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Posts Tagged ‘start’

What started out as an occasional tryst

with printed words began an insatiable desire

to eavesdrop some imaginary lives on pages.

 

There must be a fine line between the reader

and the writer as to dreams is to eloquence

of the pen. Drifting to lucid spaces, shelf upon shelf

I began to shuffle it between my fingers. Skim-read

passages and clues  I wonder-

where to find you.

 

A character much ideal in my mind.

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It is Sunday (I hope it’s Saturday)

still I dread about the things

that need sorting, or mending

or keeping the weekly life in order.

 

At the routine and the job not started.

Of promises I keep on procrastinating.

When I complain that time is not enough

but I spent most of it thinking how

 

will I ever escape the inner tensions

that keep gnawing my brain, restless

and un-contained, filled with regrets

I ought to pace with speed to numb me.

 

For the plates and cups that need washing.

For the pieces of clothing that need ironing.

For the broken fixtures that need fixing.

For the furnitures that need dusting.

 

And Monday will come. When you wish away

it is weekend when you get the alibi to be lazy

on Friday. Pretending you work hard but counting

four more days and you slam down the paperwork

 

bolting out for freedom. Still it is Sunday.

I hope it is Saturday, better nights on Friday.

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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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I had a future

of keeping yesterday.

Think of your broken machines

worn-out hands-me-down

wrecked and rusted

and shattered and cracked.

Objects of sentiments

and old coins in a jar.

 

Think of promises

in need of restoration,

clearing carpet stains

and cigarette burns.

Your broken bottles

peeled plaster left

pockmarks on walls

bruised on my skin.

 

The bible’s missing pages

incomplete like my faith

transfixed on a television

watching silent movies.

Wondering what is it

that Chaplin mouthed?

Isn’t it ‘God, why thou

has forsaken me?’

 

And the world laughed.

 

At car’s not starting.

At chair’s needed fixing.

Ceiling’s leaking

ugly watermarks

life, slowly dying.

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I can talk about my universe

like picking a good book

from the bookshelves and pretend.

As if my mind can fill the spaces

left as a void and of dusts

collecting at the edges.

Since the day I had let

somebody in.

 

I could leave good pictures

about art. About dance.

About the food and the drinks.

Of nice and pretty things

while you won’t discover

how tricky it is to conceal.

How easy it is to speak

about the avant-garde. 

The dead writers. The music.

 

I won’t show you the bookmarks.

The synopsis of chapters.

The highlighted paragraphs

almost torn to the leaf

where the watermarks

from my tears had faded.

I won’t let you read it.

 

I will let the cultured noise

suffocate me in silence

on something that begin

to reveal themselves.

Leaving handprints

and start mending

the pages of my heart.

I won’t let you do it.

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Here, in the box are things that you left me.

It’s been years I kept them hidden under

my bed. Should I throw it away? A burden

 

that I should burn it aflame with the world

like this tongue of hatred growing each day.

Oh sadness, it lingers through days like rain.

 

I have learned to befriend loneliness. I am

a castaway and a stranger to my own skin.

Chained to asking myself of what, why or how-

 

I build myself a wall of defense in silence

shielding me from these ghosts of abandon

and fear. Believing I have moved on but no.

 

I ran away as fast as I could in circles

until the soles of my feet bleed in despair.

I hated you and I should tell you that, now.

 

The blue light to my cigarette starts another

round of stinging away this loneliness

floating in loops through the night’s surreal air.

 

The beads begin forming in my mugs of beer

unknowingly- which of those are my sweat or tears-

blurred in the sad memory that you left me.

 

Remind me of things in that box of dreams,

by the time I know it, smashed to the floor

again. Made me satisfied to learn emptiness.

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The sanctum smelled of incense and human sweat.

An airless space reverberating whispers of prayer.

She folded a piece of cloth with the holy verse

dipped in animal blood. This is an amulet.

For someone who is afraid of thieves.

 

She knelt across the table ready with her questions

“Do you need a husband? Do you need a wife?”

“Do you need another? Do you need a child?”

“The lines on your palm says you will be rich.”

“The card says you will find your true love.”

 

Then she brought in her candles, started

to light it with a match. She began to read

from a withered book- in its brittle leaves

filled with strange symbols of spells and magic.

Summoning wisdom from the invisible.

 

“Someone wants to harm you, better beware.”

“Keep this stone in a bottle and hide it in your closet.”

She has seen it all- customers come and go

leaving her money for that token of gratitude.

And accepting them as a way of getting by.

 

She keep on caressing the old crystal ball,

ignoring the signs of her grey and thinning hair.

She believed she has power to prevail death.

But  time slowly creeps like a thief in the night

when she can no longer be speaking about

 

the future.

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