He is living life like a robot. In retrospect, behaving like an automaton. No amount of consciousness on his well-being can revive him. He is too far gone. Damaged internally from addiction, ignorance and his own pride. Even the greatest heroes of our time have their downfalls. The most tragic even, considering how avoidable it could have been. He moved from Tank Man to Othello in the blink of an eye. Just for an addiction that remained to be a speculation from peers. An addiction that gradually took control him, from once a week to once every two days to daily. All the basic facts known are now myth, and attentiveness is too far gone. Once that illness escalates to the state that it is in, no more can be done. Treatments can be provided to aid the permanent damage, but he still will remain damaged. Potential strengths and pride no longer exist. Although it may seem apparent that they do exist, looking closer at his true image will reveal the facts behind this event. He once prospered, but even the greatest empires and reigns have their downfall. For now, he lives life as automaton, thinking like a robot.
We are the goldfish in thought, swimmimg around in little bowels. In circles we flow, in darkness we glow but our lives don’t grow unless the waves that topple us blow through with such force that we no longer show.
We are the broken. We are the little pieces, fragments of ourselves, the shattered glass that cuts deep until we feign well immersed in our spells.
We are the shells holding oceans and gusts within self, waiting to be dragged into fluid states of deplorable health.
But we must prevail, lifting the veil and setting sail on the course of our lives that thrive off refreshing the stale.
…and we will win in the course of our existence upon standing up in insistence, bursting out of our bowels in resistance to brush off the bruises of our persistence.
The crushed glass no longer within our frames, the freedom running through our vein will touch upon our lives, no longer the same.
Far too often, we succumb to the paradox of self inflicted reality. Building walls out of debris. Setting snares of defense mechanism in the wake of past betrayal, misery and heartbreak. Daring those to run a gauntlet and battle memories that haunt us. Desiring love but too afraid to seize it, we seek out warning signs for self sabotage. Justifying reasons as to why we should not try. Chaining down our souls for fear to falling..when we try to fly. True strength doesn’t come from being fearless. It comes from embarassing fear and understanding it’s cunning mastery. Then find the faith inside us to break free of old cycles… believing others the same way we want them to believe in us. Truth is; not everyone will deceive us.
It’s the strength that many seek, yet hard to understand. We continue living our lives, hiding behind a mask that seperates true beauty we have within. We fear..we fear that society will never understand, what we hold deep within. Now is the time to unleash all our powers into the universe. It’s time to start walking on this earth without a mask. Cut the chord to your past and destroy the ego!!! You’ll never know the strength you have until you face your fears. Align your mind, heart and soul. Then watch how the negative things will turn into positive. All these things can be done when we see without seeing…and believe in the powerful unknown.
I’ve seen the vacant stare
The visible symptom of the internal
need to shut off from that which
we don’t want to recognize.
If we see nothing, we know nothing.
We don’t want to acknowledge the
responsibility, the trauma, the truth
Behind the eyes we feel pain
and sorrow and grief and a million
tears that never fall.
We are not dead behind the eyes.
There is strength you’ll never know
In staying alive and awake and
functioning through this need
to refuse all the truth.
We’re only refusing it to you.
If you knew it all, you could
only add to it, a risk not
worth taking. Ever.
And languish takes wings
to sprawl on the floor–
bones knead gristle of rug,
skin leaps into the arms
of that favorable burn–
Breathe, breathe, sweat…
Then make like dead to the ceiling,
make like dead–
the plexus soars,
the soul falls
into the bosom of the earth,
floor by building floor…
Through the chatter,
through the silence,
through piercing frequencies of life,
through the lobby,
into the ground,
deeper and deeper
till there is no sound…
Then race back to breathless
through the matrix yet again–
floor by floor,
this time to the crown
where exhales gather,
laughing softly as they dance
through the ceiling
and floor by floor to the roof,
into the night…
A beautiful piece of nothing
That symphonic nothing,
before everything comes galloping
through the windows again…
Loner, a characteristic of philosophers
Great thinkers, of sublime intelligence
World is a fragment of imagination
Solitude gives birth to dazzling brilliance
Herds are meant for sheep
Tigers hunt alone
Imagination is an art, that needs seclusion
To be honed
Oh such romanticization
Of a reclusive life
Not everyone is a savant
Some are just nyctophiles
In love with the darkness of their hearts
They are called introverts
Not because they can’t talk
Just their feelings are ineffable
A nomadic lover
Who would be in their abandoned castle
Than in the desert of companionship
In the unrequited love instead of shackles
My veins throb while my blood moves along the lines of its’
walls. That’s what tells the world that keeps me alive.
So much so that I breathe and survive.
Let me tell you a secret though.
I live through air that my passion pumps me in.
I breathe the oxygen that poetry breathes out.
Do we really need trees?
As unscientific as this whole scribble may look, I sing to the
birds of my own town, about the grains of words that I eat
Dear birds in the sky,
Do you make a nest out of twigs? Hey! Do you fly?
And you do get suffocated by all the clouds pouring acids of
Still you fail to give up on the majestic sky that recites you
about every universe that exists and more.
So do I.
I know how you feel.
I weave my home out of words too. Just as your nest.
I fly with the wings of my thoughts. Just as high.
Talk about suffocation!
I have been in a room with ample amount of oxygen studying
a subject and yet somehow failed to take a breathe-full in.
Not even slightly, not enough for my lungs to survive.
There is this love that handles all the metabolism in within me.
Passion that feeds my body to an extent that it measures
depths of seas within me.
And heights of the mountains around my imagination.
There is a world beyond this world.
The world I see.
The world that my poetry recites.
The world that I say is “mine”.
The world is my passion speaks to me of.
In which I see things differently.
I breathe differently.
I survive differently.
A body of organs is always weird without a soul of passion.