Friday, December 20, 2013

The Label.

You called the depths you explored, the meanings I found "a project." Now, all the moments I had seem like a score.
And suddenly the sea has no sky to reflect.

Sunday, December 15, 2013

The Playlist

I shuffled
The poison,
The antidote,
The cocktail

It meant
On Repeat.

Monday, December 2, 2013

The Phantom Bypass

I see you've engineered a new tear-drop, flawless in its structure, rich in its appeal, and with programmed beeps for the right hour; and the way gravity pampers it, almost real. Do you know that “almost” is not a thin line, to those who’re not as obvious as gravity? I could be fooled, again, denying the sincerest of doubts that are too strait-laced to be awed by the beauty of a lie. Or I could contradict the plausibility on display, create two poles, and rise above the platitude. We could be two people buying each other’s lies. Or we could be two highways selling our own ways.

Either way, truth isn't a label you get when you cry to prove your point.

Tuesday, November 26, 2013

I am not your subject.

But I never asked for pity. You’ve lost your childhood and you’re out of practice. That’s why you’ll never understand, what all of this means. That’s why you mistake my rhymes for a strategy, my loud wishes for a certain size of a donation box. 
Don’t ever, ever mess with my innocence. Just so you know, I can be mean too.

Tuesday, November 19, 2013

The Adventures of Foresight

I can see you. Winter isn’t here just to live by calendars and forecasts; it’s here to fog up the air around me, and the air around you. I can still see you. You can’t see me.

Here, right now, how I see it all matters because tomorrow relies on it. So I’ve decided to see through you. And winter is here, so I can have something to blame for the cold feeling I will have after having seen through you, or something to thank, for you will not have seen through me.

There are wires; there are hearts, not used. And you can’t see me. That’s why tomorrow; all of this will be just a memory. I seeing you not seeing me has no future. And winter is here, to teach me to get used to it.

And maybe I’ll grow old by the time I figure this out, but I’ll be old and strong, having lived through many, many winters.

The ghosts I let in

For a moment, it felt like sinking,
except for my stagnancy;
the way I froze
made the end avalanche
in the depths of me.

For a moment, it felt like black skies,
but for my shut eyelids;
the way sleep escaped
made space shrink,
with the stains in me.

For a moment, it felt like screaming,
but for my silence;
the way my heart thudded
made music screech,
in the vessels inside me.

So it wasn’t me sinking
in the depths of black skies,
and screaming.
It was me,
sheltering the end, and the skies, and chaos;
the way I eventually melt
makes me keep

Thursday, September 26, 2013

The same old mistake

I murdered ants. With my fingertips. And got back to what I was doing, as if nothing had happened.
You murdered a part of me. With your words. And got back to what you were doing, as if nothing had happened.
And it made me feel so small.

Moral: Don’t get too close to people.

Wednesday, August 7, 2013

Clueless Kids

I have memories, far too many, actually, of being out-flooded by my stubborn streams, whose repetitively confirmed idiopathy couldn’t gather much weight to stand as a defense against the imminent damage to my perceptive realms, only to twist me more, to leave me a bit more beseeching for salvation at times, a bit more callous to the persistent pain at times, and most of the time, way too much drawn away from the things around, everything else, that is, not because of their relative trivialities but because everything seemed to have an  ever-active mode that blatantly meant to say ‘like-me,’ and I was not looking for something likeable; I was looking for something/ anything that would make sense.

And then there are kindergarten kids; one cries and the other immediately cries, not imitating, just being naïve and irrational as ever. And there, in that irrationality, paradoxically, is that rationale of connection, which crushes the wall of the well of solipsism and something about it, if not the flood itself, makes sense. (Seems like I have company; and suddenly, flood can’t be that bad.)

Friday, July 5, 2013

Access Denied

And then, you right-clicked on me and scanned the options you could do to/with me. And you tried every button, and got used to it.
And now, I’m an old habit to you.

But I’m changing my password now. My life needs me.

Sunday, June 9, 2013

There you are, life

So you hurt me?

And here I am,
Imbued with sudden purpose.

So you'd do it again?

And here I am,
Disconnected from there.

So you didn't mean to?

And where could I be,
Barricaded by choices.

So call again later.
I may/may not leave it unanswered,
without meaning to.

Friday, May 17, 2013

On different pages

Now is the right time to ask me if I’m ok. Because now is the time, the time to let you know that you’re late. 

Wish I were here

I doubt how I define enough is actually what enough is, so if I were to convince myself that I can go another round of your who-smiles-best contests, risking my heroism in my own story just to not be omitted from the big picture,  I will obviously make myself smile, one more time.

I doubt how I define smile is actually what smiles are, so if I were turn around all of a sudden, I might need a fraction of a second to reabsorb my expression and make room for reciprocating the expressions in air and I will definitely join the conversation, one more time.

I doubt how I define a conversation is actually what conversations are, so if I were the one supposed to make sure the lulls don’t get a chance, I will probably talk about health and relatives; movies and music and strain harder to remember everything I have overheard people talking about, leaving the philosophies and whims, the regrets and resolutions for a conversation with the walls of a rest room nearby, one more time.

I doubt smiles and conversations inedible to my actual system make a cause good enough to protest, so I will suppress my impulses, one more time.

Anyways, I will give you a good show, even if I doubt I’m here.

Sunday, April 21, 2013

Liar, Liar. Pants on Fire.

I only meant to knock on your door.
I only meant it as a yes/no question.
You didn't have to explain why your walls are colored with the color I never heard you talking about, why that particular picture is hanging there, why your coffee mug is still stained all over, why the socks from your pair of socks have been assigned distant corners; why the lights are still on.
But you did. And I don't care. (I never should have.)
FYI, there's a crack on your shell.
And that's not because I knocked.
Offense intended.

Thursday, March 28, 2013

The Need for abstinence

I’ll stop by sometimes. That, I can promise.

Of scandalous smoke and misty words, I know little and I’ve decided to stay that way. Of nothingness and its paradoxical substance, I come to know more every day. The void inside me (or is it the other way round), compromisingly voracious that it is, ever taking in one more round of foreign smokes and words, and one more round of domestic analysis, never filling though, is punctured here, rusted there, and so when you fire a storm into me in one of many wrong directions, it leaks sometimes and that isn’t my call. I wouldn’t go so far as to blaming the navigator because if you’re not rowing your boat somewhat smoothly, it doesn’t mean the entire tide is your fault; but I dare go as far as to say that you shouldn’t sail in a kind of sea that you’re not ready for.

So hell yeah, I’m dangerous. You can’t just bump into a person like me walking with this void and shake hands just for the fun of it. This black hole I have that happily devours things, trash or gold, every time you feel like disposing a sin or protecting a secret, is spinning every second of its own existence, unpredictable in its manner, searching for something to settle for, a meaning that’ll nullify the emptiness, a tangible proof to convince itself of the importance of insanity that will stand for itself when I’m occupied with handling the periodic fits of convulsions, and it does not come with an insurance like it’s a bank deposit or something. You can shake hands with me, no problem; come to think of it now, it’s a necessary distraction for a while, but you can’t sign a deal with me. It’s not often that it rains simultaneously in two different worlds and it is only when it does, that we understand how the other one feels; at all other times, it’s just out-of-line conversations and empty sympathies. And such things provoke the dark knights in my empty empire and sometimes they even draw out their rusted swords, not just for the fun of it, but with the acumen that a naïve nothing is way better than a shitty something.

So let me admit myself to my own what is still a Montessori.  And I understand your concern but with time I’ll build a school that will educate every twisted thought I have and will have, not a private asylum.
I’m not being so much as adamant as I am being careful but until I find a meaning, I’ll just stop by. For a while. Too much of me isn’t a good idea.

Until I do, Good-bye.

Thursday, March 14, 2013

The Menu

There’s a long list, it’s you who picks. The ingredients, the freshness, the garnishing, you judge from the looks of it. You pick and spend some time with it, and decide how often you’d like its company. (Don’t get carried away by the complementary drink alone. You don’t always get it and that’s no reason to complain.)

But everything I am stuffed with may not be exactly what you are expecting. I hope you’ve heard it too; how they say that everybody is a little bit of everything. Without mentioning the percent composition, they say so to misguide you to thinking that a particular thing could be something else, if it may please you, provided it’s given another chance, which isn’t to say it isn’t true but which isn’t to imply that that very something won’t be another race of different the day after tomorrow either, for if a little bit of everything is involved, every saint and every sinner; every dog in it will get to live a day or a moment at least.

So promises of tomorrow are a disrespect to the day after tomorrow.

That’s why it’s important to give truth a chance, and excuses a retirement.

And that’s why a repetition is a necessity. What is on display may not be everything that I am, and even more importantly, vice versa.


Tuesday, March 12, 2013

The New Evolution

“Who are you?” asks the Spider to the Spiderman.
“I’m Spiderman. I’ve got super powers.”
“Who are you?” asks the Spider to Spiderman, again.
“Your descendent.”
“Shut up. But how come you’re more popular than I am, if you are just an exaggerated imposter?”

“Because the world today takes a better liking to phonies,” whispers Spiderman.

The Process and The Color

I like to believe what’s melting is ice and ice is just water, certainly not what you paid for. And I know it’s not the case, unlike how you don't know what I’m selling is my own truth, certainly not what you’d expect on sale.

Because it seems as though the trick is in the cream, and though I don’t like it when you call it flavor, I’ll work on my translation skills accordingly. I’ll probably go through it again and picture myself as the apparatus and you as the temperature. But help me, how do I know what’s the threshold for the glass the apparatus is made up of, for though my insides are readily vulnerable, I’d need to keep my form?

One scoop out of refrigeration isn’t exactly a sin, it’s a destined cycle. So it isn't fair that it gets mocked when it’s in a transitional phase as if it’s always going to be weak and leaky. As if it won’t cross the bridge and get to the other side. 
(Especially when you’re the one who’s more concerned about the form I’m contained in.)

The point at which it melts isn't exactly the answer you should be working on when what I’m asking is when it ceases to exist. So tell me when did I become someone else?

Jokes for jokes

1. The polarity

A ruined rendezvous, you say
The rain, hurt, now disappears.

I’d let my umbrella remain inside the bag
I hope you know whose side I’m on.

It’s too big and so you rule it out,
But Blue is the blindfold

No more curses will do,
Leave past be.

2. The fool

I stretched and swung my hands around
Flirted back with the rain drops
And I secretly thought;
I gave a spectacular show,
Like in the movies

Little did I know about your secret ridicule

And now that I realize
How little you know about reacting to the unexpected
I wonder who the bigger fool is

3. The memory

The road was black and dry,
Zebra cross kept calling my name
And I ran to it, across it
From one planet to another
And nobody will ever know where it rained

And the weight of the eyes can’t crush me now
Because memory can be masked,
Trained and recycled
into something else
Because I can make up stories

Leave my lies be.

Sunday, February 24, 2013

The changing neighborhood

Photo by: cYabari

It happens. You mistake somebody’s heart for tandem. And expect synchrony. And that’s what you don’t get.

That’s why you shouldn't complain if I speed up or slow down as our independent pedals would have it. Just because we are driving on the same road doesn't mean we're neighbours.

And fate is a different story.