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Posts Tagged ‘repeat’

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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Write. It is almost like

the plot explains why

we keep on repeating

the same mistakes again.

Stubborn writers only listen

to their own opinion

of what’s apt and what’s not.

Concealing the fact, stories

are about expectations

of what the world should be-

of how isolated and conflicted

the inner character must be.

 

It happens to be

a predictable climax

waiting to be exhaled.

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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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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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It’s like a white plate.

Soiled and you try to wash it afloat

with suds of soap and rinse repeatedly

at the sink.  Letting it dry and wait

until the film of water subsides down

into its gleamy surface. You try to contain

the glister.  The immaculateness of being 

unbroken, unsplintered.  Fragile.

 

It’s like a white paper.

Someone will throw dots and smears.

Smudges  and graphite dusts messed up

into your  page and jag the lines into visual noise.

But then, an eraser is a confident friend,

swiping them all.  Albeit,  the indentation

marks a heavy trace on the heart. Not quite

visible at the distance, I know.

 

You didn’t notice how I try to write the lines.

Ambiguous as it seems, indirect in its approach.

You think flaws are the darkness of the soul, but wait-

it isn’t that way you know, though. For in it you hope.

You dream.  You strive to become the light.

You seek to define the completeness of your whole,

unwavering  and uncompromised to the mold-

the dictates of the common.

 

No matter how broken it may get, the mosaic

of the plate is still a creation on a canvas.

No matter how crumpled the paper was,

someone will see it as a great work of art.

You try to accept the way you live your reality,

where living doesn’t stop there, it’s in how

you would be able to discover something new.

A difference you can call your own.

 

It’s like a white space.

When the horizon of doubt blurs

the line that separate you from immortality.

And all you see is your own lightness

that no shadow would keep you

stalled towards your destiny.

There,  you would know that peace

is the only way to move on.

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