Deathly weary, will is weak
Dreamland fades, I want sleep
Not the kind I find at night
Even there, at least its bright
Hello sunrise, yet so bleak
Blinding ray of gray-black streaks
Greet me cold, backhanded blow
Limbs of ice, mind asnow
Sheets of lead, strangle me
Sing to me, "A pain to be!"
Sing of heights my soul could see,
All the peaks of tragedy.
Yet I rise, and fall again
Over, over, out and in
Up above, down below
Must escape the wake-sorrow
"Set me free, leave me be!"
I fight myself, my memory
my mind, my thoughts, insanity
For the chance of family
Something that means more than this
Daily deathwish, sleep's sweet kiss
Now the bottle, now the pills
1, 2, swallow, bottled thrills
What a joke, I need a crutch
Just to feel my mother's love
I know that she understands
Not the cause of my own hands
Just the twisted hand of fate
Reaching for a man to break
Shame, to know I needed this
But better meds than dark, deep bliss
Wait an hour, maybe two
And everything will feel like new
Now I'm up, now I'm out
Free as a bird, flailing about
Eating, work, writing, pray
Those, my joys of everyday
Hope someday I won't require
Pills to feel those joys transpire
And it will all be for the best
Some dark God-given test
Before the morning victory
Not just half, but all of me
I hope to wake, gratefully
Into life's duality
It isn't real, and yet I still can't escape it.
The weight of my decisions, the payment I have payed a thousand times - in guilt, in regret, and in pain. I've thought about that night so many times, thought about how I could have been a different person then. I could have said nothing, I could have walked away. After all, why didn't I? Was I that bitter? Why would I want to throw half of my life away for the sake of some satifying act of rebellion?
Nevertheless, the gashes I carved into my own soul still bleed, and I can see from the wound's depth that it will never fully heal. Perhaps I can change, perhaps I already have. Regardless, I can't convince anyone except for myself of that. I am destined to strive to be better, but in the people closest to me - even the ones who will be closest to me - I have already failed.
It is a cruel irony; the only person I know who could forgive what I've done in someone else, to be with them in spite of it, is me. I deserve myself, and no one else.
So, in poetry I find love, in meditation I grow closer to God and myself, and in my solitude I think dark and brave things. Such is my privilege, and without its practice I will be lost.
Unfortunately, this is no piece of poetic fiction, but the truth about my life. I like to think of it as a poetic reality - I certainly got what I deserved. I just wish the past wasn't so permanent when we commit evil, and yet so temporary (gone in a flash, it seems) when we do some kindness from our hearts.
Perhaps, one day, I will make peace with my destiny. I know I won't be able to make full use of my solitude until I have. But for the present, giving up my dreams of deep companionship is too hard for me. I suppose that is what is wrong, and not my past - since my past is exactly right, since it cannot be argued with.
A Letter To Someone
You remind me of death in the best way. You reflect the beauty of the cycles of life, all interwoven occilations. Your eyes cloud my mind with images of heaven; your smile fills my heart with startling anticipation. How do you contemplate the world and yourself, both simulatneously, with such fascination? Someday I wish to see things that purely, but today all I can do is gaze at you, gaze at the glimpse honesty I've found in you. What do you live for? Where does your love find belonging? Is that love I see in your soul as beautiful and mysterious as your mind? Perhaps I will never have the answers to these questions, but you will always inspire them within me.
Dear someone, I pray you don't deprive me of your depth. Only your waters could quench my thirst, your imperfect life-force, your flawed soul. Perhaps I am just as flawed without you. Regardless, I wouldn't try to perfect you, my only attempt would be to embrace you. You need not live the life others wish for you, I would wish for your life, and nothing more. I could live happily with you, but that is no distinction - I'm sure we both get along with plenty of people; when I saw you I knew I could die happily with you. That is the distinction.
The darkness is powerful. If there is hope left in darkness, it will be found in its strength. Anything is possible in the dark; that is why it is feared, and that is why it is revered. The dark is neither good nor evil, neither right nor wrong, but everything illuminated is painted with those colors. As long as something is in the darkness, it remains what it truly is - before judgements, before politics, before perception itself paints the object in a false light. Darkness is honesty, at the cost of revealing nothing; it is honesty about honesty itself.
By The Fire
Nothing felt warmer, as we clutched our mugs of chocolate by the fire. A thick fleace blanket embraced our embrace - an inception of intimacy, as the snow likewise held the earth, outside the frosty windows. One could imagine the whole globe locked in a powdery, soft embrace, but that was not what I was imagining now. I wasn't imagining, becuase the sensation of her hair on my cheek, the feeling of her hand in mine, was more love than my imagination could ever find.
I heave myself towards to door, bleeding. The divine parents, I have murdered them with scepticism. Father God. Mother Nature. Everywhere, I see the twisted masks around me, I hear their muffled voices. Honesty? To ask that is to ask the world, nothing of that kind remains here. The only thing close is 'I don't know', and only if the speaker believes it... they never do. As for me, I won't be fooled. My mother took my right eye, my father my left. I'm bleeding from the sockets, stumbling and afraid. I've always known this was my fate, to live in darkness, but honestly afraid.
Let us cease with metaphors, although it limits my honesty. Everything in me pulls me in different directions. All of my instincts, drives, spirits with wills - they force me to act. They provide me the impetus for movement, and the illusion of freedom. After all, if it is I who acts on my desires, aren't I free? No, it is my desires which act, I cannot control them. The only freedom I have is to appeal to higher instincts; beg them to take control; feed them and grow them. I do not possess my desires, they possess me. And yet, all my actions reek of inaction, and I never finish the journeys I begin. Those journeys transform under the weight of my desires, and become self-endulgement. I then either cease, or surrender to myself, and I still wish to resist my own decadence. I will fight, and seek counsel from my deepest self, but nothing hurts more than giving up ease for honesty - it's losing my eyes, and having no one to trust. Now I feel my way through things, and I trust neither my eyes nor my parents, because I know that everything lies.
It drips from every letter - the absence of insight. The projections of the demons, unrecognized pain. The alterior motives, the corruption of art, and the weakening of the soul. We see it everywhere. Pretend to be blind, it is easier! The price of sight is pain. The price we'll pay for the present... the future cannot contain it. The price of sight is pain, the price of insight is suffering. Beauty cannot last without strength, and though we have mastered the former, the latter still remains. We'd rather busy ourselves with the mastery of forms, since mastering ourselves is much less appealing - the former brings beauty, the latter brings strength. The opposite of strength is deception. You may lie beautifully, but your lies will never outlive you. If I rarely speak with beauty, but my words remain, which of us speaks well?
Authenticity and pain are inseperable, and neither can be denied. The denial of simplicity is the path to new wisdom; it is a path often walked alone, away from the droves and herds of the human animal. No one will know you when you leave, but everyone will wait for your return. You will want them at the beginning, but not at the end. The path will be suffering, contradiction, and darkness, but no other paths exist. I'd rather walk that painful path than drink the poison of the lilies, and lie among the grazing masses, on the fields of our green-plastic weakness.
Only complexity exists - but who could face it? Through the falsifying ease of simplificaiton, we blind ourselves to truth. The world cannot be escaped, and we have only fooled ourselves. Nothing humbles like an exploding star. We feel so weak in the face of it, our legs go numb, our hairs stand on end. What have we done? To witness complexity is far too much for some. We could remember ourselves for a moment, realize what we are, grasp the cosmic balance, but this takes strength. We would rather peter out, lost and alone, a speck in a galaxy - a mystery to all. It can be avoided, it can be changed, but who will face complexity, and weave across the sky like stars do, before we all explode?
A Vision of a Memory
I was coming back.
I didn't feel time yet, it all seemed familiar - as if the moment was all there was. Then the soft pressure of the sheets reached me, and my eyes began to adjust. I was coming back.
Back to what? I couldn't remember. The exclamations which swim in my head were, for once, silent and calm. My senses rushed back to me, and I felt the tension again, the subtle tension of modern existence. I would have sighed, but less than a second had passed.
Tick, tick, tick. Went the clock in my head again, and with it came the other sounds: the blood in my ears, the rustle of the sheets... and yet I wasn't moving. Then I saw, and the light pierced my eyes. I cautiously ventured another peek, and fell into a daydream. Like a flood, in this vision of a memory, the lives I haven't lived came to me; the sceneries of destiny unfolded, and I saw the branches of time - dividing out to an endless horizon. A bow was in my hands, and I shot an arrow into the landscape before me. The arrow pierced the tree of time, and sunk deep into the moment I had awoken to. The reality of that moment streamed from the wound, enveloped me, and I was free. I knew in my heart - I could never have missed, not even in the face of eternity, becuase my soul had always been aiming, and so had hers. I opened my eyes, and she was smiling. She was my moment, and I wished then that she would be my every moment forever.
Time to write my first Tanka
I won't write too much
won't let my lines get too long
limit words and sounds and such
I'll be brief and strong