I live life as someone who just want to get it done. No pleasure but seeking pain. What are the other options? I should've done everything thrice. Only it's all in my head. Maybe see it from your eyes next? Will I be prettier, more apt? There, I've found the thing I've been searching for. I am & I'm not & that's all. It's good to be drunk.
Category: poem
A chicken kinda love.
The only kind I deserve. The only softness I accept. I killed a chick once by ignorance & neglect. I cried till daybreak holding its limp body thinking it's the end of the world. I'm a chicken mom now with minimal responsibility. Just the kind I like while they still remember me. But I know they would peck me to death if they sense I'm a threat. That's what I like about my chicken friends.
Forget you.
I don't want to know your name. I don't want you to come inside. I don't want to see you twice unless there's business to be done. I don't want to meet your friends, or know your ideals, your dreams you better keep with your change. I don't care when it becomes personal. Because I hate crying. It's true. I remember doing it every night with every little story. Now I know it's all a trick. So I skip the parts that I know that will see me hurt. So, believe me when I say, I hate crying for you. It's not fair, man. I have to cry to forget. (RIP, Golden Girl.)
Personal makeup.
I pull up the panty of shame, splash water of "Here we go again." No bra, no robe the weather is nice for another day of personal makeup. There's the silver ring of love. Don't forget the earring of hate. Oh, an Evil Eye for protection. Don't mind the navel ring of invitation. What should I add to the collection? Maybe an X that marked the spot of some dude that died for naught who wore a rad personal makeup? Need more thing to remind I exist in a world that's totally different than what you might have suspected. Welcome to my personal makeup.
Tea party.
I entertain my demons in private parties. They show up for tea & stay for the feast. I wonder if ever there's a time they do not exist. But I guess at some point I needed them to live. They pick the bones, sing little songs & merry all around. I wonder if I should ask them to stay until dawn. They jeer & snicker & point out all my facade. Then I'm alone again wondering what I did wrong.
The Screaming Mountain.
I'm tired & I can't go on. The screaming mountain is looming over my lowered head. Every time I look behind me I take a step towards it. It knows me like a prison inmate. I wish I could've taken my chances. I wish I could turn back and fly blindly towards the other horizon where my better half lies, waiting. What a stupid bitch! Instead I head towards the mountain. It echos my screams. It knows I'm coming.
Infantile.
I'm so infantile. I don't know right from wrong, can't tell need from want, but it's great for a song, cost you more for a dance. "Oh, ain't that cute?" While I make a big poo-poo. Boys will always be boys. Girls are women from age 5. Maybe I'm in denial, guess I still give a fork to think there's more to learn beyond the ground of kindergarten. Where's my mommy and daddy!
3 poems.
1.
The artist's responsibility is following life wherever it may lead. And to create life outta that humanity without judging anything.
2.
Never had a morning like this before, sunbeams gently warm, illuminating the sanctity of this polarizing world then lick, sweeten & heal the wound. Birds belting out the sweet perfume. They know nothing but the truth of earth. Give me a moment to reap the reward. It's moment like this I was waiting for.
3.
Sometimes, it's better not to pluck a chord and let the silence do the work...
Colors.
I used to let outside colors mingle with mine results in something I can't quite describe. It's a blending of the world inside that from outside may seem mad. I could walk in air, live on a patch of dirt and be content. The peace shattered, it wasn't meant to last. As if I need to prove that I'm worthy of that kinda love. And if I know it, remember it, and want it enough. What's easy has become so hard. The real test is coming back to the start.
Piano.
I dreamt I could play the piano. Melodies, symphonies pouring outta me. Then I woke up to be dumb & forgetful. A sufferer of bouts of poetry. Maybe something still won't flow. All stops & starts inside my head. Wishing for the confidence to be whole. Not quite sure if it will be safe & sane. I wish I could play the piano. And sing for the heart-aching souls. Can't help but reject the sentimental. "It's not original, all played out & sold." What good is a piano made outta wood. Taunt strings ready to strike sounds hollow. Still I play the piano with scores old. Something about them helplessly beautiful. It's to be played when truly alone. Someone overhears, it dies & be reborn. When the keys pressed it's the ultimate quiet. Under the cover hides thunders & hurricanes. All the players grudgingly dwelled then left. Maybe next life I will have the steady hands.
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