Search, understand, make sense of the signs
As universal energy illuminates our minds
Sceptical at times but in essence we believe
There's celestial truth in all that we percieve

Recurrently pushed down rocky roads
But those rocks have been placed there for us to decode
Realisations, higher selves, awakened minds
Take those lessons forward and the light you'll find

I am bisexual. I am sure of that.
I've been sure of it for quite some time now.
I came to realize something.
If I end up with a woman I am going to embrace the essence of everything that's broken and ****** up about me and claim it as my own and let it define my identity.
Now don't get me wrong that doesn't mean it's gonna be a sad life or that my female partner will make me miserable.
No!
We will have lots of amazing and breathtaking moments and happy yellow days.
But there will always be some gray in the corner of my vision.
Gray will never leave.
All of my depth will forever be in the back of my mind.
And depth requires some darkness.
But I will be fully me. Real me. A picture frozen in time.

However, if I end up with a man I will probably abandon my depths and my grays.
I will forever be feeling like some part of me is missing but I will be leading a whole new life which will be about learning to love myself and nothing will ever be broken.

Do I even make sense?
What does that say about me?

Lemme collect these shambles, ones scattered in the name of cards ungambled. Battles that left me rattled. Pieces that never fell together.

Realisations gone to tatters. Memories forgotten, altogether. These pieces of armor unfused forever.

Energies wasted in mindless splendor, with ideals crafted in inks without matter.  

These caricatures of youth, wasted in canvas of unwritten letters.

These realisations altogether, left us with spirits now dampened.      

Realisations, you say? No its the room, the walls, the paint, the comfort, the pain that has left you with these echoes, voices that never mattered.

It's okay to say no.
You're more attractive than you tell everyone you think you are.
Always moisturize directly after showering.
Never forget a lantern when camping.
Brown eyeshadow during the day makes you look slutty.
You don't need to flirt with everyone.
Don't assume all men are the same. Just because one made a mistake doesn't mean another will make the same one. Just because one does something wonderful doesn't mean another will do the same.
Never shop hungry or unhappy.
I write bad poetry when I'm sad. I write good poetry about being sad when I'm content.
Matching ******* and bra makes for a good day.
Talking to him makes everything better.
He is a lot more trustworthy than you think he is.
It's okay to want to be alone for a while.

Finally...
I got ,
The grasp,
Back on,
My heart.

I let,
All the feelings,
Out.
To,
The cause,
Of,
My confused heart.

Unforseen,
Difficulties,
Were faced.
But I came,
Better out,
In the end.

For Love,
Is,
Not,
For,
The faint hearted.

Moving forward...
Is all solution...
Currently...

I saw myself sitting on my knees, hunched over, clinging to a pile of rugs beneath me. Precisely three. Each rug was much like the other; slightly different in shape, but all of the same tone and texture. 


One by one, each was pulled away from underneath me…


My dad came and stole the first rug. I hardly expected it to have been snatched away. In my innocence, I thought I could somehow seek comfort there. Somehow I thought, I could feel it’s warmth for the remainder of my life not knowing much of the past, nor the future. With its displacement soon arose great fear. My mind started to alarmingly ring. What if all my other rugs are taken too? What if I have nothing soft left to lie on anymore? And what if all I feel is the bare emptiness of the ground below me? An emptiness, in which I am nothing? Inherently nothing…?

I clung to each rug that followed in dire fear of unanswered questions. In dire fear of all unknown. 


A few years thereafter, another rug I had grasped was snatched from underneath my base by T–. He did so in such an insidious way, I hardly expected it to have happened either. He had such invisibly cold hands that he told me were warm – a series of lies masquerading as truth. When T—’s rug went missing, I fell in much the same way as when my first rug was taken. Except this time, I fell to a position I had already felt so keenly, and so now, fell much more intensely. Doubly hunched over and in pain. A feeling of dejection and despair so intense from having already carried a previous stain; a previous memory. 


The next rug I encountered, I thought to be real. Actually, I thought it to be the most genuine I had ever encountered in the universe. It had seemingly inexhaustible warmth. I could hardly help but cling in ecstasy, though also in hidden agony, in cognizance of how transient all my other rugs had been. Finally, perhaps I had a home for me to lay my head upon? A home which would grant me stable rest? But here too, I was mistaken. Like each rug that came before, this rug was indeed transitory and full of uncertainty. Perhaps more soft, perhaps more real, perhaps more warm and embracing – but he too had to go. After all, he was another rug I had clung to; an attachment like all the rest.

–

When this particular rug was pulled, I was so terrified of soon touching the ground below me, that my body contracted in a frenzied, desperate agony. I tried so hard to make whatever warmth remain; strenuously clenching with all my might to staple it down in place. However, as hard as I did pull to hang on, an unknown force pulled away at a greater intensity. I found myself in a tug of war I could not win and sooner or later, the weight of my frustrations gave in. Mournfully, I failed to control its inevitable movement. My last remaining rug, yes, he too, went away.

And so I had nothing left beneath me… 


The cold floor exposed bare was the hard reality with which existence presented me. In the past, I had tried to search for other rugs to hide in. I thought to myself that other rugs would do, that perhaps I just needed a different few. I clung to some alternate variations; some made of others’ skin; half-hearted relations or validations, some of money, others of drugs or work or pastimes and pleasure. Despite all my attempts however, I could not evade the emptiness of the floor beneath me. I had felt it repeatedly with my own body. Its coldness had visibly scraped and scarred me. And I knew; each rug I had clung to was a cover-up so transient. Despite their initial warmth; each stood porous now – exposing the cold, and digging holes in any of my attempts not to feel what lied beneath.

Upon these realisations, the floor which held me and my previous rugs soon started collapsing. With its fall, I was taken into an empty, dark abyss; seemingly endless and all-enclosing. Seemingly perpetual.

Mid-fall I was so catastrophically uncertain, I wanted to close my eyes and no longer wake. I berated myself for continuing to be conscious and pleaded for existence to **** me in my sleep. How dare I still be alive while falling in such suffering and sadness, I lamented.


I lacked the courage to feel the thud of my final landing and its location.

From past experience, I was almost certain that what lied beneath was infinite pain; dark abandonment of course, for miles without end.


–

To be continued (as I learn how)…

I never thought
I'd get off this high horse,
For my feet to touch the earth
And feel something,
No clouds to obstruct my view,
Throwing the rose tinted glasses
To the ground
And crush them into the soil,
But new realisations can be
Hard to deal with,
So I must take my time
To piece it together

a moment to reflect:
moments like two earphones; plug & play euphoria
nothing like it
if only filing them was possible –
keepskaes of the mind
hoarding is essential!

hoarding for those times of drought
drought of feelings worth the paper they are written on
writers block can ****** those who do not hoard
those painful realisations of space

space in a mind and soul worth filling,
worth emptying of shadows
worth hoarding
of
all
things
for times of drought..

Maybe the reason I've been offline so often
is not because I'm trying to start a life but,
because it reminds me that you and I are dying out.

there is one truth of which i'm incandescently certain and that's that nobody can take away a truth as it darkens, a galaxy in a glass; and the truth is that i'd be the only ***** donor in a charity just for you because signals and signs have showed me your soul and you're grander than celestial poles

if i didn't know any better i'd suggest you're the sun and i'm the solar system and i orbit around you and i'm not too sure about humans having wings but imagine:

a snowy cabin some place away from civilisation, you and i and wholehearted communication, you and i and books and fictional integration, you and i and mind blowing realisations, you and i and wings outstretched souring across nations

you are the sun and i am the solar system and although i orbit you i'm never allowed to brush the surface, i'm guessing it's for a purpose so i admire from afar, a gaze stretched over constellations and the sound of your voice bouncing off stars into my hemisphere of tangled webs and ripened tears, the echoing trailing behind merely a souvenir

there is one truth of which i'm incandescently certain and that's this:

the only reason my brain hasn't stopped my heart from beating is because the thoughts of you are giving it meaning and it's hard to breathe with these overwhelming feelings but i'm coping because the broken glass holding my galaxy is healing

It is wrought upon some, the truthful worries of our world

The rest suffice to say that they are but weak

Survival of the fittest, an excuse used to trample the within us humans

They have but disgraced mankind with all the shoving and pushing

Look around you, open your eyes

“No man’s an island”, a wise old man once said

His words will probably be lost forever

For those who read, suffice with the act of doing so

And not all who do, are gifted with the ability to read

We reach the point of evolution where complexity overcomes all

The one that oversees is now but lost

There might be glimmers and slimmers of hope that we might see

The strong ones might stand up for what might be right

But who am I to judge what right truly is?

Mistakes I shall make

Numbers I shall fake

Climb atop this metaphorical mountain I will

Shout from its metaphorical top I will

Just to show myself that I’m not weak

My presence shall always be felt

From stacked decks shall hands always be dealt

Argue, will I no longer

No longer will I survive

There is but one thing that this world respects

And for it to respect me, will I show it that I can thrive

She held him like a dangling participle,
as mothers sometimes do.
Disconnected from her sentence,
he was held on but stiffly confused.
He possesses a birthright to her hard-wiring,
or is it mandatory?
Woman-datory?
Umbilical, precedence will or won't inherit addictive behaviours.
Likability of some traits but not others, wishing he wasn't.
More like her, realisations go awry.
Pattern of outstretched arms dangling that boy.
His diaper is off, and jettison's stream, so caution.
Hiking along the forgotten path, brambling overgrowth blocked his continuing.
He cuts a new path.
She cuts the umbilical.

the words of a stranger
a hundred realisations
a mixture of salt and water
enough to fill a bowl and a half
the words of another stranger
a cosmic shift
and an inscrutable force of will
is all it took
and some more
for her to pick herself back up
and ride on
and out of the labyrinth.

There once was a little girl who dreamed big dreams.
Dreams that rose up like flowers that blossomed in the spring.
Dreams that shine brighter than the sun on a hot summer day.
Dreams that fell down in snowflakes on a sparkling Christmas winter.
But, one night, everything changed.

The storms of reality poured down like rain drops.
Tornadoes shook all her hopes down.
Pain pierced her as she drowned in her pool of tears.
This sudden sadness she endured was at an age where she was sixteen.

She thought growing up would be a pretty thing.
Looking all glamorous as she started dressing up in leather jackets.
Boys made her feel like she was a baby doll.
Her friends started being her family.
Soon enough she had all these realisations about life.
Now all she ever wanted was to turn back the clock, and turn six again.

Amidst all that she knew the past was long gone.
Therefore she had no choice but to move on.
And dream those big dreams she wanted ever since she was that little girl.

How to approach something so intangible, with little cellular to describe to my nerves
How to make verbal something so emotional, based on psychology and civil construction
How to perceive myself appropriately despite the eroding drips that pierce progress and old photos I cling to with such immaturity
These questions all are for the same goal, that progression of the self, all those substantial, cerebral, sensual and societal realisations that I yearn for
And yet... I sit, making delusional dreams come true in screens, I sit, making deep intellectual arguments for causes that aren't my own, I sit, researching complicated **** ups and ****** withs the powerful inflict in their attempts to balance a system born broken and biased
Screens are our new ****** it seems, as we reject religion our screens let us forget that the world continues around us, or encourage us not to care
And I come to this self consciousness, this ironic hypocritical reprehension
Because I really enjoy what all these creative minds and years of work and beauteous ideas have given me, but with the same hypocritical tone, despise my compulsion to stare into pixels

As I indulge this self awareness, I know I will continue with the same mental obesity of consumption tomorrow
And there will be no hypocritical self evaluation, just self involved enjoyment
Until the moments come when I am left alone with my mind
Self conscious, reflective, feeling as the time has been lost, but my mind is too tranquilised with pixel and poster representations of reality to notice
This won't change but...

Maybe if I take some time to turn pages rather than press buttons, and stare at sunsets rather than screens
That self evaluative journey I've ignored and returned to sporadically in the reflective yet warm darkness would be less intimidating
And if nothing else, on those days where reality lies next to me filling my cerebral stomach with the undeniably existential
I might feel a bit better about those days lost to other people's stories

She is so many poems
Words in an endless sky
Reading her, and getting high

She is riding alone in a car
I am feeling so far away
Today, clouds drift away

Disingenuous words fall flat
Insincerity, your friend
Abandoned

Dusted lungs, bizarre psychotropics
The birds are chirping
the ground is hard

you lay, I was lying and lying
and madcap laughing
and the rest was drifting away

The feeling doesn't come around very often
An old friend familiar footwise to different pastures fitting the fantasy
New experiences constructing strong someone's admirable psychology, fresh beauteous landscapes making up the ends of days that aren't quite taken for granted, but nonetheless become more and more common
As life becomes such an obvious thing to engage with, to fill the mind with an intangible, unnecessary to reconstruct explicability, defining reality
Where that ******* smirk just works, and is taken for granted

Forgive me for being jealous
As austerity and holding back defines our culture in recent times, suits and faces for hating, numbers and reports spurring disparagement, and sentiments of dream and realisation eroded and rained down with flu
Optimism becoming uphill, a difficult sentiment to come naturally, I try nonetheless when such metaphysical and intense psychedelia sits uncomfortably in the back of the mind
****'s sake Britain give me a break

But um..
That girl, that guy, those people, that moment in all those minds that grows from a simple glimpse of a day dream into an empowering determination, realised more and more through presences and establishments from the outside world
Those are the opportunities I'm looking for, amongst solidarity in a fluid and ****** up world
As I steal that smirk from that smug self involved person in the paradise of personality
To see into space and realise how my reflection looks good amongst such fantastical potential realisations

Yeah.. I should go to sleep, but a bit of clarity as to my direction, a little a bit of mirror monologue giving a bit of 'you're all right', well it isn't **** all to complain about.

I had long realised that I like to make poems out of people I care about. I have loved words. I have loved how insignificant they're alone, how contradictory. How the same words can be framed and hung upon  someone's darkest sky like a thousand glittering stars or be burnt into the corners of our minds getting us to wonder if heaven and hell both exist inside us.

How words are the cage and how they can be the wings.

How they label you sometimes and sometimes let you free.

And how sometimes with all their infiniteness they are not enough.

I had long realised that loving rarely ever equalled to understanding. And I found it to be one of the saddest things. Like how we all have so much love to give, and we all keep giving it away the way we would want to receive it. But it does not work that way, does it? You can't explain to a tone dead person  how talking to them felt like finally being introduced to a melody they had heard so long ago it felt world's away, in another birth except the melody decided to stick with them.

And since then I have been trying to understand more, but sometimes I can't tell if I'm getting better at it or I just stop caring. Or if it's possible to try to walk in someone's shoe and still find a fault with him?

I had long realised that my poems one way or another turn out to be a goodbye to people I love. It's like my hands know they're going to have to wave good bye so they do the only thing they can. They write, as if to convey that they, my heart, will remember them long after they have been let go. I almost did not want to write this for you.

But.

You are the one who points at my wings when I make cage out of my words and get trapped in my mind.

You are the one I call at 2 am when I'm too tired to rebel against yet another label I earned for myself.

It's the mixed sound of our laughter echoing in my ribcage that makes me create my own spheres of infiniteness in few ephemeral minutes.

You understand that you don't always understand, and you accept.

I did not want to write this for you because all my poems turn into a eulogy no one stays long enough to hear.

But.

I think you'd listen.

you turned me
into dust,
so i turned you
into w
     o
          r
      d
             s.

Two a.m. and it hits me like a freight train -
The realisation that I'm never letting go,
You're too familiar, too engrained in brain,
My highest high and my lowest low.

In every whisper, gasp, and sigh,
You're boiling in my blood,
Far away and yet close by,
My senses drown in your flood.
My avalanche, my hurricane,
my natural disaster,
My shelter from the pelting rain,
Machine-gun pulse racing faster.

A spectre, haunting, never gone,
Your imprint ever by my side,
Knight and bishop to my pawn,
Commandment that a must abide.

And every new experience,
Every wayward thought –
Shadowed by the remembrance –
Fights what can't be fought.
Each new one I compare to yours,
Forever my default script.
A room without windows or doors,
This heartache is my crypt.

You never knew and never will,
Just how deep I buried
The memory I couldn't ****,
In my soul seared and carried.
A keepsake, invisible brand,
Bittersweet reminder
Of doomed castles in the sand,
Love poems in a tear-streaked binder.

I came to realise that the girl I passed on the street who didn't smile back wasn't ignoring me because she was consumed by a deep underlying sadness
She was just a girl who didn't like to smile

I came to realise that the abandoned house I pass each morning doesn't have a dramatically tragic reason for why it had been abandoned
It was merely because no one seemed to want it anymore

I came to realise that a lot of people aren't cruel as a defence mechanism due to wars that may be taking place in the furthest corners of their minds
They're just cruel

To summarise
I came to realise
That life is only as meaningful and poetic as you fool yourself into believing that it is

it's not the fact that you left me
but that the world didn't stop moving
when mine did ....
i know i hurt you but tell me was it so easy
so easy to give up on me ?
yeah i made mistakes ,and i was mean
but was it so easy to believe that it was just an act i put up to get your forgiveness .
i know used that word "sorry " a lot
but was it so easy to say, sorry no more
after those heart filled realisations
after  admitting to those mistakes .
tell me was it so easy to just walk away
its not the fact that you wont be the person that
i wake up to neither would you be the person i close my eyes on ,just the fact that i won't have anyone in the world to call mine now..
its not the fact that you are leaving me for good
its just that the world is still one piece while mine just shattered in front if my eyes .

your greatest attributes were in fact
just me!