Her Highness, Sadness

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Shorts / White

On a balmy spring afternoon, he sat there on the floor, with flushed cheeks that carried rivulets of warm salty tears down its length. His raven-black hair stuck out amidst the library walls; walls that were no stranger to this boy, for after all, they had seen him grow to the age that he was now. He sat picking away at a rather obscure thought, one that had been discussed, and dissected over the eons, one that did not, however, had not been answered to his fancy.

Sadness is the purest emotion.
When sadness ascends the frame of your body, and takes over the planes of your mind,
you pay no heed to where you are, or who you’re with–
the emotion takes the reigns.

 You could be a man of much self-assured hubris,
and yet, when sadness sings her tune, you care not where you are–
Looking at the blood reports, on a crowded hospital floor, confirming your worst fear,
Receiving a call during a Diplomat’s dinner, notifying you that your best friend has died.

No, not even the most proud and unshaken can silence sadness when she calls.
We are slaves to a Queen who ruled much before man,
who has seen more death, and fed more pain than we would ever know.
 

Sadness is the purest emotion,
for purity stems from a place of force,
a place of non-escape.
Where all are equal,
in one way or the next.

Flushed cheeks, pulsating against the rivulets that have now run dry; the ones that have now begun to pull at his skin. He cried, not because he pondered about sadness itself, but because the reflections it brought were far from happy. Reflections, like crystal rain, where within each drop he could see the sadness of his life, the truth in his thoughts, and the sheer weight of this dark reminiscence that kept him rooted to the spot, unable to wince, or think of another, for when the Queen spoke, she demanded all attention, and all attention she received.

And thus, upon once barren land, along grooves etched by forced rain, erupted more warm, salty rivulets.

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A Comparative Analysis Of You And My Body

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Mind Matter / White

It’s almost the end of 2018, and I still think about you. I Still think about your hands, my hips, and your warmth.

I still fantasise about us together; and you have no idea how hard the reality of today with respect to that, confuses me. Because I fantasise about the idea of you, more than you as a person; the idea of someone who would be perfect for me.

I’m finally able to say it. Our relationship –as two human beings existing, but for a moment– granted me so much happiness, and allowed me so much contentment. It didn’t shake me to the thought that I was in love with the man that you could be, and not the boy that you were. It helped ease my mind into not questioning it. I should have; in retrospect, I should have– because, given some foresight, I would have recognised how I was channeling my need for a perfect future, a stable future, with someone I cared about– onto your broad, yet fragile shoulders.

Maybe if I did question it, your eventual departure, and sudden withdrawal would have bothered me much less, and maybe then, I’d have sooner understood that what I felt for you was but a fleeting emotion that I attest to the spirits of all those who I felt romantic love toward; all of my valentines in blue, who have vanished without a trace, all the ones that till this  moment of clarity, remained elusive enigmas in the woods of my mind.

Maybe if I questioned it more, or gave it more thought, it wouldn’t be that every space I look to, in the name of love, I would have to see your face, or hear your voice, or smell your scent. Maybe then I’d allow myself relief, and solace, in the knowledge that our love was short-lived, but not fake. But since I did not, I sit here writing, in the atmosphere of yet another song that reminds me of you, and rainfall that takes me back to us; but this time, in reminiscence rather than fantasy.

And now that I have written, in prose loosely suggesting your impact on my being, I feel full again; as though I have washed in incense and elderflower, your scent from my body, and your mark from my spirit.

The first rains are supposed to be cleansing–
you poured down onto my body, like a monsoon cloud burdened with rain,
but whilst you shared your bounty,
you flooded yourself out.

I can tell when we began,
and now I say that we have ended.
How glorious that is.

Thank you.

 

Running In Circles 

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Black / Mind Matter

You berated me for being a coward. You shamed me for showing you who I really was.
You told me you were ashamed of me because I was running…
Amor, the truth is, I was running back to you.
How do you stop the disease when the medicine makes it worse?
Your love was what started this, and what reduced me to this scared mess that you now despise.

Tell me, should I stop? Should I cave and accept my failure?
Or should I keep running?
–back to you–

Life -in many a sense- is a series of patterns that one fails to consciously recognise, which is the reason that some forms of suffering operate full-circle. Which is why some people require external aid to help see these patterns, and break free from those that are toxic; those that trouble the soul, and the vessel.
This process of recognition may vary, between a few short hours, or a distant forever, and even then, it is not guaranteed. However, our humanity lies in our weaknesses; our constant need for perfection, and our inevitable fall from grace. Our lack of understanding of our own conscious minds, serves to be the biggest foe, that some may never fight. 

It isn’t that I enjoy this, my dear.
On the contrary, I run this track,
for this track was what you taught me to run,
with your love, at the end of it–
who was I to say no?

I wanted to be loved,
and you told me this was the way.
You led, I followed.
What difference, pray tell,
exists between an old God, and his blind follower,
and you, and I.

Did I not believe you unconditionally?
Did I not swear myself to your love?
Did you not smite me for the wrongs you perceived I’d done?
Did I not surrender at the temple of your pride?
Did I not run–
back to you?

Burgundy Roses, Lavender Skin

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Mind Matter / White

They don’t warn you of all the ills,
that come from staring into–
the well of your soul;
the darkness within,
that curdles to the top;
foamy scum, from a timid heart.

They don’t tell you of all that kills;
all the monsters that wait,
and the death that looms,
ever patient, ever hungry,
within a starving heart.

They don’t tell you of all the pain you endure,
whilst crawling to the door,
after a break in your spirit;
Or the hurt you keep–
hidden away,
within the confines of your soul.

They don’t tell you how to fill,
the hole in your spirt,
for they need you to feel,
feeble and unable,
to carry on–
without them.

They don’t, but expect you to know,
not to grow beyond who they think you are;
to live without, and live within,
the hurt that’s in your heart.

But no, you must not give up,
for what the world says not to you,
is that you still can stand up;
that you still can be loud;
and that you still can grow out–
past all of that inner doubt,
and all that they throw at you,
for even if you do not believe it,
the world is always with you.

Look up to the cosmos, and speak what you desire. Speak with conviction, and speak with strength. For when you do, the universe truly will conspire to give you what you seek.

Pathos

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Black / Mind Matter

The following is a poem in memory of a friend that I recently lost. May you find more peace in the ether than you did down here, young soul.

Timid, was your heart,
in its quest to find some love.
Broken, was your spirit,
when it found nowhere to run.

Happy, floating, calm, and caring;
words to describe the boy that you were then.
Hurt, lost, alone, and scared;
words to describe the boy you have now become.

The darkness that lingers within the confines of our hearts,
need us to know how to tear it apart;
but our frightened attempts to break free from its hold,
can’t ever translate, the helplessness of the spirit, or the bite of its cold.

If only a day before, I knew what I know now,
and a day before, I had reached out to you, how–
a difference I would have made, how–
a life I would have saved.
If only a day before, I knew.

There are no words to describe the gravity of shock,
on the faces of your family,
as they try to make sense of their spinning heads,
in the aftermath of all the secrets that you kept.
Those secrets that ultimately lead up to your death.

There are no words to describe the gravity of loss,
in the hearts of your friends,
who felt they were robbed–
off the chance to have seen you once more–
the chance to have told you once more,
that you are loved, and you are enough;
that you will raise children who’re just as much,
that you can speak your mind, with no fear of being judged,
for you are enough, and you are loved.

Please hear me now, from where you may rest,
the world may move on,
but our hearts stay bereft,
of all the colour that you brought,
and all the words you did speak,
and all those that you didn’t,
and all those we didn’t feel.

Maybe there was no greater intent,
in your hanging, or your death as is;
but my eyes are now open,
my ears ring clear,
my heart is bleeding;
yet I cannot express to you–
how deeply I feel.

But I’m sorry, my friend,
that I let you down.
that we drifted apart,
and I wasn’t around.
I’m sorry for all the times we didn’t speak,
I’m sorry for you, and I’m sorry for me.

I will treasure each moment that we had spent,
and remember you fondly for being my friend,
at a time when I didn’t have very many,
you were there for me, and that I will never forget.

I believe in a place where our souls will depart to,
when our stint on this planet does come to a close,
I believe I’ll see you there when I leave too,
till then, be well, my friend.

Ergo, I doubt

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Mind Matter

Do you recognise yourself,
all of yourself–
on days when you can barely make it to your dresser,
without questioning your motivation to get out of bed?

Do you recognise freedom,
if you’ve never lost yours;
if you’ve only ever seen it taken,
in books, and plays, and songs, and films–
do you then truly understand its loss?

Do you recognise hopelessness,
when thinking about your future?
of how you will grow,
and who you will be,
do you see a glimmer, a shimmer,
of hope for thee?

“I want to go home” I often say to myself,
sometimes when I am at home–
which leads me to believe,
that home is elsewhere for me,
far from the dredges of this world,
and its void of people.

I like walking alone,
because it resonates in my soul–
the lonesome that shall be,
forever my honest companion.

He who is my muse, holds such a dire place in my world–
amidst the oddities of my mind,
and the demons of my heart.

Yours, Persephone.

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Inspired / Shorts

Forget him,
and his name,
leave his throne,
escape his face.

The hell you live in now,
isn’t fake;
He knows–
He made it.

.
Hades tricked Persephone into eating enchanted pomegranate seeds so that she would have to remain with him for a portion of the year.
.

And from her lips,
spilt the poisoned seeds of his deceit,
ruby red, and glowing are the ties that bind her now;
enamoured by his false enchantment,
lusting only that which the fruit reflects.

How cunning, how sad,
that the reason she stayed,
was for lack of choice;
for lack of will.

That, Young Innocent,
is not the love that you deserve,
not the love you ought to chaste,
nor the love that you must chase.

You,
deserve more,
for you,
are more.

Wet Earth : Dry Tears

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White

The first rains are supposed to be cleansing.

You poured down onto my body,
like a monsoon cloud burdened with rain,
sharing your bounty,
and flooding me out.

The first rains are supposed to be healing.

No fruits from your shower,
grow tall within my soil.
For when you rained, you poured;
and took from me the fertility I kept–
for when you rained, you ruined.

The first rains are never what they seem. 

I can tell when we began,
but not when we will end.
Isn’t that tragic?

 

 

Foreign 808s (Heartaches)

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LGBT

I see the boys running,
I know that they’re there;
and I know that for me,
they might not care;
yet something within me,
finds home in their eyes,
amidst all the tears,
I’ve imagined them cry.

Inevitably I find myself,
falling deeply, and hopelessly,
in love with strangers from foreign lands.
Inevitably I find myself,
daydreaming about a kiss, or a touch.
Inevitably I begin to lose myself,
within this fantasy inside my mind.
Inevitably I wake. Inevitably.

Meaningless encounters,
seek meaning in my head.
Like meaningful encounters,
with the souls of the dead.

When I learn a new language,
I learn first to say,
“I’m Sorry”, and then, “It’s Okay”;
for then I will know what to say to myself,
when I must pick up the remains of my heart,
when it lays in pieces, in the throes of a foreign dark.

Deep red veins,
through which I now swim–
If only I’d known of your bleeding ocean,
before I jumped in.

Was it your permanence,
that I got comfortable with?
Or was it your words,
that enchanted me so?
kept me low,
and kept me here?

were they even your words though?

Alas, not even the pain may linger,
as I pack up my heart, and pick up my bags,
to embark on another foreign start.
Inevitably I shall sleep once more,
Inevitably I shall wake.
Inevitably I shall lose some more,
Inevitably.