Posted in Current Affairs, Literature, Philosophy, Poetry, Relationships, Religion, Society, tagged accept, again, alive, allow, alone, anyone, atonement, before, book, breathe, carry, cavern, clock, cold, corner, darkness, days, death, deep, deep ocean, deserve, door, drown, end, endless, escape, expectation, face, fail, fearful, feel, flip, freedom, fulfillment, future, give, guess, guilt, hands, happiness, happy, hell, helpless, hide, home, honesty, hours, how, imaginary, last, later, liar, life, listen, live, mask, masquerade, mess, mind, monologue, nag, naked, necessity, nobody, open, out, overflow, page, pass, peace, people, person, poem, poetry, pretend, priceless, prison, process, push, ready, sad, shut, silence, sit, sleep, something, sorry, soul, stare, stay, survival, talk, thing, thrive, time, understanding, vastness, want, weight, wish, words, world, writhe, yourself on April 22, 2013|
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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 Story
Posted in Art Scene, Books, Current Affairs, Film, Literature, Memoirs, Philosophy, Poetry, Science, Social Commentary, Society, Technology, tagged 24/7, abortion, art, art house, awake, bit, bitter, box, character, chew, cinema, clean, clip, cloak, coincidence, conference, copulation, creation, cry, cushion, dance, darkness, dim, director, draft, dream, eavesdrop, else, end, everybody, eyes, facts, fairytale, fame, fate, feces, fetus, fit, formula, gift, goddamn, gossip, gyration, half, happy, here, hidden, house, idea, imaginary, interview, laugh, life, light, love, mainstream, Marilyn, millionaire, mulch, never, nostalgia, one-on-one, peep, people, plagiarism, plot, poem, poetry, poke, pole, porn, premature, private, public, reality, revelation, rust, sake, sanitization, scene, scoop, score, scriptwriter, seat, seconds, self, sequence, shame, show, shut, sixty, sleep, someone, something, spring, square, star, stench, stink, story, table, think, Tom, tried and tested, trim, Truman, truth, turn, twist, unpublished, upset, urine, vomit, whore, wide, world, wrap, yesterday on March 2, 2012| 2 Comments »
Don’t upset the mainstream, he’d say.
Art for art’s sake, I think out loud.
Unless I end up whoring
at the art house
with rusted springs
at cushioned seat poking
scooped up gossips.
Eavesdropping
some private lives.
I let his copulation of idea
with tried and tested formula
stink like the stench of urine
of those who had chewed
and vomited yesterday’s
mulch of cinematic nostalgia.
And feces too. And fetuses
aborted prematurely
at the conference table.
That goddamn scriptwriter!
He wants a Truman show
for peeping Toms’ and Marilyns’
who think life can fit in a box. Squared
wrapped in a gift, 24/7 in public
with the world half sleeping
and half awake. Eyes wide shut.
Well, everybody wants to be
porn stars. And millionaires too.
Sixty seconds to fame. Or shame.
I twist fate and turn some coincidence.
Making them laugh. Making them cry.
People love some happy ending
but of course, I knew the bitter score.
I’ll reveal on a one-on-one interview.
Facts gyrate around a pole dance.
Truth hides in darkness, so dim the lights.
I clip a scene here and there,
sanitized some bits
like clean sequences of plot
I trim into fairytales-
reality cloaked in dreams.
Then, there’s the director’s cut.
I have hidden something
here in a draft, unpublished.
I create an imaginary character
of the self I would never be.
I plagiarize someone else’s life.
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