put anything I spurt out from my mouth into concrete, oh so concrete and undeniably real, actions. Flutter, gradually turn into white, my little heart, I will catch you later.
Enter, characters of my little puppet play.
--
Secrets, lies, non-emo masks, the love lost, the love wasted, the first real love, the one forgotten.
This is the time of all things read;
the time of books, clean hands, straw dogs,
shared looks. This is the time
that finds the time to settle down;
to open that smile with enormous plans;
to pound on metal rolled with rust;
to lie when lovers lie, alone, quiet,
in kitsch and style.
Death for some is a careless cat,
one that lacks a voice—and love—
and never plays chess.
But that is not my choice.
You see, I prefer the quieter sort;
the kind of death that stalks one
through shapeless blur, a caress of trust
and a lack of breath—now three, now two—
a sweet bluff and a face that looks
of you, only that's not enough.
I remember the films during which you cry,
and the way you hide it, fiddling
with your change to make your eyes avoid
the two mice riddling some pocket full of holes.
I remember the nights you tried to pray.
You clasped your hands and dreamt up God
and what he may or may not do. And I,
following November, came with you.
I remember the calls you made, long,
arboreal affairs of historical silence,
but I thought it wrong to say I knew
that metaphorical was never your intent.
History never dies.
The rains are worshiped here.
They bear a name that all chant
in line, and with a script scrawled
by sticks and minds, each has its own piece
and place to finally say what should be said—
to be erased.
Morning came early today,
and with it—dread;
and with it—rain.
And I ask warily, "When?"
Soon is where the rockets stop.
--
Onyx upon heavy lids, eyes wide shut, screams for more, more and more, and then, no more. All I have is a conforming smile, little miss.
I am not perfect,
I am not beautiful,
I am not brilliant,
I am not invincible…
I am adequate,
I am pretty,
I am smart,
I am strong,
But I am not perfect.
What I am
And what people say I am
are two completely
perpendicular statements.
The fact that you would turn
to a secondary as apposed
to a primary source
Is beyond comprehension.
But that
Is not my concern.
My concern is not;
Rumors,
Gossips,
Lies;
About the typical
Definition of a fragile beauty.
But the people
Who spread them,
Who hear them,
Who believe them.
That is my concern.
The belief of perfection.
The only person that is perfect,
Is someone who is loved.
Love,
A term used to describe
A person with
No marks.
No flaws in disposition,
No cracks in the soul,
No cuts in the mind.
I have scars on my hands
From confusion and boredom,
And you call me perfect?
I have scars on my flesh
from stupidity and obliviousness,
and you call me beautiful?
I have scars on my mind
From ignorance and censorship,
And you call me brilliant?
I have scars on my soul
From mere words and phrases,
And you call me invincible?
The only one who can say,
I’m perfect,
I’m beautiful,
I’m brilliant,
I’m invincible,
Is the one who loves me.
My
Perfect,
Beautiful,
Brilliant,
Invincible,
The one that I love.
That is perfection.
A term so loose, it has
No meaning.
I see something written over stitched lips: 'Stole my heart, and all I've got is my pack of clothes and a blank face.'
---
Forced out of my mind, drearily, I stumble upon steps, steps of which I seemed to have seen before, perhaps because it is mine, and I am walking, running in circles, and waiting for you to stop my cycle of boredom and this, this pathetic attempt, yet again, on my supposed 'inspired creativity', inspired by rays of light.
wibbly wobbly
crash crash crash
They're all just fragments of a time;
seconds melting into pixelation, electronic pulse... ink?
This is a picture. Static showing. Static shows quite a lot more than presumed. Hush. Strain your ears and listen. Listen for it...
Maybe nothing could be something.
Or something could be nothing.
Ah, I have myself, and it'll all be a shallow smile for another day, a misconception, sadly misunderstand.
--
I am a portrait of a growing madman. Doubt not, my dubious intentions, I only want to kill another for the sake of mine. Stoked. Sick, says people, Love, says I. Grant me one wish: let me.
smiled at the sun again @ 10:16 PM,
2 Comments:
-
At July 12, 2007 at 9:28 PM,
jose angeles. said...
-
ahaha you copy from devart. i am the plagiapolice, and i will police you! down plagiarizer! succumb to the plagiabat, the plagiagun, and the face of plagiadeath: LUCILLE!!!
-
At July 13, 2007 at 9:44 PM,
sunkissedsmile said...
-
no duh. pang ilang beses na kaya yan.. haha.