Threads

loneliness is inescapable. it's roughness persist within, notice your detachment in an alienating prison of unforgettable past. some of us are lost in confusion, to the extent in a belief we deserve that. we attempt letting go. we test the waters, hardly ever do we plunge in. childhood is funny now, we had not the vague concept of things, but that never stopped us. faith showers us with awareness little by little. to pull ourselves back to gravity. how much of you, have you lost the past year? do you still remember, what the ache laid in front of you? touches of poetic reverie to calm the waves a little. little by little we regain trust. never so much devotion. is it selfish, to be engaged in the conviction of bettering oneself, deliberate to grow wherever it led you to go? do not question life, with like-minded people. reality is merely an expression. newborn details emerges from lengthily descriptions: insight into the interior nature. concentrate, you'll discover a new eye-view. float-in the river, to replace the burden to please, with rapid moving toward goals. illuminating conscious with sharpness. be gentle. be gentle with soft strokes. care for you. intimacy is imagination birthed into life. find pleasure-passages enfolding your body. make a home to home love. nurturing dreams for a future, containing the both of you. leave a little room to call change. always. 

Soft Language

The soft language of forgiveness is often imbalanced, unspoken. pride devoted. we water our grieving hearts, wash it gentle with patience, uncovering silent prayers, yearning for sustaining trust in closeness with the Creator. sadness swallows up life's identity, morphing it into a doom, yet sadness interaction is necessary, for emerging self out of dark alleyways. for arousing meaning, passion in the scenery with a fresh window breeze. pain stirs cruelty. aggression. stillness. numbing guilt. & estranged distance. yet when time is adopted, openness, comes together with vulnerability, fragile bonds believe in finding relief again. fear of mortality holds power, driving deranged focus into shallow rivers of short praise and hesitated applause. the reason art suffers. the reason art is a second-guess. the reason art is in deadness. emotions, felt experiences painted over with artists' mirror-impressions. shame. who is to blame? fear of solitude, caged in lonely separation, resisting to read the hurt history, to sprinkle peace along the pages, then close the past chapter all together. reflect: that is your provider for expressing regrets, for inhalation of sins. prayer of comfort. prayer of weeping. prayer of collapsing. prayer of begging. prayer of scratched backbone. prayer of prayer of prayer. prayer of in need of more prayers. prayer of forgiving the softness. prayer of soul. prayer of soul. 

Scribble pt.2

The torment in longing for an end; of a bruised quest for elusive ever-slipping meanings. The shaky uncertainties of the self, serving its feast of promising doubts, to the common-comic silliness that is the fellow beings.

Those withdrawing from a large reality, to dwell in a peak of loneliness, spreading over, their loose imagination, immersed in a cold penetrating ache, outpouring peculiar words after another. Grabbing the hard questions by the throat, hazy questions; indistinguishable from the thoughts that birthed them.

There is growth to endure, the impact is endless and interwinding, the truth is iced in alienation, forgotten.

The sounds you hear, splashing with the waves of unconscious, will string you along a path of reflections, will you trust yourself to suck the fruits of their efforts?

(Her) Habits

You, half ruined, with a flickering courage, unwrapped those 3AM thoughts, and tried to kiss her stone-dry wounds. Even rubbed a little, spilling secrets, with your own pain translation, drawn into them.

Who. Do. You. Think. You. Are?

To wander-lost into her galaxies, carrying burned promises and a hope for her to plunge to.

You are nothing but a force-fed lie.

You are shame-full.

Peeling her gentle dreams, only to desert her at the bottom. She poured an ocean for you, filling the cracks, her words failed to. She held the stars out for you, swimming the darkness, enlightening a trace for you. Just for you. A heart that cast a sunrise, reflecting warm joy for you.

Your insecurities collapsed on top of her, plucked her out of a roof, emptied on the inside, she swallowed more of your demons in.

Look at her. Look at what's left of her. Once a naked desire, entrapped her, and now it is destroying her. Behind closed doors, she is piercing needles into her honey heart, stained with your aftertase, she stitched her stories, anchored heavy, knocked falling, sunk into a shoreless sea, with a thread to live; so thin, tangled and incomplete.

The Rain

It hails with a simple forgiveness over your life story; andwhy it no longer matters how out of place you feel at times 

It kisses the earth with a soft longing, covering it with buried jewels, precious ones; that riff to the sound of an out-of-tune guitar with every drop that hits the ground

It does not look for a place to land, but free falls, immersing you into passages with the scent of old books, right from where you stand 

It’s the unfinished mystery that keeps growing over years, that reoccurring thought and feeling, you can never really capture to break down, let alone understand 

It’s the pregnant conversation you’ll never have, where you run out of things to say, for your heart to finally give in and look itself in the eye

It’s the touch and tap to gently penetrate deep into the underground, arching to muddy sounds of: ‘I’m here, I’m here, it’s alright’ 

It’s the thrill that struck the inside of your lungs; when the caged roars of thunderstorms, plot their walkout to smoulder the night skies 

It’s the clouds of creamed mountains that stretch wide the sky, steering colours from thousands of miles away, through hidden secret paths with the wind making a pretty sound 

It’s that part of you that’s long forgotten in the past, the innocence you left behind and now you wonder why 

It’s the spark of an endless desire that lead silence hand in hand, to ignite tanks of connection between lost lovers that are still waiting for the right time 

It’s the moment that resonate with an abundance of blessings that saw open the fragility of life, to sit me down on this table with a hugging plea, to end my brittle rhymes and reboot back to line

Strings

There had been moments, in the past, where I delicately tossed myself to the strings of escape, long enough, just about enough, for it to be slashed with a husk reality. To love was to roam an open road, fantasy was freedom, fantasy; so good, its never ever good enough, leaving a heart, thirsty after every run.

He would grab my hand, like he had a claim to it. Him, who smuggled me into an image, an idea of a woman, lodged so deep into his mind. Him, who lost tracks to the outlines of his life. Him, the identity scar, at twenty years young, when writers of my favorite books, were warning me about love, thats where I recognized, they were only painting pictures of him, in between red flags.

He couldn't weigh his shoulders heavy, he belongs to the curious crowd, those are not to be trusted, they tire easily, they are silver-shiver; their bones tremble as they hold you, afraid you might break them, they keep guard, they wear a lot of black and they chase after stories, only to leave unfinished chapters on their trail. The ugly truth only comes, too little too soon. They can never be done with you, because they never really started. They come back.

They always come back, to spill fresh blood over tired phrases to yet another start.

Scribble

The moist nighttime hours, the cloudiest, the muddiest, after my mind is done chasing you. Wither-pale thoughts of you, a blur in the weak morning with impossible questions that are larger, harder than to swallow. Nostalgia touch of blues, irrupting apologies that never caught the path they were meant to go through. Buried deep in a world I don't belong to. Tainted stains of yesterdays; pulsating hidden words and the mess they made. You split me with strokes of a tongue, a genius that fills me. Your gentlness that ran the long distance, exposing my hunches in the waiting. The faintest of ideas eludes me, I shovel all till all blows away, grasping nothing but empty pain. Is it the story or the ending, that I find my salvation in?

I never learn.