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Posts Tagged ‘heart’

He keeps me shrouded in shredded pieces

sprawled and reclusive and momentarily

locked up vanishing in mediocrity.

 

Like someone who is afraid of the sanity

and Charles Dicken’s tale of two cities

and I never get to understand Virginia

Woolf, why her heart cries like a wolf

in the night longing for words as

earnest as Oscar Wilde. Dorian must be

some kind of lover of self and boisterous

as Ernest Hemingway. Not in the league

 

of imagination pours in my cup of tea.

Blood of ink flooding in my desk.

Days and days of wandering and wondering

where the words hide in the curtains.

That great expectation.

 

Lucky is Jane Austen for she can choose

not to be shrouded and shredded but

privileged unlike some Emily Bronte’s

Heathcliffe who tries to redeem romance.

Some hearts that pound in the will of the horse

and to kill a mockingbird of Harper Lee.

I hope to catch the rye like JD Salinger.

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A heart

belonging to someone who-

in another place

and another time

traveled the open ocean.

The distance of years

were only yesterday.

 

There’s a message in a bottle

washed up ashore.

 

Like the wave

knot by knot reaching out

for the love he lost

 

by the sea.

 

Sailing past the stormy waters,

buoyed by hope afloat.

For one day, their souls

might have a second life.

Reunited and alive.

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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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Your orbit may find you

in an unending cycle of hiding

and showing up across the sky.

Like a shepherd tethered

to your protection I slip

a chance and probe the map

where you lay all your secrets.

 

The night clouds veil

a silhouette of gloom

while wind chills my heart

and waits until the waning light

travels the length of this room.

Leaving a trace of dewdrops

glistening of little stars

to my skin aching and wanting.

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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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She told me that my father was another man,

well I shrugged my shoulder and say “it’s okay”.

But she didn’t know that I am writing my pain away.

I came to a point of thinking about those fatherless

children who lost theirs in wars, in car crashes…

 

I am still lucky, and better-off, I got one

whom I can call Dad, but he would rather not.

He told me I am not his son, and he would not talk

nor teach me how to drive cars. I sat down on a corner

and started scribbling my pain away. Maybe I can draw…

 

And draw myself a car, a house, a tree, the blue sky,

and people smiling under the sun. Until I came to a point

of thinking that I could imagine a world, my happy world.

I could draw as many cars as I would like, and as many fathers

who could teach me how to drive and see how proud I am.

 

But playmates taunted me it is not all true. They laugh.

They scorn. They tell me how crazy I am to believe.

I just left, not minding, distant and alone. “It’s okay”.

I will just write my pain away.  I write good stories

about friends who sit beside you and listen to you.

 

They, who will never doubt how good the story was.

But some books I read say otherwise. There were lessons

which say do this and do that. I believed it was. That

I should never be a pauper begging for affection.

That I should be headstrong.  That I should  be honest.

 

And genuine. That good people will go to heaven. I did

believe in truth and desperately seeking it all my life.

But I was mocked and I stand bruised and wounded.

They say I am too much. They say I am brash.

They say I am too frank. They say I intrude.

 

They call me names. It’s  like big boys and big girls

saying that I should go away. They don’t need me.

And then again, I isolate and pick a pen, scribbling…

And I am writing my pain away. And this blank space

is sure and will not reject me like most people did.

 

No matter how fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters,

friends and even if the world will turn against me

and continue to restrain their hand in extending love.

I would teach myself loving without taking, understanding

that my heart is rich and I have much more to give.

 

I could belong like my ink being absorbed by the paper,

without condition. Just pure distill of my thoughts.

I could somehow say that I found a home to myself

after all.  With the pain I’ve been through,  I am

still here writing my pain away.  I am not alone.

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A balladeer sings a song.

Serenading his heart’s reflection

in wine glasses rippling its rhythm

navigating strange passages

of tenderness that filled

water canals of romance

he witnessed everyday.

 

His voice knows the direction

where to bring new lovers

bowled over by the moon

and the stars, sailing

their feelings away.

Smooth gliding inch

closer to tranquil

crying of a love lost.

He forgot, almost.

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