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Posts Tagged ‘hands’

You see the bookshelves collecting dust

and the pages of books banded together like

comrades and no one stop by to break the line.

Or a lyric sheet spread at a piano stand I suspect

the sound would be bland as no one cared

to touch the keys for a long time.  And the strings

of the violin were like my hairs loosened from

its follicles. Aged and unkempt.

 

Or the watercolor pans caked and its oil evaporated

in time without seeing a day on the paper

and all the images just lay there in the mind.

Each night you stare on the pair of begging hands

reaching out and nagging at your conscience.

Where does the time go? Does anyone know?

You may gone flirting into new diversions

gobbling your attention and forget the allegiance

you made to Mother Art and create orphans

watching when you’ll pick enthusiasm.

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Sometimes,  I catch myself

wondering about you

on some moonless evenings

or misty mornings, drifting-

where have your pages brought you

on some ride in the wind

or tail of a comet’s end.

 

Somewhere

hidden beneath the shadow of stars

thinking

 

who’s reading you now.

Whose hands walk

the landscape of your soul.

A borrowed moment

inhaling your scent

and leaving fine, little circles

of fingerprints

much softer than mine.

 

Sorry if

I left you-

 

like letters I burn in the fireplace

while watching the ashes float in winter air

and fall sadly to the pavement. Like rain

 

remembering the sweet hours.

The blur images of innocence

and immortality you believed

then, but honestly, I realize how beautiful

it was

 

and I kept you

for awhile but good things never last.

I wonder

 

who’s reading you now,

whose mind can fathom

the deeper meaning of you.

Whose hands were

much cleaner than mine.

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Why flipping a page from the book  is necessary

to pass time and you know that the hands of the clock

won’t turn back the hours that have been.

And you sit there on a corner

endlessly stare in silence,

writhing in the cold naked

without a soul breathing-

you shut them out of your world.

 

Why talking within your mind in monologues nags you

with guilt as if your life is a mess and you are helpless

about the future and guessing how it will ever end.

And nobody knows that there is a deep cavern

that you can’t escape. While you live the days

carrying the weight of an imaginary prison-

you wish that death is the only freedom.

 

Why people come and go as soon as the door opens

and later you close them. Never wanting them to stay

nor understand you like you always did before.

You said they deserve to be happy with the ones

who can fulfill their happiness and you are sorry-

that you are not going to be the person

who can be able to give the expectation.

 

Why does sleep won’t come as peacefully

like words that overflowed within you but won’t be heard

and you think that anyone would not be ready

to listen to any of it. Because they will feel the

vastness of the deep ocean and they can get drown

and won’t survive alive. And even they-  will feel

the same death that you have wished for yourself.

 

Why darkness is a fearful thing and yet you thrive in it

as if you allowed atonement for something or for someone

you have failed in the process. And honesty is priceless

but you keep on hiding that sad face within a mask

and wishing that this masquerade won’t last.

You go home alone again in the knowing

that you have not pretended to be accepted

for who you are. That is. Liars will go to hell.

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The gambler lost that day on his deck of cards.

He lost to fate by slim chance for survival.

They say, speed and luck are brothers

to a pair of hands knowing the trick. To hide

and conceal a loser’s streak while

 

at the bargaining table. The game goes on

and there’s no other way but win.

He need to come back for another try.

It’s another night playing jack against

the king. He will have to pawn his aces.

 

And he owes the world of the hours

he let passing by without noticing.

Isolated by fixation to win his conquests

by which probability of mathematics

and shrewdness, his potent weapon.

 

Pre-occupation. He tries to recover his losses

by the number of risks and repeats. He stabs

on chances and chases even more. It’ll never stop

until he is squeezed to the bone analyzing

his moves to that glorious escape. Big time.

 

And he believed- eventually he will make or break.

For him, to live is to win the game by the numbers.

The gambler lost that day on his deck of cards.

No bailout. No tolerance. Just lost his control,

when speed and luck became his greatest traitor.

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Love holds no record of wrongs-

that’s a lie. In fact, the stinging sensation

of your repeated inflicts of pain

made the wound even worse

that my imaginary thread of

kindness and understanding

wears thin. See my heart full

of needle holes from repeated

sewing and knitting and mending

patchwork, of quilts bleeding,

I wouldn’t know the difference

of pricking from piercing. To you

it’s a mastery of the art, this sadism

you won’t stop until you see me

broken, squirming and gasping

for breath, spared from your hands.

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My hands crawled into these keys

tapping words out into the world

extricating molecules of loneliness.

 

You read between the lines,

you pick the signals you want

magnet attracts the opposite.

 

I could be good more than I should.

Perhaps, angling for a thrill

a joyride of sorts, of lies…

 

Praise you a little, and I got you

on my hook, another gullible chum.

You never know what will hit you.

 

Let’s burn the hours

under the opium of disguise,

it’s good to wax poetic with egos.

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We lived in a world where

statistics is synonymous

with being number one.

Measuring up in a yardstick,

struggling our lifetimes

competing for spaces

reserved for subservient

imitators of culture and class.

 

Like crabs crowding and grabbing

and pulling each other down

wanting to rule the world. People

above people. Force against force.

 

For those who dared raising a fist.

For those who questioned authority.

For those who defy their masters

raised from the land they call-

the first world. Their birthright.

 

Is it about what you’ve been taught?

Is it about how you’ve been raised?

Have I been misplaced by fate?

My skin’s darker, hands dirtied,

swollen by hard labor. A gap

so wide I couldn’t leap forward

a privilege’s bloody to break.

 

The one with the skin much paler

has the prime seat in the house.

The one whose ideals are taller than the tree

had their palms oiled by the scent of money.

And their minions bow down in worship.

 

Supremacy over self-worth. Fanaticism

over humanity. Millions, blindsided

servants to little gods awaiting benediction.

I can’t do but keep silent and curse

the soil in which you were born,

giving you a seething stare in envy.

 

Shall I borrow then, your language

slipped out of your tongue? For I will

put sounds to the syllables of freedom

to speak and tell you, “our time has come”.

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