lost
far far away
there lies a land
beyond everything, every co-existence
they stitch and mend.
would you go—if the price were a mere heart?
would you stroll through and walk over,
if that land turned out to be a labyrinth's bar?
do you deal in pictures,
put them forward, get questions answered through stickers?
do you deal in hearts,
claiming you don't stand behind the robotic voice that's been cast?
do you deal in minds,
claiming lies are the ultimate truth,
you're clever—unlike anything that could ever be true?
do you deal in love,
send behind people to keep an eye,
send them forward to ask the doubts of your kind?
do you deal in kindness,
making use, dissipating every single obvious excuse?
would you deal in highs—
puncture your skin with the drugs, one of a kind,
forget all the lows, tumble over the skies?
okay, close your eyes.
count to 8.
lock up the doors,
open the new gates.
sense.
feel the wind—
it surrounds you like the ghost of a hug.
present yourself to whatever couldn't be,
and everything that was.
but it feels like the end—
there's a tale that goes:
a woman given a box,
filled with sickness, death, pain, suffering & hope.
and as curiosity killed the cat,
she opened it up, let the first four escape their closed habitats.
hope remained, locked inside.
the evils escaped, bright and strong in the night.
pandora's box—
so innocent, so seemingly kind,
but once you're through and through,
oh, did it mess with your mind?
i'm often careful,
but mysteries have always been exciting.
and well, intrigue is something worth going after,
despite how they claim it as foolish's citing.
only the chapter, sweetheart.
do you have your own?
what might spill out,
just to put to chance?
what have you kept locked away—
is it a wooden chest, a glass jar, or a metallic vessel,
keeping your secrets and desires enclosed and at bay?
mine would probably carry a lot,
but the major, daunting ones:
perhaps grief, as a large mass of black, of soot, of ash.
hope—yes, hope needs to be there, i hope it is there.
love, abundance of it, like love, even desire—possession.
and if i were to go as far, a tiny crystal of happiness, of light,
of sunshine, sunset, midnight, and the moonshine.
could i add one more to it?
expression—i require, have the art, can't put it in frame.
just, just wait for a bit as i disintegrate.
and where do the lost parts go?
do they stay with the people they were left with,
or become fleeting strays,
or even trash on the roads?
do they ever really get the care
that once made them come into existence?
do the lost parts ever find a way back,
back from the puzzle piece they're missing in?
and you could take everything away—
all that i was, all that i had,
all that seemed to love me in the first place.
but i'll have this:
expression, words, silence, humility.
and perhaps that's the strength, that's enough.
i'll have my writings, my poetry.
they say pain shapes you.
that grief undoes you until it’s bones and sorrow,
and then you’re built up again,
muscles rearranging themselves to look seemingly settled.
seemingly humane.
would you like to imagine?
a broken mirror, with pieces shaped back to a crystal.
it shows signs of turmoil,
but once decorated—put in wind chimes and dreamcatchers—
and that’s barely where its beauty begins.
that lantern needs some oil.
then comes the phase of hiding it within oneself.
the quiet, deep-settled struggles turning to strengths
that rake you, go through you like current.
and when you’re pushed in the same situations,
it’s no longer hit-and-trial,
but what you’ve learnt.
flowers rose from the grave where i was buried.
saw the petals bloom, but butterflies dashing past
in a flurry, blurred hurry.
and there were beings—
tiny little precious gifts straight from the heavens
—finding shelter.
people admiring the quiet place, a grave
that hit even deeper than the six feet under.
and as i stood atop my grave,
glancing with pity, no remorse, perhaps the rekindling of love
as to who i was—
changed now, raw and yet the same at the core.
the shift, the change of nature and advancements,
it was like getting a software update.
and every time i put one of me,
or one of the parts i’d given away,
as they died, i put them to rest—
to be burnt, or simply to let their ashes wash astray.
the realization settled in like a quiet hum of satisfaction.
getting stronger, no matter how much of a ghost i became.
(even though sometimes it comes later in the night
and haunts me like that one recurring nightmare—)
thus was— is the beauty of pain.
imagine someone mummified,
and not in a cartoonish way.
with flowers growing from places they were wounded,
and leaf-vines taking over—
a pretty, pretty mess brought to life.
the reasons—those that brought it to sway.
and sometimes it flickers,
that eternal fire that burns for staying.
but alive, it stands.
and in the same crystal that once was a mirror,
i look forward and shake hands.
cicadas rhythming, spring-summerlike.
let it rain, that and the ordinary adrenaline,
with the red paper cranes and
eyes like deer caught in the headlights.
the hint of a smile,
wrap it up in cellophane.
gotta get rid of the rings to wash off the blood on my hands.
oh sorry, didn't mean to let it get out.
but there's only so much i can mend.
i stitched up all the wounds, all the spaces that felt empty.
zipped up my mouth, entrusted my heart to buttons and pennies.
i'm sure nothing could seep in or out anymore.
sliver of hope? i wonder what that is.
i've known it like a friend,
but god, did the wound not send
me realizing it wasn't really worth all this while.
we'll give it up, proceed to go ahead,
and live like our lives are agile.
won't dim anything just 'cause people can't exist in too bright.
and if they're burnt, know it was their fault and disguise.
perhaps plastic, or the cheap kind of clay—
they melted so quick, glances to them going betray's way.
and i'm listening to august come to an end,
bringing nostalgia of all sorts.
like listening to jvo on repeat,
once more coming back to the basics.
and soon it'll be on the way to magic lands,
back to hogwarts, 1st of september.
will time tend
to whatever irony is being played?
i've been drinking coffee,
cleaning, been through dust regularly,
picking out floral perfumes,
and aiming to eat more spices.
why, i wonder—
to connect or destruct?
irreversible damages.
tired of making these playlists when i'd listen to shuffle,
radios, or the ones they made me.
but there's beauty, despise, dislike, and love in the making.
protective over it, not obsessively,
but once it's made to the folds of my brain,
ought to stay, ought to keep safe.
except if the back doors are pushed open
and i sense leaving,
let it go, and let yourself fall—
for what is it without requiring a permanent healing?
won't bat an eye, at least that's what it seems like.
on the surface, so neutral.
if it rains, just know it was only will-bending
and a few hearts' murals.
worth is recognizable once it's proven,
unless blind, obsolete, turnaround.
you're chosen.
like you'd treasure and save the specials for occasions yet to come,
terming they ought to be used a particular day,
that they deserve special care.
the best of outfits, the prettiest of scrunchies, that one pair of headphones,
cherished and everything.
i broke my headphones—
funny, as i cleaned them up.
caring got them to dissembling,
and now i'm stuck.
the wired ones have always been the favorites,
always up at par, ready, prepared
for me to take them.
that one t-shirt, from six years back or so—
the one that provides more comfort, newer ones couldn't even try to.
isn't it a paradoxical nature of life and people?
but what is right:
to cherish the rare occasions,
to live in the moment,
love the ordinary,
or save even the best of people for rare days?
what of the ones not here,
what of the ones who don't talk?
perception defines
love and all the decisions—taken personally,
treated as indifferent. what do the rest think?
why wonder, when it's all settled on paradox?
can't anything else be?
the hows, whys, and whats—
human nature, since when so difficult?
the phantom of wings fluttering across my back—
i've used them before, i faintly remember,
like the faint comfort of the same things.
nostalgia's sister, carrying memories.
i could listen to this track that was once on repeat—
why does it fit in the present, and remind me,
bringing me back to where it began?
different moments in life—
was it, just like that, the end?
comfort in the old,
the ones we avoid, the ones we let go.
like pandora's box, perhaps it is thus life.
walking through the hallways,
escaping stuffy, messed up rooms.
the world just feels like it's a bit new.
yes i do, adieu.
and if you breathe in just right,
feel the wind, feel it caress you through the highs.
up at the height, i sit,
legs dangling, can almost pick up the scent—
familiar, comforting.
and there's whispers
from perhaps a me of the future,
or someone that exists parallely.
it's all going to be alright, eventually, someday.
going forward, tripping low and to the skies,
the settings back to presets, sectors of vices.
i like it when you—
but then i begin to question why would you?
the clouds! clouds, clouds, clouds!
can you picture—eternities?
like a flame on a torchlight burning bright,
with bunnies and raccoons in the midst.
there's clovers, people, faces you can almost find familiar.
and it's all happening as the clock turns,
4:45, or was it 5:55?
so here it goes:
interlude yet to come.
no endings whatsoever.
but the walls are closing in,
and these walkthroughs feel a bit too tight.
escapades have failed, where do i go this time?
how do they sit, not feel it surrounding—
the absolute stench of murk, and mirth.
you know what's astounding?
didn't have to break down walls
or find the keys
or even climb up the windows.
could have waited—i'd have stepped down,
one at a time.
but alas, waiting is a play
for the real ones
who're actually in the game.
so survive, while being led
out the back door.
cause despite entering in—
who knew there were locked-up vaults?
just love it when you—
wasn't much of a labyrinth as it seemed.
me
couple hours ago:
there’s dark clouds
will it thunder, or rain?
is it going to be pleasant,
or simply a game?
edit: it rained.
