Tampering

it is a force that runs itself through me, a bold pull, a soul-breath, a warm violet in between skin and spirit. I am robbed of you, my love. anchor my heart; laid in deserted need to recapture the forgotten touch of emotions, hidden in a plain abstraction of imagery, I am devoured by the cruel unconscious. this, another predicted torment, of one's own devil; secluded, buried deep in a violent loss of self. my direction is aimless, all that I am, is a speck of fearful hope sprinkled over the devastating ground of reality.

the loud splashing waves, of fragile emotional expressions, are quiet, within a mind that wishes to say nothing.

I miss you, terribly...

... And I'm terrified that maybe the dreamy song is ending.

#7

when I was younger, my father used to sit me down, next to him. I'd watch his mind unraveling. I'd listen to his thoughts, filling the background of my own desiring mind. he told me about loneliness. he told me about good company. about the burden of self knowledge. about courage, with gritting teeth he then spoke of defeat. he told me about corruption manifesting. about a love for country that cried for him everyday. about hope. about needing hope. about a drive for future. he was the man on the moon. he was the firm shoulder. he was my understanding staring back at me. he was the book of no ending. he was. he was.

he was.

father never once mentioned death. perhaps he too knew nothing about it, until he was embraced by it. by then it was too late, it was too late and our loving tune was interrupted.

my love was not strong enough to keep you, Baba. I wish you were here, Baba. living is getting harder each day, Baba. who do I talk to about it now, Baba?

I wish you were near, Baba.

Silent Hour

grieving the infinity of emotions stretching behind a construct; a language

passion and the tragedy of sex, imagine a sharp dialogue running the cliff, cessation of language. infinite feelings are made approachable, each recurrent moment, shadowed feelings are unfolding quietly, are interrupted, then confronted with an empty interpretation; many ruffled words on the surface. words disseminate outside of feelings, to create a composition of space within borders, expressions are determined firmly to limits set. incomplete words define feelings, words stand fatigued in the unveil, uneven unable to contain, to grasp these hungry feelings in. how incomprehensible soul is to the body?

writing, I suppose; is a tenacious practice of individuality, deceptive in it's promises for eternity.