Category: Uncategorized

The Bleeding Guitar 

Talk to me about exploring new beginnings

And old mixtapes on your dusty bookshelf 

Planting new seeds of love in the backyard 

And getting old together on our front porch 
Turn up the volume when the radio is on 

Playing tunes of yesterday, today and tomorrow

New instruments and new sounds 

Walking hand in hand in the times of blues 
Jump into the psychedelic rock pools of red blood 

dancing on your guitar strings.

And hunt for the kerosene fire lyrics swathed in electric purple with your butterfly strokes 

Rip open the bonfire blue heartache storming with hymns of your scandalous love affairs 

And feel the livid groove tapping on your silver steel heartbeats writing you into another cold melody 

Dead leaves and fresh morning newspapers 

All applaud to birds singing in the air 

No new fairytales or juicy daydreams 

Only sky blue horizon melting with pink jealousy
Lose yourself to my rhythm in your bones 

Jumping up to touch the sky without falling down 

Handcrafted by kaleidoscope fireworks

And choreographed by purple rain guitar solo 

Advertisements

The Scent of a Lost Memory 

I think of you in an effortless fashion

Like I’m supposed to, like I am meant to 

In the thrumming heat of golden summertime 

In the lambent haze of late night winter hours 
I find you in the unswept hallways of my mind 

Knitting untidy letters into elegant words 

And voiceless heartbeats into mellifluous rhymes

As if you are the poet and I’m your masterpiece
You sure love listening to our memories on vinyl

In the lavish landscape of library room 

The high quality sound of the time once spent 

Now it ages gracefully like a wine in the bottle 
I think of you as a message I left unwritten

I think of you as a feeling I lost in the storm 

I think of you as a language I couldn’t understand 

I think of you as a mirage I almost unraveled 
I’d like to inform you that your scent gives you away

Amalgamation of daffodils kissing jasmine flowers

You roam through my senses and my glamourous ache

Like you own these places and you do actually 
You know you cause a lot of accidents in my heart 

A seductive technique to draw my attention? 

Too many casualties left in the name of romance

If vengeance is your style, then lady, I’m your fan.

Everything you can imagine is Real. 

I wish they didn’t have a word for loneliness. So that kid who had no friends didn’t have to be embarrassed about it, so that the girl who liked to keep to herself wouldn’t have been called lonely and made believe that no-one wanted to talk her, so that boy who feels left out wouldn’t have had to feel that way. Imagine if loneliness was never a thing, keeping to yourself wouldn’t have been that terrible, no-one would have known that loneliness could be imposed on others, no-one would’ve gotten the idea to make one feel ashamed of not being so social, and no-one would’ve to frown upon themselves because they didn’t fit in or because they didn’t belong here. No-one would’ve to worry about losing friends and ending up alone, a whole lot of people could’ve actually shown who they really are instead of being a mirror image of someone else because everyone and every single type of personality or mindset would’ve been excepted. There’s so much to say, I could go on and on. So many terrible things end up making a person feel so lonely in today’s age. Imagine if all that was gone, just imagine. 

Turning the Page 

Never have I ever been more afraid of myself, then when there was absolutely nothing to be afraid of. I find myself waiting…waiting in a line that has no people in it, and still I’m unable to move forward; caught in between a magnetic-tension of youth and adulthood.

The balance that I seek for my mind is completely all over the map. I have been trying to make goals for myself, trying to make some kind of path that I follow without looking around for any signs of direction or mileage on how much farther I need to go. 

The landscape that I have been trying to escape from never leave my mind. The dead, pale grass that covers the hills. There was nothing for me here, and there never was. It takes every bit of strength that I need to hold on and to never forget where I’m going. My sentence is almost finished. And on that day I’ll walk outside and look at my reflection in windows of cars passing me by. I’ll smile as I walk down the street to a local place, drink my coffee with a refreshed mind as I sit and wait for my breakfast.

Life will have a new meaning. And it is a page that I have been waiting to turn for way too long. 

Wishful 

I employed silence as my shield and barrier; with silent and brick I built my house. I’ve come to realise that silence is only useful when another takes notice of how quiet you are on matters of your heart, of trust, on your mysterious past and murky dreams. 

I want another to note my draining silence and I want my silence to fall still, because I wish for nothing more, than a sound to escape my nightmares and for a hand to hold me firm. 

I wonder if my silence betrays my buried desires; the way a mirror can show you how it was an illusion all along, the way smoke can be read like tarot cards, to tell you of the extent of danger lying in wait in the burning house. 

I wonder if my silence acts like rays for seeds, the seeds being my desires- desires to grow my arms like stems and fold them like galvanized metal over the sheen of your neck. 

I wonder if my silence can mature into my friend, into a companion who can want the best for me- it will be quite the turn, for an ideal life for me is where my silence takes a long road far, far away from his home in me; to a place dosed with rustic skies where he meets his father, the greatest silence I’ve even known. 

I wonder if my silence knows of the twisted protection it offers me; to keep me from all that hurts is admirable, but to keep me from all that I love and could love me in return is as diabolical as water clumping soft sands to mounds of sticky mush. 

I wonder if my silence betrays my hidden desires; 

I wish it did, oh, how I wish- upon nights riveted with a spine of stars, 

I wish. 

Talk Less

I am unspoken, my actions are stuck on the tip of my words.

Like sperm on a whore’s cavity and you wouldn’t dare understand me if I shouted my intentions in your ear. And, you would never comply with my version of answers written on your forehead. 

When I leave this desolate ground, every stone will be exploited, all this grass will rise and you, my nigga will not be with me, nor waiting for me.

You will make your bed behind my shadow so that you can’t even find heaven in your darkness. At the end of my journey, 

I’ll force you to face your reflection, stare at your forehead and read off my tall true tales of dilemma and prolonged silence. 

One day I will be heard, 

My unspoken will be outdone and you will understand me, even if my words are quieter than mute. 

Nothing Remains

It’s getting fall. Days are getting shorter. Nights longer. It is getting darker, colder. The grey returns, is coming back, driving out the colors. 

A moment ago, the clouds were violet, the light of dawn was red and golden, but now, the clouds turned grey, the light isn’t even shimmering in old rose. When I recognised it, I thought…I know what is missing, but never spoke it, why, for what reason. Nothing would have changed, you can’t change the way things go. 

Instead I watched the leaves, their change from green to red  and gold, the roses, blooming one last time. Their bloom, splendid white with pink dots, they will cease, their leaves will fall to ground and mix up with red and gold. They will lay down to change their color one last time, together, to brown, the last color this morning holds along it’s deary gery.

They will decay and cover the ground, they will be washed away by the rain. Maybe they will remain, until winter breeze wraps everything in it’s crystal clear coldness. It will shiels Fall’s remains from my eyes, and in Spring, when everything molt, when crocuse crane their heads for the sun, birds begin to build their nests and cherry trees will carry their first buds, there will be nothing left to see. Nothing will remind you of last Fall, except the memory itself. 

And even that memory, it will live its own Fall, from rich and vivid green under violet clouds to red and golden under grey. It will decay and fade and the breeze of  time will cover the memory, shield it from my view as it ceases. And once it is gone, I will not even remember why people say “nothing remaims”.