Lemon Drops

A black bird on a bare branch,bleak sky
half finished bottle of beer and a tall tumbler
of lemon ice tea is all that's left for me

Waking up to a world world without you,
feels like swallowing the smell
of liquid bleach,drowning in it.

There's no better way to describe this
and it really sucks to keep tugging at
 your presence only left in dreams.

One dimensional thoughts and origami hours,
Shadows of when you used to call for me
with soft taffeta sounds,scratching the door

I always liked abandoned houses,and empty tables,
away from crowds,old and forgotten,
and clear orange sunsets,it's all I find solace in.

The pink sun leaves me too,
a eulogy of country music for him-
our silence sits like poetry between old journal pages.

A dry flower lies pressed in a paper napkin
on my lap,a gift from a stranger,
but my lips can longer find thanks or prayers.

A black bird on a bare branch,bleak sky,
Half finished bottle of beer and a tall tumbler
of lemon ice,and a dry flower,I have plenty.

Rhetoric nights

"Why do these things happen if at all there's a god,a higher power?" I ask my father.
Some things just don't have answers,he tells me.My hurting heart is not satisfied.It's not enough of an answer,it'll never be.
Why does society make mockingbirds out of the innocent? Why do harmless little pets die suddenly? Why do some little kids grow up to be the bullies you find hard not to recognize as beast like?

Maybe there really are no answers,maybe life is a constant existential crisis.

But I fight my heart to believe there are answers within these questions,themselves.I'm no optimist,but I live because I see questions as symbols of hope.Hope is real,rhetoric and relevant as it gets.
It's like we're living the rhetoric.
A new day is the rhetoric we know to exist in every stormy night.
Children are the rhetoric form of the questioning fear of oblivion.
Grief is the rhetoric to heartrending loss.
Late night conversations,the rhetoric to loneliness that these pillow talks revolve around.
Love is the rhetoric to existence,itself.Because the universe doesn't care about us,
we have always been infinitesimal.We care about one another,we are all we have in this world.

HBD Taylor Swift

 

So,I'm a Swiftie for life.

But that does not mean I don't also like Lana Del Ray.
  Here's a song of hers that's beautiful.

It's been one of those hazy weather days where you can't see anything clearly and your mind feels foggy.Great,I've always sucked at small talk.So,um..yeah,it's really weird how I have all this latent energy inside me in the form of repressed feelings waiting to explode,like a rain cloud too full of vapour or an ice cube that's absorbed too much heat and they need to let go,to evaporate,to melt.Just that,in my case,there is no outlet...no melting point.There's no state of being.There's only sublimation that makes it seem sweet to implode instead of express.

Everyone asks me why I'm so quiet and I shrug and think to myself,maybe I don't want to be.Truth is,I'm lost and I don't have words I can find that can justify this void.

It's weird how sometimes I feel more at home in other people's houses.I make my mind a makeshift home of sorts because it's hard for me to find a home where I belong in the physical sense of the word.
It's like other people's parents know more about me than mine do.They get me better.They take me out for dinner,they offer me ketchup in bowls,they read my blog,they tell me I write well and they hug me.How much I wish these people I refer to were what my parents would be a little like.
It's not how it's supposed to be,I guess,but, oh well.

I get the whole idea of appreciating what you've got but those who preach this do not live with my parents. I get that it's always a two way transaction.
But it isn't a transaction,see? See what they've made of me.
When I was younger,it din't matter so much.I never let it get to me bad enough...the older I get,however,the little things get to me more.I've tried showing my parents that I love them and I care,I've tried asking them,outright but none of it seems to work out well.It's not that we don't love each other,it's just tough love.And it hurts.
I understand that people have their own ways of expressing affection,and showing that they care,but sometimes,just sometimes it hurts not to have physical evidence of it.

I'm not asking for too much,all I ask for is a "How was your day,darling?" or a "Are you alright?"
,a hug to know I'm safe,or to feel welcome,or a hug goodbye,a kiss on my forehead,maybe even a simple "goodnight" or a "goodbye",a homemade cake or a handwritten letter on my birthday.Any form of a gift any day.A simple "thank you for doing this".
Maybe I am.

It's all these little things,you know,that make me feel loved.
I've tried and I've failed and I can't stop wanting to feel a sense of belonging,for, everywhere I go,I feel lost.A feeling that I'll never belong anywhere completely.
It hurts to know that those who are supposed to love you the most find it hardly worthy to let you know,because they're too busy to see you need it.If those who made me can't find that kind of unconditional love for me,how would someone else, possibly?

Everyone asks me why I'm so quiet,well,it's because if I wouldn't be my malignant heart would make me someone I'm afraid to be.

Tumbleweed

Sunsets make me sad
and remind me of my emptiness in crowded buses
filled with men I'll never see again.

Sunsets also make me happy
because in this world so full meaning,there are a few things
that do not need to be understood to be loved.

Sunsets remind me of trying to count time,
like looking at the huge clock with roman numerals
 instead of regular numbers,in somebody else's living room.

Sunsets make me nostalgic,
of all the nights spent staring at glow in the dark galaxies
stuck to the ceiling like lying awake in a dream.

Sunsets set me free,to hope that
 one day I turn into tumbleweed,wandering without purpose,
or a dandelion,disintegrating,dancing with the wind.

Wanderdust

 Song:Dark Doo Wop

Faces beneath black gas masks,

Wilting flowers in place of hearts

Bodies that are bowstrings,

Arrows that are actions

There is no way to win

With ourselves,to win ourselves

Our own compassion

There is no forgiveness in the cities

Painted the colour of ash

Burning landscapes of the mind,

The smell of blood,a rainfall of feathers
 on heaps of bones,then,

the sky stares back,unblinking,as soft as snow

There is no light,only glimpses of darkness,

Mellow and empty

A skeleton weed of a tragedy

There is no mirage in this desert

It runs as dry as the fight inside us

Be

Our friends, they have it all figured out,

they say they know exactly where they'll go.

futures mapped out,plans marked out like frontier boundaries.

We try to compete,but manufacturing defects leave cracks in us

that refuse to be fixed and we can't win with ourselves,we can't win life,

we can only be.

Maybe they'll laugh if we try to say

'Happy' seems good enough a purpose of living to us.

We struggle with thoughts and words we can't explain,

and give life to them,anyway,

 it's  the only way we  know to see each new sun,

and fall in love with it.

So,we'll settle down with our dusty daydreams,

Hoping,one day,we'll be somebody,

While we're the ones just getting by now,

We'll be free from having to win at all,

Wasting our time,not trading our peace,

Dancing to our heartbeat.

Sad kinda happy

                                                            

Looking at old photographs on the bathroom floor,the winter biting my ankle,cold to my bone.
The photographs form inverted images on my eyes that whirl to a psychedelic effect and the light falling on my eyes is not the same anymore.
It's us walking down a street,holding hands,fairy lights strung on the sides long after festivities have died..it's dark and pretty.So surreal,so empty.We sat in a cozy cafe where service was slow and time was never tired of being timeless,we din't want to go home that night..it was frozen warmth,a guarantee growing up never assured us of.
The air has a nip of November now,as we weave through potted plants on the pavement..winter is sunsets before you anticipate them,winter is time growing old,winter is letting go of the warmth of summer's palm.Maybe that's why I was never too keen about this season in the first place.Only the memory of summer gets me moving.
We blew bubbles out the sides of the auto,the wind blew them back at out faces.Teenage troubles din't matter on days like this,they din't even exist.It din't matter how screwed up it was to see a a beggar tapping on a Rolls Royce window in front of me..that same afternoon.
Sort of like when you sit on a terrace tank and look down on a world of miniatures and you could sit there all day watching clouds and airplanes and advertisement hoardings in the distance,and zone out because tomorrow wouldn't exist if you sat there long enough.
The gasoline rainbow sheen of the bubble popping on my face takes me to yet another place,
A baby pink bath tub,my four year old feet wouldn't reach the end and I wish I wouldn't be so small,
Now I can only sit in it with my feet huddled up beneath my chin,
it's sort of terrible how children are unaware that growing up doesn't always entail certainty,
but only more doubt.