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Posts Tagged ‘cut’

Verges means being pushed to the edge.

Like you are being confronted at a knife point

and you just can’t turn around but to dive

into that abyss while you don’t know how deep it was.

You always say that you can’t let them ruin you

but it’s a plain lie you wish that all is perfect.

 

If only you can cut the wire and kiss the voltage.

If only you can let the rope grip around the neck.

If only you can break the mirror and embrace danger.

Would it change a thing? Ah but no, you just go on

struggling with your inner demons and chase them

wielding that sword to cut-off somebody else’s head.

 

For you, everyday is a waging battle of wits and reason.

Perfection is costly. Holiness is fatal. Which one are you?

Nobody is born a saint and you won’t believe it too?

Do you suppose to expect the world will applaud a hero?

You raised the bar too high and it left you there isolated

basking in your self-proclaimed brand of narcissism.

 

Tell me now then, how it hurts to held onto the razor’s edge.

Or screaming mad in silence when you temporarily got insane.

Does it worth to feed people’s expectations and drag your feet

into that unending precipice while you can’t discern the apex?

Excuse my French, but I think you need to stop this disillusion.

Take a turn towards the direction where your heart leads you.

 

You might be a simple man- confident and unpretentious. Free.

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How long would you hide your true feelings?

You wish to say something but the words swerved

to its opposite direction-sugarcoating the angst

frothing bittersweet at your mouth verbalizing

 

euphemism.

 

Say what you really mean.  Look me

in the eye and cut through your razor

sharp, spine-tingling voice into my face.

Don’t let me read between the lines.

 

Just to make your point mark deep

into the recesses of my consciousness.

Leave me bleeding. You’re the best

pretender that I have seen.

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Cut the line, if you do not want to hear what I’m saying.

Burn the page, if you do not like what you see.

I don’t have the habit of repeating myself

over and over again just to be understood.

 

Somehow, there will come a time that explanations

are not required. Questions are left unsaid

out of courtesy, while your mind is bubbling

with doubts, you need to accept me of who I am.

 

Like this, we talk on the phone without expression.

The heavy tone of your voice means a disappointment.

You’re definitely upset when I can’t catch you. And you

can’t catch me as we are both lost in translation.

 

Let us stop this virtual war. This undue vexation

of words coated in the niceties of being cerebral.

Can’t we simply talk as normal humans do,

caught in the flimsiness of conduct and etiquette?

 

You see, I didn’t plan to have more than five

stanza to this poem and keep on intellectualizing

on how stupid it was to win our every argument.

You know, sometimes you do not have to fight

 

every battles you are invited in. Just choose-

the best one. And argue with me. Fine.

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He stares at the frosted window,

dreaming of pigeons in flight.

Probing shadows in his oblivion

while the neighborhood is asleep

on this night bathed in blue light.

 

His heart refuses to surrender

to someone else’s handwriting.

 

He’s an outsider, perhaps a victim.

No one knows how he spent hours

imagining a beautiful world.

Unable to express, struggling

for a line to be understood.

 

An empty love bleeding sentences

that can never be written.

 

Such beauty, a flower in the field

belonging to some lucky bee.

Jealousy hits his innocence

like a knife to a man’s desiring,

leaving his wounds unhealed.

 

For the lady who reads letters

from some scented envelopes.

 

There is blood in the trash bin

and it does belong to him.

Among the crumpled sheets,

the fingerprints and drops of ink-

a memory of his scarred sanity.

 

How he endured the paper cuts;

this man’s life in blank pages.

 

The postman didn’t come today

and the letters were undelivered.

No one has foreseen death’s coming-

such as his knocking on doors

and opening of mailboxes, each morning.

 

They found a fountain pen in his hand,

motionless and still- in cold blood.

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You had no inkling

how it is to suffer.

 

I had a pair of scissors

by my bedside. Ready

to cut the thread of a dream

clinging to me like madness.

 

I regret the insanity

of my deep sleep.

When everything

appears to be real.

But unreal- once

I awakened.

 

That day when I open

my eyes to the naked

truth I found missing.

I am nothing. Invisible

to your touch, fragmenting

like a shattered glass.

 

I am on my own again.

And the constant fear

of losing you. The battle

will end here

tonight.

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Like a man in his fishing, so is writing.

You throw the fishing rod as if throwing on chances

while anchoring your boat on a chosen spot. In the open water.

 

And your fishing line sink deep in the ocean of words. You wait

in the hope that the hook lay captive to some imaginary mouths

snapped on a bait, struggling to come away like thoughts.

 

They are like fishes- these thoughts. They are swimming against the current.

Trapped and tackled. You hold the reel, winding down farther and farther

in search for the bounty of inspiration.  Luring its elusiveness to a catch.

 

The waves of emotion might crashed into your shore.

The sinkers might get stucked through the rocks. Buried in sand.

Or in a desperate attempt, you cut the line and start anew.

 

But again, you throw the fishing rod. To wait and to hope

that a big catch is on its way to lock its jaw on the bait.

You keep gripping the reel firm awaiting for the prize.

 

And soon in the mid-air, after all hours spent in silence

like a child born out of the  womb. Eureka! The feeling

of winning, the silver fish glimmer in your hands.

 

The writer has become a fisherman, persevering

in solitude, diving deeper into a mea culpa.

Hoisting the fishing line catching hearts, once again.

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That is when I would want to stop

thinking about numbers. Straining my eyes

glued to the pages of the calendar

pinned on the wall, I marked of days

in and out.  In a work life punching timecard.

 

You never knew how stressful it was,

to run alongside the clock ticking deadline.

And seeing life like a finish line,

guessing as if today  I would be fired,

saying this day would be toast to the last.

 

Number is a finite word.  For me, an illusion

that therein we draw our strength, our definition.

If dying is a painful exercise of keeping track,

and if calendars and clocks are its devices,

then I should shred them all together into pieces.

 

I’ll proceed cutting my fingers straight,

until I only have zero devoiding myself of order.

I would not want to buy the minutes,

and the hours.  And of the days expanding

into months and years wanting to live longer.

 

When I die, so sure that I’ll predictably belong

to some cold stark concrete listed with names.

Informing humankind of milestones in a file

cataloguing folder of the year I was born

and the year that I finally stopped counting.

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