Archive | November, 2012

Remained Undefined

24 Nov

Inhale as enduring a lie as the truth
Collecting this ash on benevolent youth.
Conformity molding the seal left behind
Concealing potential remained undefined.

This clay that had dried, intertwining their wrists
Expands with the pressure enforced by her fists,
Greying and aging by years unrepaired
Ruins the only potential they shared.
Veiled by the shield of a false woman’s force
Denying all hints of disheveled remorse
She’ll trudge through the murk that her promises wept
And imprison her trust ‘till a promise is kept.

Through the Window

24 Nov

Never had she gazed upon such a revolting shade of blazing white,

Than that which she stares at through the window her mother had built.

A tiny, practically minuscule frame,

A glass opening into the frozen, wintry terrain

That had become the only reality they share

The chilling wind seeps through the fractures in the glass

And yet she had grown numb to the cold

She could attempt to swipe the glass of its neglected dust and grime

And yet she knows not to waste energy on this futile attempt

But no, but no…

She splinters this glass with the force of her fist

Ignoring the crimson that drips to her wrist

She squeezes through what she had left of frame

Driven by hope she desires to claim

Her toes touch the snow on this frozen terrain

And she looks up…

And she sees nothing.

Behind the Brush

16 Nov

Who will perceive my sins, enough to be forgiven?

For what I do not do,

For all I do not see,

For none I all but feel;

This throbbing only numbed by the burning liquor or bottle of aspirin

Only adhered to when manifested by the hand,

For a reason unburdened to the world that would not understand.

For what do they see behind the hairs of the brush?

A quiet, gentle cringe of the wrist

As she is morphed into iridescent beauty

As her invisible outlines unveil to all but the blind

And the ignorant

And the enemy

And yet the friend

And yet the painter

For what lies without dimension behind that brush?

A blank nothingness on which on the paint is swept,

On which a world is built

Brick by brick

With each drop of bright oil.

And yet, hidden underneath the artist’s masterpiece,

Dwelling somewhere between the thread of the canvas and teal of the paint

Is where passion true lies.

For, the only anguish crueler than invisibility

Is being seen as all you are not,

And hanging upon a wall with chipping paint,

And scrutinized by every passing eye,

Evoking reactions only your flesh’s flesh feels.

For they always paint what is shown by the face

And yet they never paint what lies behind it.

To Question

14 Nov

To question is a fairly cherished ability in the eyes of the simple-minded, and arguably, beyond. It’s quite beautiful in its own intimate way, for a mere sporadic thought of inquiring confusion can spark, rarely bigger or more significant than a spark of a flame itself. One single, tiny grain of curiosity is all it begins as, and yet one minute puzzlement could indefinitely morph the bounding molds of the beholder, for rarely does a trivial curiosity remain at its level of insignificance. That infinitesimal puzzlement soon spreads rapidly like virus to each curve and crevasse of your brain, not merely embracing your cortex and suffocating your cranium, but sinking into each millimeter of terrain as if it were quicksand. And beneath the thin surface of your control system, hiding behind each wrinkle and through each directed action, your brain is hardly yours anymore. You are alive, you are tortured, you are awakened. Lying at the tip of each fingernail is a liable answer and if not, yet another question to clasp a fist around the base of your neck and steal you to a new state of awakening. You are fueled by this ever-kindling flame as it controls everything that you do, that drives every word your lips form, all braced by the itch of this no longer insignificant curiosity, but now, a question. And, let me inform you, let me scratch this itch of yours, until this thirst is quenched, until your puzzlement is given relief with absolution, you are your question.

You see, I am a child of question. A girl. A woman maybe? I don’t know. I’m a being of many, many questions because none of my questions were ever answered.

Please, allow me to keep us in an equal understanding: I am hardly a simpleton, never under the short-reached extents of a fool. In fact, a sizeable sum of my questions I had answered myself. They are none but theories, of course, but what could truly be one hundred percent consoled as truth? Even what the average, educated mind understands as accuracy could very well but nothing but an assumption supported by coincidences. The term one in a million, when the theory of these coincidences emerges, is typically brought up, as if that one in a million verifies the unrealistic nature of the thought. As if that one in a million is a synonymic euphemism for never. But, ah, here is yet another question I answered myself: what is never? What is nothing? I believe there is no such thing. One in a million is slight, but a possibility, as two in two million results in two lucky contesters, despite from how many people they rose.

Shall I quench yet another of your inevitable questions, unvoiced anywhere but your mind? Who am I?

In truth – and this is definitely truth – I don’t really know.