Monday, April 30, 2012
Oiled-up coyness lures her prey
Weakest and wanton — who's to say?
Her crimson crime glitters with rubies
slimy enough to thwart all empires
Dust griming her vault: youthful,
lustful, ashen with flavorsome gray
Marvel and marvel they — until
deserts dry, outlaws cry; she stands
Never wavers, not a grain of grief
A slap writ across her face with
every jeer, every mockery, and
her stoic revelry now a shadow
Let the worms wed her virginity
Her grave honors her lost beauty
for eternity sits betwixt her chariot
love's forsaken oath
Monday, April 30, 2012, 5:37 – 7:51 PM
An unpolished allusion to Andrew Marvell's poem "To His Coy Mistress".
Poetry prompt day 30: fade away.
How many times have I
pressed my lips upon yours
extracting soupy insouciance?
Your odorless wile, porous,
pouring into my chorus
like literary sabotage avenging
the dead nerves in my brain
Dirty trickery penalizing
frustration, flickering devils,
killing me, a mission dissolute
Ravishing ferocity glances
at jealousy and my allegory,
the rogue now a brute
smearing thin layers of lust
onto her loaves of bread
Blue ice, violet ice, my lies
piercing my reliclike eyes
Their constancy missing you
mortally, sourly, plenty
I am your tangible guilt
The virus you have been
meaning to swallow
Monday, April 30, 2012, 2:45 PM – 5:30 PM
at the end of their story
the daisy lost her petals but one
from her last, reeked dews like glory,
thick and blind, summoning the sun
she dreamt to wilt
to sever her stem in two
but her host held on too strong
coddling her with songs and solstice
for she was the only daisy, one and lonely
the bug departed like all others did
exited her sphere, where madness
was currency: it stung like gold
still, she wept for him, her one and only
jolting — is it not? to find the one
only to speak his name in someone else's
Thursday, April 19, 2012, 12:40 AM –
Monday, April 30, 2012, 1:19 PM
Daisy (edited using Picnik)
Before he sleeps and much after
: a stunt of childish things
With snowy egret, hoary as a myth,
the two divinely hone obsessive shrills
Her hands beautiful because they are his
Cupping his cheeks in absolute love,
holding him close to her impish heart
Crises ascend; no confidant
Their spiritual mill encompassing
taboo masses, pre-empting, pasting
paragraphs of their bohemian escapism
Tiers of illusionary artists eddying
those charts she treasured long ago
Pronely seeping into her cordial earth
the day she stops the smile —
all the while becoming saturnine
Monday, April 30, 2012, 11:48 AM – 12:46 PM
Poetry prompt day 29: line from an earlier poem.
The poem I quoted is "Fragmental Versification".
Cardinal by Charley Harper
Pornographic lace prompted
purposeless on repeat
Its psychopathic roar an illustration
of poetic praises proclaiming
definition of self: I am your daydream
Carnival of saddest synonyms
groaning maladjusted hypocrisy
Owls hooting its sacred ingenuity
Buried, down deep, a secret
like any other's — flashes
of your seafaring eminence, a scar
boasting our telepathic exchange
No one needs to know —
Tales forever untold: The world
hears none of us, not our selfish
storms nor syncretic scorn
Spoilage printing mutiny as
my wayward heart shaming you
crowing behind its ill luck
Monday, April 30, 2012, 7:58 – 8:41 AM
Poetry prompt day 27: the trouble is ________.
Moth wings by Mattias Klum
At its darkest — the sky screeches
Indefinable air bleached in threat
The breath of seething potency
consorting with ancient treachery
Birds of sunset: They are named
Heralding misfortune and harm
to those whose curiosity towers
Retribution to deposit midnight
renewal, airing its remorseless
sound: one life for one sin
Nothing shall hatch sufficient
clues but the revolt of virtues
Supernatural reflection captures
these humans' past, secreting
their literal monstrosity
Frames unseen but to sinners
Some with scraggly legs,
some red with Hell's fire
All hang with batlike wings
Aiming for what is wrong
Saturday, April 21, 2012, 3:10 PM –
Monday, April 30, 2012, 8:19 AM
Sunday, April 29, 2012
I have no time for Vainglory
A bad ending to April; its ruthless quietness
My bait: lost — my hand: drowned
To wrong the typography of willful instigation
convulsing to create more and more
Lured and troubled, but diversion
will always lead me somewhere
Everything is so humble
I can't stand the heat
No more sleepy words to write:
distracting — dumb — and drained
Blame the hour; blame the heir
Blame myself who isn't there
Ripped, ruined, my casement slowly splitting
Its cracks like lucent marbles
hoarse under the itchy sun
Deferential is dementia: dare to do,
then undo these druidic days
I am a font of reversed productivity
My harpocratic tap louder than its simplicity
Insurgent farce glossed throughout eternity
Time is too unkind: I am running barefoot
through its massacre of deadlines
Not knowing which iota is my clan
Malleable yet proximate, I am shaping
a tempestuous decline
into the return of your cruelest reckoning
Take note for you shall forget
Like losing your mind: thrilled as you go
Saturday, April 28, 2012, 6:40 PM –
Sunday, April 29, 2012, 5:45 PM
Poetry prompt day 28: problem.
Peacock by Ashok Jain
A century from now:
All the men I know
will never be you
and what you are to me
The soil above me drinking rain
Its wetness seals my absent eyes
No more tears to disrespect
as when I pronounced your name
to wipe their tumbling embrace
Unbreathing heart burgeoning
into bleeding buds — eerie,
defying-death, miraculous —
the way your lyrics befriended
Knowledge of your mystique
nourishing every flesh-eating
beetle through the love
in my veins, regretting
the day you found me
We are the paragon of true
incompatibility: We need not
be another — with each day
our minds tying the truth
but can never be
Sunday, April 29, 2012, 2:54 – 4:11 PM
I dream to kiss you
with a touch you never forgive
I dream to mend you
for life is nothing but a waste
To lit your avocado eyes
their mechanical disgrace
Guileless, we daub each other's
face with candid lassitude
charming as a snake's stare
I call rain with my charade
and you portend to be there
— re-examining my worth
Eons imbuing vicarious ease
the length of repentance
Starships built but never dealt
Only recurrent restlessness
morphing into cosmic bedlam
Lawless is the dial of our world
Finite incision belching its
territorial ribs like gory cultism
Your patience for my grievance
Sunday, April 29, 2012, 11:07 AM – 12:24 PM
Illustration by Bethanie Murguia
Saturday, April 28, 2012
Dreams and their Freudian insinuation. I should have kept things calm and damage-free. Instead, I enlisted the times I saw, or met, him in my dreams.
At first, it was short and plotless. He was unclear. A smoky vision of white — there as a silhouette, pronouncing his presence only in his full name. My feelings hid in thick obscurity.
And then, I began to search for him. We were classmates, the way I wanted us to be. The setting looked like a play stage, with majestic shiny curtains. He was to be there, in school, to meet me. But he wasn't anywhere I could see. I kept searching and searching till I woke. He wasn't found.
I was driving a car with my mother through a long dusty, empty road that led to nowhere. When dusk approached, the car stalled and stopped. No other building but his bike shop. My mom stayed in the car and I knocked on his door. He told me to follow him inside the shop so he could get the tools to fix the car. I didn't recognize him in this dream, but it felt like I had known him forever. That mysterious longing...
He visited my house in the fourth episode. I had to leave and do something urgent. I told him to stay put until I completed my errand so we could talk after. A man drove the car I was in, probably a taxi driver. Began the impossible quest. We had to pass a dangerous river, almost drowning. A dark tunnel. Speeding. A surreal train station, like something from the colonial era. All black and heavy. A traditional market. When I arrived home, he was gone. Back to his country.
Another story cast him as my classmate living in a house right across my grandmother's. We walked to our school and I felt ecstatic to be able to converse with him (I was also in love with him in the dream — curses!). When we came home in the evening, he went straight to his house while I played with his giant furry dog. Somehow, he was upset and yelled at me for a reason I can't recall.
One had something sexual, at least at the end of it. I had to go to an important family gathering and the water in my house turned to chocolate. Needing shower, I went to my grandmother's building that was leased as apartments. The basement was supposed to be vacant. I struggled to take off my tight double shirts for quite some time, exposing my breasts, feeling that I was being watched. When I opened the bathroom, it was locked. I tried the other side of the floor, where I was surprised to meet him. He was flushing red in embarrassment, and I knew he was the one who was spying on me.
Passing the maze was the night I found him with my own will. With massive determination, I endured all the dangers and confusion to get to his place. And I found him at the other side.
Seven dreams and the one I had last night. Subconscious desires. Repressed infatuation. Wishing to meet him to validate my forbidden yearning.
Saturday, April 28, 2012, 1:58 – 3:43 PM
Moth trails by Steve Irvine
It was another evening with constant torrents of heat wave. Twenty-nine degrees that tasted like thirty-six. Two electric fans blasting their highest speed and yet, I had itches all over my skin. Too lazy to bathe since I still felt the cleanness of my morning shower. Giving up on the last two poetry prompts for that day. Grudgingly, I chose to sleep.
At two after midnight, I woke into the continuation of last night's condition where it caused me the same skin allergy. A too-early shower with no hot water may turn into a fever for my case. I entertained lust. Came those nasty ideas. Fabricating dirty scenes using... him. He passionately rubbed his body on top of mine. I must spare you the unsafe details since this is a public blog.
As I fell into fast-forwarded unconsciousness minutes after, he emerged as my boyfriend. We attended the same high school in Indonesia. Twelfth grade. Facing our national exam. One afternoon after school, we were having our usual daily chat in my grandmother's house (the funniest factor was how he still spoke English even when he lived in Jakarta — my dream refused to renounce his foreign quality!).
Somehow, I woke up in the next morning, rushing to shower, realizing that I had neglected him the previous day cause I fell asleep during the chat. My cousin told me that the boyfriend left crying yesterday, in profuse tears, blaming me for abandoning him. I felt so guilty and planned to right things immediately after breakfast.
Another strange scene was having breakfast in a fastfood restaurant with my parents and some of my classmates. This isn't the habit in Indonesia. We normally have breakfast at home with home-cooked meals. But since... my dreams never make any sense... I quickly finished my breakfast and ran to a mall nearby to find him.
The five-story mall was old, shabby, and dingy. I don't think it was in Jakarta. More like in Bandung, another town two hours away. I was to find him there somewhere. This was my unattainable task, just as in all of my recurrent dreams. Something I would never be able to do.
I knew he would be in the fifth floor waiting for me. But, there were no elevators or escalators or staircases. The only way to reach him was through rusty metal bars that were zigzagged from the ground to the top. Fragile, with no safety assurance. Visitors used it since this was the only mall available in town. They were not afraid of falling or getting into an accident. It was like seeing ghosts passing me by, back and forth. Fearing I would fall, I didn't climb.
And so I woke.
Now that I am awake and alert, the conflict looks awfully hilarious, as I know he's not the crying kind. Most certainly, he won't weep only for being ignored. I am unsure why my subconscious viewed him as someone dramatically sentimental. It's not like him at all. Perhaps I wanted to be needed. So that when I deserted him for whatever reason, he would be in so much despair and anguish. Vindicating what I felt in the past month.
Saturday, April 28, 2012, 9:01 – 11:49 AM
Illustration by JP Miller
Friday, April 27, 2012
If you can define the word phenol, you may know 6,112 words. So Dictionary.com said. I don't know what it is. I found it when I looked up the word carbolic for my poem. Perhaps it's something synonymous. Don't chemical substances sound oh-so-sexy? Like speaking Latin. Erudite and ancient.
I wish I spoke Latin so I could appear quaint. I'm sure it would have the superpower to awaken me. Preventing me to feel as sleepy as I am now. What is so very erroneous with today? Seven hours should be enough rest for one night, and I had that. Showered. Ate noodles and squid soup. Spicy. When I desperately need extra deliberation to complete the last poem from yesterday, all I crave is to fall into one hundred years of cursed slumber.
Don't I need a handsome boyfriend to invigorate me with his true-love kiss? Only for inconvenient times like this.
These days, I have been crying erratically. For feeling alone, left out, isolated. Mother accompanies Father in that stupid island. He said to her that he would have no one if she stayed in Jakarta. What cunning treachery! I want my mommy here... She said it would last till the end of May. And that is IF dad's engineering project isn't extended. It's been unpunctual since forever. He was supposed to work back here in Jakarta in January. I don't like this.
My sister has started her new job and she leaves in the morning with her husband to work. The twins giggle together all day. Their parents do what they need to do. Everyone has someone. I'm always alone. Composing in my room. Even when I teach, it's just a whole dull day of work. Morning to afternoon. Coming back home to write in my room. Always alone. No emotional bond with anyone. Not even some silly cat.
Some ignore others. I do, too. Not respectable, but mostly necessary. I shouldn't complain. I shouldn't turn prose into versified trash, either. Still require five more blog posts for my rigorous self-publication. A life of diction and verbalization awaits. Everything purposeless on repeat.
Monday, April 16, 2012, 2:25 PM – Friday, April 27, 2012, 2:32 PM
Cause I can't turn to you when it all falls apart is fromSoup by Tomo Suzuki
The Veronicas' song "When It All Falls Apart".
The Veronicas' song "When It All Falls Apart".
Dating-site men who appraised my photo highly were those aged under twenty-six or above forty. Never will I be attracted to them.
Age is not just a number. It defines who you are. I am disgusted only to think that I should date anyone whose age differs too much from my own. This is why it's important for me to specify an age range that is around two years younger or older (though I prefer someone younger cause he will be easily manipulated).
In actuality, I did develop romantic interests for men outside my age span. Two of them. One was my former college professor, who was ridiculously kind to me when I was agitated. He's eleven years older (and happened to be in a serious relationship when I had feelings for him). But this was when I was twenty-one. Young and impressionable. Today, a man four years older than I am will be enough to make me wince.
The other one was that Okcupid kid, four years and four months younger than I am. Again, he is unlike anyone I know. Talking to him felt like having ice cream and chocolate in a lazy afternoon. Delightful. Now, I know better not to try with anyone his age, or worse, younger.
But most importantly, none of those Internet men, no matter at what age they are, seem to exhibit enough sanity that I am compelled to write back. I am sick of getting copy-pasted insincere emails or sexual hints. My photos are not even sluttish. Why do they treat me as if I were a cheap, trashy whore? I'm not. All they need is a respectful approach and I will respond with enough courtesy. Ask Jonathan. He will testify that it's true.
And so after getting one thousand meaningless views, I closed my profile on that more crowded dating site, where it has a photo rating feature. Went back to Okcupid. Not sensing any beneficial change from the scene, I deactivated it again. Wasting my time with futility isn't leading to anywhere satisfying. I shall simply focus on my blog, producing a poem a day till the day I die. If true love exists, it won't be on any dating site. Trust me.
Thursday, April 26, 2012, 6:12 PM –
Friday, April 27, 2012, 10:25 AM
What smiles are those smiles?
What feelings do they feel?
What do they know that I don't?
Novelty preserved in 2007
Nailed to the past, I
am stuck in a deadening loop
Of shortened slumbers
that exhale taxing inanimation
Knife and fork in my hands
mincing the decay
of those heliotrope eyes
paling into plainness
Is this envy —
Unworthy of love, unlucky
as a beast, I closed
as a beast, I closed
It is too painful to be
Carcinogenic lump in my skull
brandishing its atrophy
Crumbs of northern light
forcing to poison my sight
Save one question for my last:
Were I the one,
why did you give me up?
Thursday, April 26, 2012, 8:02 PM –
Friday, April 27, 2012, 6:52 AM
Thursday, April 26, 2012
They caught me:
their prey, their sacrifice, their sport
Great human-bears, in solid three
Their vice fabled: willowy as chivalry
Thawing bitterness with blood, raw
behind the light, their masks reaching
the depth of my soul, launching the hunt
Foliage like razorblades marinating
my flesh for their carnivorous appetite
Drugged, I am switching between sleep
and sobs, unsheathing my nocturnal
claws — it shall be brutal, but I am
ready for their final call: valediction
Seven to delusion, strategy laid, my
fear strumming for sole survival
It is I, or they
Thursday, April 26, 2012, 3:36 – 7:31 PM
Derived from a scene on the TV series Grimm, season 1, episode 2: "Bears Will Be Bears".
Derived from a scene on the TV series Grimm, season 1, episode 2: "Bears Will Be Bears".
Poetry prompt day 25: sport.
Paw by George F Mobley
Blind morning, shouting
she is unconscious over the brine
Donning a feline incarnation,
even deeply asleep, she could sense
And continued to dream in between,
enduring such sentient sickness
Most of all, she wanted her to be
where she can freely deserve her
Discarded as when she was five,
watching everyone leave, brittle
as she was, not needing to cry
but gathering her babyish mettle
No one asked why she was alone
Always, she had to be strong
— nothing changes
Tepid bedtime, secondly,
being thirty and one hundred,
sufferance escapes her revelation
Rickety, she quells each day
Weaker than when she was five
— small, bonny, and bravest
Age has ripened her to tears
The mermaid dies
with a halo above her
Monday, April 23, 2012, 6:47 PM –Thursday, April 26, 2012, 2:53 PM
A bland how are you.
Unintended happy birthday
whose careful date was electronically simulated.
Most generic happy new year.
Nonexistence without the promise of sex.
Wasting every day of the past four years
for those who never care.
They erased me faster than the blink of an eye.
Life is dented, waiting to be destroyed.
I possess no worth, as I have been
unworthy in all thirty-one years.
With sadness and suicide, what have I to offer?
No gladness, no warmth. Depressing as a disease.
I have no will to live. Not knowing how to smile.
Isn't this the only way I know how to be?
Waiting for the day to end. Never to wake again.
Did I not give enough? Did I not care?
Drifters like I, we cannot hold on
to something long enough to make it worth living.
We tried everything. Nothing is enough
for happiness. We are not good enough to feel.
We recite and recite without concrete formation
of what is real. When we cry, it is biological.
Thursday, April 26, 2012, 9:41 – 10:25 AM
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
when wishes came true,
my soul divided in two.
Half of it became you.
You are my distorted mirror.
All reflects a familiar yearning.
You are half of me, lost,
until forever came.
Some mindless rethinking,
tracing a broken dream,
we face each other once more.
We are incidents pausing to rewind.
When we clash, we burn to unbind.
You are what I thought
was impossible: something unreal.
I cherish you as I love myself,
with bulletproof protection,
the gist of survival.
You come to remind me
of happiness and loss.
When I sleep, it is constant worry,
fearing you would never reappear.
When I wake, I wish for you
I cannot speak to you in beauty.
The heart readies for a hike
before a rollercoaster dive.
Excited, cautious, drumming.
My brain alert. Dizzy like flying.
Falling from the sky
with supersonic velocity.
Is this what you called a curse?
I wonder if this might be love,
for love is a curse. Its wavelength
too puerile to travel
from one ocean to another.
I cannot miss you.
Flames, blue and yellow, sway
above stacks of absurd stories.
Their house a steely glass. Clinking.
I cannot revoke you
with the eyes that convey tears.
White smokes concentrate,
disperse, then flee.
Melting into oblivion, their traces
pollutant fumes assaulting me.
One candlelit afternoon
I am traveling through Time,
to the place we once met.
Sweats trickling down my spine.
Heat punishing from Hell.
Distant cries of birds marking
their tribal wars.
A spider's fatal bite.
Wednesday, April 25, 2012, 4:51 – 5:54 PM
Illustration by Rossen Tzvetanov
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
Her brain is broken; her heart's a token
of feelings flown but never will land
They become her little wings, whisking
weightlessly like a thousand butterflies
Night wants her so; it keeps spoiling
her slumber and she wakes into a world
where underneath her blinks an ocean
of nephrite lights, calling her like ambit
Life lifts her in a nomadic crusade —
wandering from town to town, homeless
Seeing but hopeless — some series of
vagrancy announcing insignificance
Inside her head, an insurrection swirls
She misses him never; neither does he
And their worlds turn as they used to be
— unfeeling, unknowing, untouched
It will come, soon, when someone takes
her place and he won't even remember
her name: She will only be anti-love
to him, to everyone
to him, to everyone
Tuesday, April 24, 2012, 6:50 – 7:52 PM
Poetry prompt day 24: anti-love.
Illustration by Mila Muratti
Poets are a bunch of shirkers
too beautiful to work.
Luckily, I am a dirty muddy witch
who only bathes once
on each new moon,
some hours nearing dewfall.
Humans, on the contrary,
shower thrice more,
desecrating water. Or so I heard.
Beauty is beastly. I need none of it.
I am banality multiplied by twin curses.
Chancy by default; not quite merciless.
Sipping invidious halogen
with afternoon tea.
Trade your virtue with the magic
I brew in my fluky cauldron.
Two pots of first love —
a sheaf of eucalyptus leaves —
and a chicken's soul.
What transformation shall you be?
Worry not, dear customer.
The reaction glows as rich as your charity.
My formula is fair. Unless, of course,
treasure entails. Miracles can be bought
since the discovery of gold.
Monday, April 16, 2012, 4:30 PM –
Tuesday, April 24, 2012, 3:22 PM
Poetry prompt day 20: let's ________.
Illustration by Pech Misfortune
The soup is made of life
We slay the beast to skim the spice
The meat is made of love,
cells so tender; it melts like acumen
wishing to be a blunt blunder
Vaginal etching itching your sides
The savage, with their ancestry,
engraved traditions on tree barks
just as we attend our charm school
with certain preconceptions of
what is proper, though uncouth
Respectable names we title
ourselves to blanch our savagery
In the end, all of us are ordinary
Saturday, April 21, 2012, 10:44 AM –
Tuesday, April 24, 2012, 5:59 AM
Poetry prompt day 18: favorite regional cuisine.
Pain is eating my brain
How well-versed is everyone
in being my friend with an alibi
I am your lies; never a friend
I cannot make you speak
Even I cannot make you feel
Everyone wants to be needed
but is too haughty to express
the need for someone else
I am drowning myself with the
screams of sanctimonious cadavers
When you speak, I shall be Silence
The silence you have given me
all these years
Tuesday, April 24, 2012, 5:56 AMPoetry prompt day 22: judging.
that spilt filthy whiteness
freezing into herbal froth
I saw green becoming a sin
germinal as bice, to where
we met: at the center
of the Universe, pressed
onto molten abstractness
You were prematurely
magmatic; your reservoir
a pool of knowledge —
a shield resisting artifice
My mosquito and I, we
were made of contrivance
Our aphotic entreaty
monogamy; our wiles
splintered in calligraphy
We defiled senses —
one of which was yours
Soon, you were dying,
cursory with sunlight
The facile quantity in
you reeking californite
It ended with sweetness
in my mouth, rottener
than the mistiest dark
Mosquito by Amirali
Monday, April 23, 2012
You should have never replied me from the start. Not long after, excuses unbound. Unreturned mails. Ignored IM chats and tweets. Whatever it is I try, nothing will work. There isn't communication. Only my attempts at trying to make you speak. You never do.
I should have known better.
Why do you feel the need to hide yourself from me? What is there to hide? I thought I made you feel like you mattered. I thought that was what you wanted. It must be a habit of you to speak one thing and mean another. I have never lied to you. I don't cover things up the way you do. Or run the way you do. It is much better, and much easier, to face the truth than pretending. You have a lot to learn about being an adult. Might as well redefine your concept of "bravery".
You won't even read something like this. You only read what you want: what makes you feel good. Comfort, not conflicts. The day you embrace confrontation will be your last day on Earth. What are you afraid of? Hurting people? Getting hurt? Avoidance and silence hurt more than utterance. I thought you would be different from all of them. But you're just as bad. Not more or less indifferent than a stranger I meet on any street. Nothing to talk about.
I pose no regret. Neither do you. We never need each other and we never will. Just another forgotten name on our lists. How easy was it to forget me? Easier than neglecting the last four lines I wrote you?
Monday, April 23, 2012, 4:48 – 5:46 PM
I fell asleep in the morning after eating coffee crackers and woke up crying. Another day to face in loneliness. It is nothing new. I never expected anything to change, but today feels harder than it already is.
The only who talks to me is Mother. And Father takes her away from me. They live in a faraway town for his engineering project from his office, coming home once a month. It has been like this since January or February — I cannot recall. Being thirty-one, I feel inappropriate to whine telling them I want to have her at home with me since I have no one else to talk to. It is unlike me to bother them with my personal needs. I have always managed everything on my own since I was little.
Once, someone told me he would be my friend, and I was so happy. But he never did. He would not even talk to me as a friend does. People say things that they never truly meant, and I am very accustomed of this. This experience reminds me of high school, when I was in tenth grade. I had a best friend whom I liked so much. We talked every day and spent much time together, until one day, she decided to stop all that and befriended another girl. This other girl was much more fun and not as peculiar as I was, so apparently my friend liked her better. When people stop talking to me, I never bother to question their reasons. They just do not like me that much.
There is always crying and writing. Life never did take another course since I was eleven. When I liked certain people too much, they never felt the same. Perhaps I am too serious and do not delight in crazy jokes as they expect a friend to do. Whatever it was, no one seemed to enjoy spending time with me. Not even for talking. Sadness repels everyone and I am the saddest. But I cannot adjust myself to be likeable; that would mean being artificial.
After years, I have grown tired of begging for reciprocity. I begged too much in my life. Let people do what they will. Useless is for me to keep reiterating for some to pay attention to me. I suppose they feel no need to keep me near. I have always felt unwanted. No one can ever change that. I gave up trying to find my true love for he does not exist. I never see anything like that in my line of future. He was just a faceless, voiceless lad I met in a childhood dream. Something I cannot cling to.
Most people are not my taste. The ones I happen to like do not desire my company. No formula can fix this. I thought of suicide as a cure for loneliness, but it will destroy my mother and that is the one thing I do not wish to happen. Sometimes I wish someone would feel as much intensity as I do and she would want to know how I am doing, how I am feeling, and actually took the liberty to talk to me. But I know wishes never come true.
Monday, April 23, 2012, 11:03 AM – 12:09 PM
Illustration by Yoko Furusho
Sunday, April 22, 2012
I am sorry I am made of anomaly
Chastity dictates and I concur
Goodness to me, like vagaries,
is as important as being alive
Do you suggest I become another?
One that is not who I am but
mere coinage of popularity
Long before, I sought for a prize
Enforcing everlasting ecstasy while
missing what needs understanding
There exists no stagy completion
for a life of rightness makes
a reward on its own: victorious
eulogy the center of my credence
I am exertion; never perfection
I am made of twenty-eight days
On every twelfth or so,
in my head, my heart, my hypocrisy
I am invincible: My meanness alone
shall suffice to chop your soul
Tuesday, April 17, 2012, 12:37 PM –
Sunday, April 22, 2012, 5:11 PMPoetry prompt day 19: life event.
Collage by Claire Coles
I saw your wings. They are beautiful.
And I keep rehearsing these untested assumptions. I lost you once. I can never lose you again. You remind me so much of him. The hair. The cotton-candy gentleness. Just like a dream streaming in a lackadaisical Sunday afternoon. I wish I could hold you to know that this is real.
My eyes, clouded in motherly recognition, only see the good part of you. It is an unalterable vow. How I wonder where you are — whether you are safe — or feeling sublime. But you misunderstood what I meant.
It is not the kind that demands. Not what you suspected it was. You hardly feel it. We have known each other forever, longer than we know ourselves. You and I exist to enlighten. The day you find her (and you will, for I feel it in your path), you will tell me you are going to marry her. Happiness becomes you once more, and I will be happy, too.
Does it frighten you when you begin to understand? Perhaps I am simply looking for a mystery to tie myself to you; this is all a lie. My madness grows stronger each day. You will ruin this. You will love afternoons as much as I do. You, darling, you. Incarnation of the thing I miss most. We had to find each other. Here we are. Does it scare when you try to let go?
Sunday, April 22, 2012, 2:19 – 3:04 PM