Impalpable

Animus

So lackadaisical that words begin to cluster. 
And you maunder on about the people we used to be. 

Here is the difference between you and I though;
You stopped caring, and I never gave a fuck to begin with.

More in love with the idea of being in love, than I actually was with you. 

Now you imbibe, and throw words around the room in haste;
Slurring insults and fostering threats that have no more space to harbour. 

I’ve grown tired of your aggression,
and weary of scurrility. 

Lately, I’ve been on edge.
Standing at the crossroad of who I am and who you’ve become. 

Such an opulent lifestyle we used to lead, 
How strange it has become to be more loaded in my mouth, than my pocket.

She had told me words were daggers,
and I dare not idly throw them.

How quickly have I forgot my childhood lesson,
how readily you’ve remembered yours.  

Now taunts, like knives hold tight to my jugular and meek whispers find themselves sneaking from lips. 

But I’m sure to remain quiet. Nothing is more cut throat than silence.
The only thing worse than words spoken, are those yet to be heard.

But you, like the fool you’ve always been, preach mockery between heavy breaths, 
providing fuel to this fire. 

You misjudged me, my darling.

You have not seen the flames that are buried in my soul,
You have not witnessed the passion that resides in my being.

Mistaken were you by the delicate embrace that collectively described our time shared,
But masks are malleable my love, and your eyes were fooled just as easy as your heart. 

You have not seen what lays beyond,
and insanity is more cryptic than mere thoughts and hallucinations. 

Seems almost fictitious to picture that one, such as I, would act upon these ideals,
but you were always too quick to judge, and too slow to react.

So tell me, my dear, was her breathe on that night worth yours in passing? 
And if so my love, tell me what its like to regret, because I have yet to feel what anything but revenge might taste like. 

My oh my, there has never been sweeter. 

Salt and Sand

There’s one thing in life I’ve learned.
No one… and I mean no one,
is worth compromising your morals. 
- People are disposable.

Why has it taken me so long to realize that it’s easier to be alone than to be afraid?
Festering in my head, these thoughts are terrifying but the butterflies that pit themselves in my stomach are no better when I’m around you.

I feel sick.
Sick thinking about you.
Sick being with you.
At least in my lonesome I know that my vulnerability cannot fuel further fires.

Smearing the black that pours from my eyes,
like some fitful habit that I can’t seem to shake.
Raking nails against my scalp to pull away at the thoughts that creep into the cracks between my skull… and my brain.

God my brain, like a sponge, so porous, does it suck up your illicit words,
Elicit my smile that sneaks its way from ear to ear.
 

Agitation in my body.
Irrigation in my soul.
Artificial, are these feelings burrowed in the skeleton of my senses. 
Actively, do I attempt to purge the sound of your voice.
How stubbornly rooted have you become to the technologies of my life.
Seven to delete your messages.
Red to erase the history. 

Saving face is not so simple when the architecture of your mind can’t construct such as bona fide, or valid, legitimate or believable at that. 

To paint a mask upon a crumpled canvas, do lines still predict lies. 
— Brush away, fade away, scars are still scars.

Salt mixes with sand, and I will forever feel these burns.
This Bridge has been burned. 

http://www.flickr.com/photos/brookeshaden/6818875498/in/photostream

Insanity

Sanctioned intentions lead to immoral inventions,
Too weary is a tempted mind. 

But what the heart doth speak, does the mind still ponder;
incessant flight of thought does grow fonder.  

It seems to me that all we have, is an outline for rational, 
and criteria for mad.

For my mind does speak to itself in tongues,
that I have not questioned since a time of young

Where belittlement and greed marked my words,
and drastic changes enveloped such spurs.

Of questioning, of truth, of loyalty and rebellion,
Here do I lay in a pool marked with seven.

No luck has caught my arm, my reach, in passing,
and life is ironic like the mad man whose laughing. 

Whose thoughts become twisted, whose voice becomes silenced,
Whose eyes tell stories of passion and violence.

But if you seem to analyze anything of sort,
You’ll find yourself lost in the brain’s lonely court.

For nothing makes sense, and nothing is right,
Lights will be on, but nothing is bright.

Darkness will cloud the most innocent perception,
Soon, to be left are tales of deception. 

Empty pockets and empty lies, 
Mirrors show insight to that we despise. 

 

First and Last.

Fixations, and attractions to such focal points;
you almost impair any cognition.

And you’re standing there, like,
“Who is that?” and
“Why are they looking back?”

You consistently fear that something is wrong;
that nothing about you could ever be right. 

If you stare too long they’ll see right inside you.

Redirect your glance; forceful. 
Translucent to the gaze that dissects you. 

Hastily walk away;
Instantaneous regret. 

But No.
It was right.
You walked out of their life before they could walk into yours.

And it’s satisfying.
For it was you who left this time,
and that’s what you had always promised; after.

Then you reminisce about that one time when they smiled at you,
and you smiled back.

When they walked towards you and you found your legs moving faster,
Faster than your mind could process.

— And nothing in God’s name could tell you what pulled you towards them,
but you knew that nothing, would pull you apart - and then, they do.

They take every inch of everything you had and pull it from limb to limb.
Stretched out every last piece of anything you ever shared and hung it on pegs for all to see.

No longer their muse, but their property; nothing about this is beautiful.

But you play along,
because becoming something is better than nothing at all;
and then you find yourself here.

Every day you wake up with something pressed tight against you;
You will never be that close to anybody again.

You sleep with a sheet on top of you on the hottest day of the year,
because you never want to be that vulnerable again.

Such native actions become defensive;
just the idea of shutting your eyes sends you into a fit of panic.

You tell people that you’ve never been a people person, but that was all you ever were. You were a person’s person, and you loved everything about it.

Then they took you, and they mangled you, and they mauled at you.
Burned through your heart like flaming glass and ripped a seam right up your chest.

They wrapped wires around your throat and garroted you till the only words that they found were those strong enough for them to hear; and weak enough for you to say.

Becoming embarrassed of ideas that resembled emotion;
You avoided the negativity that bound itself to the mere thought of repetition.

And when people, ask you Why?
Why you’re so fucked up?
All you can do, is lie.

All you can ever say is that you were born like this;
Because how else do you express that the one you loved most is the one who made you hate everything outside such confines?

…and that if you ever saw them again, that you wouldn’t hate them -

You would just sit there, and stare.
Repeating to your legs that they should not walk, but run - as far away as possible.

It seems that they, like your heart, missed the cue the first time round.
 

Dormant

That belief that if we stare at something long enough, maybe we’ll see what we wish to.

What a hard head and a heavy heart must weigh to keep me level.

Constant fluctuations of what I am and what I should be,
who I ought to become to guarantee some form of success, or gratification. 

I’m so vigilant at times that not even the simplest pleasures of life seem to surprise me.

Constant anticipation for those around me to screw up,
waiting almost eagerly to catch their mistakes and quarantine myself till I can collect all the pieces.

It’s been years since the last drop though, has it not?

Yet, here I am, instinctively second-guessing.

Awaiting the next time it’s going to happen, as if I could do anything to stop it.

God knows how high the walls were built last time,

and Crusade did he, all over me. 

Inadequete were my feelings.

Inconsequential, my emotions.

Incessantly do I lay in dormancy; 

And you, My Dear,

You will never have it all.

For it is still in pieces amongst the floor, 

and patterned tile prints, will forever, keep it hidden. 

He[Art]

Instantaneously, have I become your exhibit. 

Standing there, while people stare at what you ever-so arrogantly proposed as yours. 

Much like canvas is my skin to which I feel such copious gazes; and sudden flashes galvanize the urge to pull away.

Bound, am I, to these walls you’ve so eagerly fashioned. 

Feelings become indelible, and such vulnerability is the ‘essence’ of your work.

“Beautiful, what you’ve done here — you.”

“Simply ravishing isn’t she?” - You remark. 

Laughing at my insecurities as if they are the satire of your collection; vex my liberations.

The desire to belong provokes the shaking in my knees and such weakness displays itself in the most feeble mannerisms.  

The impulse to leave and the inclination to stay have me —

anxiously awaiting the gallery on the notch of your belt. 

I’ve seen this position far too many times to deny my habituation.

Adaptation has never been the backbone I wished to lean against.

But, today,

I have the moxie to tell you, that I’m leaving.

If you ever see me again,

know, that your work has finally seen the light; 

The surface is so much brighter than I ever would have imagined. 

Picture taken from: http://nickthejam.tumblr.com/

Abnormality

Conditioned, am I, to these feelings of remorse.

And what now is my life but a study?

Unwillingly, do I consent to such psychologies as if extinction were an option.

But these fears, these thoughts, that I have,

Where else are they to reside?

I’ve associated such basic things with: happiness, and joy, lust and ecstasy.

Made myself a target for my own self analysis. 

As if olfaction itself could replace such indecencies.

Yet, I continue; designing a practice that my brain’s hemispheres distinguish as false -faux-pas are these mistakes of rationality.

To play a trick on my mind when it was the entity that designed such illusions -

Am I crazy or simply over-idealistic?

You cannot fix that which you do not recognize as broken.

Charred inside are these pathways to success, and liberty, life and optimism.

Freedom to think has led to my own course of destruction; and I beg for some restraint; some type of outlet to escape - to get away - to terminate.

To ponder such hypotheses, to conclude any such observation.

Here is the travesty of creation.

Here lies such manifestations;

Aberration is she to the average.

http://mr-frenzy.deviantart.com/art/Abnormality-22574975

Haven

It’s strange how that place used to be my haven.

Now strangers walk amongst its paths daily, treading upon the ground like it means nothing.

I used to go there as a child, and run into forests darkened by tall trees and heavy leaves;hide amongst the mossy rocks, and curl up on stone cobbled bridges with a book; let the world pass me by.

Nothing could not be fixed there.

A single sanctuary on this God forsaken planet was mine.

My home; everything I had ever come to know, was here.

I went back today, only to see that nothing was as I had last left it.

Homemade paths were replaced with slates of concrete, and street lights were plastered along the sidewalk as if someone had wished to exploit IT.

I walked for an hour, searching for somewhere else to collect my thoughts, but nothing seemed to speak to me the way IT did.

I hid beneath my fur lined hoodie and rushed passed the monsters who trampled all over my home, my place, my sanctuary.

They had no idea what they were apart of;

No clue what they had stolen from me; they could never understand.

This place was my inspiration for so many things.

All the memories of my childhood could be traced back to this place; it knew silence, it knew sadness, celebration and even mourning. 

This place knew about my first kiss, my first crush, my first goal in soccer, the time I learned to rollerblade, my first broken heart, the first time I knew what a real friend was… This place was the closest thing to constant I had.

It was supposed to always be there for me. The one thing that never changed and always accepted; a site of moving on and moving forward.

Every single landmark in my life was etched in the ground and now buildings of many stories mocked the trees that used to protect me.

With all these firsts,

I NEVER expected this to be my last. 

http://wallpaperstock.net/small-bridge_wallpapers_24864_1920x1200_1.html

Abberent in Nature, are we.

Bridges swayed like skipping rope on a child’s playground. Trees collided with telephone wires and tangled like headphones in a teenager’s pocket. Everything seemed so insignificant in those moments.

The buildings that scattered themselves around my neighbourhood no longer stood with the same superiority as the day before. Fire lit their foundations like a match to a candle and everything came crumbling to the ground.

It’s strange how one day everything seems untouchable, impalpable; and within seconds, you watch it decay from the inside, out.

The screams that came from the city that night etched themselves in my bones. There was nothing that could make you forget. Nothing would ever make one forget.

The beautiful day that had awoken the town that morning, was gone. Instantly, clouds enveloped the beautiful blue sea with a veil of black;  someone had cremated the sky, and all its ashes had come pouring down.

People took out their cameras, bewildered by the change in scenery, but fire ripped through the sky like falling stars, and desperation replaced the eagerness. Children ran to hide beneath the awnings that covered the town’s cafes, but soon, even those glowed with the amber of combustion.

Mothers were shrieking to find their families and names were being yelled across the piles of rummage. Business men were quickly packing up their briefcases as if any of the paperwork mattered anymore. No one seemed to recognize that their lives would never be the same. Panic drowned out logic and selfishness was an accurate caricature. Nothing was exaggerated in these moments, but time. It seemed to slow down. Like everyone was put on hold, struggling to get through to the same operator. Ques were numbers, and people were masses you had to pass to make it out alive. I never expected to be so calm in this situation. I never thought I’d be the one watching… watching everything around me collide like paint on a pallet.

Element Fire Original Abstract Oil Painting by Hellenne Vermillion

Should I continue? I’m unsure if I should write more. If anyone has any feedback it would be greatly appreciated! :)

Fantasy.

Like a character in a novel who runs from their shadow,
You’ve become this weak, milquetoast of a human being.

Too afraid to be yourself for fear of being left.
But you’ve left;
Everything that matters, behind you.

Suddenly you belong to this endemic place where backs can’t be turned.
Where castigation and mendacity mask such faulty intentions.

Whose to say what truths are told?
Whose to say so with such validity.

Perception dictates what we perceive as fact.
Maybe it’s not actuality, but some sick alteration of fantasy.

Like what we wish to see is what exists,
and what we deny, is a delusion.

If such axioms subsisted, perhaps we’d wake up to a dream…
Instead, we find ourselves waking from them; walking away from such perfection as if the subconscious merely mocks our desires.  

Taking every taste of infatuation from our souls till we curse the bane of our existence.

And for what?
What exactly is it all for?

Why do we persist and participate in such sick games when the end is merely a single point at the end of a path. 

Running in such ridiculous circles, pushing each other out of the way, only to wind up exactly where we started.

And then you find yourself saying,

“Infectious, it is.
This life of lavish.”

“Infectious, it is.
This temptation to leave. “