Free.

Originally posted on ~Wise Night Owl's~:

Free.

Is a word. Understated. A word so sprawled across, it defies its very definitions. Winged with defiance it invites us, to realms we perceived to be off-limits.

Free. Like one of its many symbols, is a bird, overtaking the skies with its magnanimity and its shadow is equipped with solidarity, a mere dark heraldic shape, of hope.

But free. Freedom. Isn’t pure. It bathes in the waters of those who have inflicted without cause and reasoning, and those, especially those, who have inflicted. It’s a pain that knows no good, no evil –  Its affliction blinds it of discernment. And in its moment of existence, all it identifies with is fire. Molten in veins, charred skin, and salt rubbed in wounds kind of fire.

Free. Is a release. A contamination which brews a preference to rather be  burned than sustain off the poisonous swamp its planted in. It’s an…

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No

 I don’t want to write 

 I don’t want to look at my emotions 

 In the form of familiar runes 

 Crammed into definitions too narrow 

 

 I don’t want to write and look 

 At the mess in my head 

 I don’t want to write 

 Because I keep forgetting how to 

 

 There is no formula to it

 Or is there and I possibly 

 Practice plausible deniability

 For the sake of not jinxing it

 

 I want to write 

 Yet my will withers at the thought

 What more could I express 

 That I haven’t already 

 

 What therapy and healing 

 Could it offer

 That I would accept 

 Without skepticism 

 

 I don’t want to write 

 Because it takes too much from me

 And it still is never enough 

 Never entirely satisfied 

 

 Like storms that exhaust their reserves

 But never quite end

 A bolt continuing to strike the same spot 

 Long after it has turned to ash 

 

 No I don’t want to write 

 I gave it my all 

 When I had nothing left 

 To feed off

 

 No 

 I don’t want to write 

 Because I’m no longer in control

 Of turning it off

 

No, I don’t want to write 

It’s too deeply etched 

An extension of me 

Now a separate entity on its own 

 

No I don’t want to write 

It has grown having set its roots in me 

I can’t stop without cutting it off

Without cutting myself free

Construct

I want to explore vulnerability
Be vulnerable emotionally
Without feeling like a bank
About to be robbed

They say there’s strength in being open
And how it’s a requirement
For humanly bonds to form and strengthen
But I fear that’s a generalization
Forced upon most like me

What if some connections did connect
Under such instructions and others didn’t
I’m afraid I see emotional vulnerability
As more of a crippling factor
Than a building one

I’ve treaded on these waters
Times only but a few and I’ve tested
The limitations and expirations
I say I want to be limitless and not restrict myself
But what if this trust and exploration 
With how one articulates their emotions
Leads to the collapse 
Of all I’ve managed to construct
Without crippling myself 

Access

Lost and disconnected from ourselves
Watching moving pictures
Sympathizing with plots fictional
But not quite feeling it
The audios loop and tamper
With the otherwise steady flow in my wires
Sounds like external disturbance and I label it so
But it’s not
I seek these inputs
As a distraction for my system 
To sift through files better left unaccessed 
The world and all its games 
Have my energy running out
I’m sick of this recurring theme
To be caught in its loops
And lose all will and motivation
This battle has lasted too long
A war fought with all lost to ashes
And I shift between worlds
My words change with them
There’s a coping system that systematically
Brands all and comes up with logical explanations
Then there’s the other side
The more human part of me
I’m losing access to it
I function well in tune with the basics of survival
Sleep
Wake up
Cook
Engage
Sleep
Repeat
Clockwork and inhuman
I’m becoming
The human in me
Fades into the abyss of space
A mere memory
Fried from its hardware
I function
But I don’t
Compute 

Remember me

Remember me like ruins
That hide what’s beneath
My works may not have been worthy of archives
My art not valuable enough for galleries
My vocal cords not mellow enough for an audience
But you will feel me
Riding away with the wind
Humming to a tandem of tunes
See me
Nothing more than a tragicomic doodle
In an alley you haven’t tread on in years
And you will remember me
I live in the crevices of the ordinary
Living off the marrow of trees trancing
To an unfaithful breeze brushing past your mundane life
See me
Hear me
Feel me
Fear me
I’m the life you lost
The craft you lusted for
Now just a could have
A should have
That you didn’t live
Remember me
Like the repentance
You carry in your pores
I’m the wind you should have felt
The tune you didn’t sing
And the art
You were too afraid to become 

Adrift

When they think of me

May it be with intention or subtlety

Remind one of desolate places

And peeling walls

With paints of vivid colours splayed across

May the words be connotations of buckets with stale water

And brushes that reek of alcohol and turpentine

If by any chance you chance upon a sheet or two

Drifting through windowless halls

Sheaves of scribbles

Torn and probably incomplete

Remember me

Recall me in that moment

And only for a moment

For a moment in desolation

Lasts longer than an eternity

Lull

Let’s put the kettle on 
A book, a sheet, and a song
Let the wrists find their ways
Around twists, yawns 
And hypnotic sways 
The wind, the shore 
Fill the remaining silence 
We trance to our unusual 
Carefree alliance 
Discordant and lost 
We hum the chorus 
Not attractions
But the moment 
Is allowed to seduce us

Haven’t

I have breathed
But I have not lived
I have moved 
Yet I have not lived 
I turned through decades 
Sliding down slides 
Gliding down corridors 
Bold verses brought with them
Yet I have not lived
I have been mugged into alleyways 
Darkness and dark thoughts created 
I have been stripped bare of experiences 
I wasn’t allowed to have 
Opportunities found the lane
To my home too narrow 
The gates too rusted to be graced
Yes I have not lived
I have waited 
Years of my life have gone up in smoke
I have waited and lost all threads 
To hold on to with a looking forward 
I have scribbled on walls
Of my fate and self induced imprisonment 
And I have not lived
I have grown from hiding in wardrobes 
To not fit under the bed with my demons
And I have not lived
Had I maintained journals ardently 
I’d have vague sketches of the constancy 
Of these lunar phases at my disposal to refer to
But I have not lived
Not enough and not fairly 
Never in a way I’d term satisfying 
I have not lived and that’s how I lie to myself 
I lie and say I haven’t lived 
Or have I 
Have I been storing memories away
Not labeled as proper expected experiences 
The unexpectedly abnormal 
I forget 
I’m ashamed I forget
That these too are experiences
If not normal and conforming 
Neither conventional nor convenient 
But they are mine
Mine to call to recall to relive as I please 
But I don’t 
I put them to sleep 
And tend to them when they wake up 
From nightmares 
Yet I say 
I haven’t lived 
I haven’t lived as others did
I haven’t grown as others did
I haven’t had smoother paths with silken shoes
I haven’t had guiding lights without prices to pay
I haven’t scorched myself without stories to tell
I haven’t 
I haven’t had normal as all define it
I haven’t lived 
I haven’t lived
As all did
Yes
Yes
I haven’t lived 
No 
I haven’t lived

Just that

Pain begets poetry. 
Pain begets art. 
A fact so often glamorized 
And glorified 
But past the layers of reassuring illusions 
It’s just that. 
The sickest of truths.
For what gives pleasure 
To one’s senses 
Probably came into existence 
After slit veins
Charred throats
And all sorts of metaphoric 
And literal 
Forms of pain 
Wove their way into an artist’s life.
Such is the sick
Twisted beauty of creating art. 
One must burn
So another in another time
Doesn’t. 
Having found solace 
In relatibility.

Part of her

I’m like her
You’re like her
You look… Like her
They say 
They coo 
Am I 
Am I
I stretch my face
Tug it this way and that
Where’s the resemblance 
I can’t see it
But it’s there
Genetics of course
Bipolar
Schizo 
Shhhhhh
Not so loud
They’ll hear you
They don’t know
They don’t know
Her truth
Your truth
My… My truth 
Schizo
Question mark
All they see
Are physical reflections
Features passed down
A generation but
Is that all I got
From her
Or is there more
Silently brewing 
In my veins 
Waiting to manifest 
Its ugliness
My mind is crippling 
Seeing her deteriorate
I burn in the shadows 
Her suffering casts
To have been subjected to
Neglect and indifference 
Was better I suppose 
Because how
Will I continue
If my DNA shows
Its dark side 
How will I cope 
After having seen 
The prolonged storms
All these years 
I am after all
A part of her
She was my world 
Till my world crumbled
Into a pile of schizo
I was a part of her
I am… A part of her
And I am afraid 
Have been suppressing this fear 
For years past
That I am afraid 
To discover 
Which parts of her
Consist of the part
I am of her
Strip me of my identity 
Take away the years 
Even from the beginning 
I’ve only been 
A part 
Of hers