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.
Orphans
Posted in Art Scene, Books, Current Affairs, Literature, Philosophy, Poetry, Social Commentary, Society, tagged aged, allegiance, art, attention, band, beg, bland, books, bookshelves, break, cake, care, collect, comrade, conscience, creation, day, diversion, dust, enthusiasm, evaporation, flirt, follicle, forget, gobble, hair, hands, images, keys, lay, line, long, lyric, mind, mother, nag, new, night, oil, orphans, out, pages, pair, pans, paper, piano, pick, poem, poetry, reach, see, sheet, sound, spread, stare, stop, strings, suspect, time, together, touch, unkempt, violin, watch, watercolor on May 24, 2013| Leave a Comment »
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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