Poetry Books Articles People Pictures Designs

a strong mask of stone, clogging my pores,
at moments, my breathe too,
only then do I notice it's presence,
never did I plan to put it up, to be fake, to be anything but real,
maybe I am real, maybe the mask doesn't exist, because when I
look in the mirror, I see the same person I've always seen,
why is it so suffocating in here, then?
why don't I feel embraced?
I feel it's presence now, and everything shoots at me in this one
moment.
I haven't grown. I've only learnt to decorate the mask in ways that
fit me right into the world,
to decorate it, so very well, for it to take the form of a whole human
being, or the aura of one,
one that is not only felt but fits as a costume,
a strong one, of stone.
a strong mask, clogging my pores,
at moments, my breathe too,
only then do I realize, I have no clue of what lies beneath/behind it,
for, I have only met, listened to, or known, the costume, the mask,
it doesn't break
I bleed as I try to break it apart, off of me,
but it won't budge, leaving scars of struggle all over me,
it thickens ahead, over time,
and thins down too, not by the punches I throw,
but by my sudden wave of darkness, loss of control,
thickening faster than it thins,
because of how rare it is for me to budge inside.
it's not the mask that won't budge,
it's me,
the mask, the costume is my home,
but someday,
when I lose my sanity, lose touch with the world,
it'll shatter,
and in that very moment, the world will see me raw and torn apart,
that might just be the moment I truly begin to grow,
and for that moment, of lost control, and to see myself, raw and
alive,
I await.
            

single lotus in a pond
of frogs and fishes and greasy plants,
she would sing, she would sing,
a beautiful song, whispering,
"I, pink, free and fond of life on land,
alone, I sit, I watch, I watch, I watch,
I sit on the water, on a green plated throne,
unflawed, unflawed, unflawed,
a great kingdom, diverse, crowd and beauty,
I, the queen, the queen, the queen,
oh for my love, the beautiful water,
who better than me, than me, than me,
for the beautiful water has halted my fall,
it's a wall, a wall, a wall,
but what I know now, it's stands between
between I and all, and all, and all."
still pond, strong alone,
he sings melodies too,
he doesn't whisper, he can say it all aloud,
thinks oh little lotus, oh you,
"oh dreamy pink, you keep murmuring,
maybe a song, a song, a song,
how do they look, the stars and the moon,
your eyes stare so long, so long, so long,
The fish that you met, went over my head,
she will stop, stop, stop,
I promise you, love, never again,
will you be touched, be touched, be touched,
with something more than just my fluid skin,
will reach you, no harm, no harm, no harm,
I give you my word, I will shield you forever,
shield you from all, from all, from all."
            

I wonder what fascinated me,
his world- plain white- a canvas?
did Harold know of his art?
or did he not? when he drew out, so very well, his raw mind,
his- very real- walk in the moonlight,
did he not know? did he really not know, when he drew every
possible scene, every little detail,
did he know why?
why a forest was meant to fit there,
in plain white space,
why an apple tree?
why did he need a picnic at midnight, under the moon?
how could he have possibly lost his way when he so carefully
had the purple crayon leaving tracks behind?
why couldn't he just draw himself a bedroom right away?
why did that spot, that could mimic any other, feel like home?
I wonder what fascinated me- a five year old kid who knew
not fascination,
I wonder what lead me to read that bedtime story over and
over, even ten years after,
I wonder, I wonder, how it feels to have drawn such a picture,
a picture of reality by a mind, that knows not what is to come,
but knows it just might,
I wonder, how it must be to have a purple crayon and know
not of its unreal potential,
I wonder how it must be to live in- and only for- this moment,
oh, I wonder,
I wonder how it must be, to take Harold's very real walk in the
moonlight, and to see where my mind could take me,
to see how I deciphered reality.
            

the darkest nights, midst the light of the stars,
evening skies with colors beyond,
through the rainbows at times,
at times, alone,
she stands tall, strong and whole,
as pieces of her chip away, as her figure fades,
she stands tall, strong and whole, consuming my heart,
conquering my soul,
as she stands, as she fades, as she embraces the little patterns
on her darling skin,
and how we've pictured it, a symbol to believe in,
her dents so deep, paint a creature of pleasant light, pleasant
dreams,
a creature so un-wild, a creature so free,
a symbol of hope, it could be,
a symbol of the beauty in the beast,
a symbol of people, a symbol of hearts, a symbol of you, a symbol
of me,
oh artist, I'm impressed,
your choice of devy prints,
you've painted me, you've painted every heart from within,
            

oh young and old,
as your tears drip in the cold,
as you weep under your pillow,
for reasons I wouldn't know,
oh young and old,
as the night sinks in,
you, alas, abandoned to your space,
are left with your soaked pillowcase
oh young and old,
worry not of the lost time,
worry not of the clocks as you sob,
worry not of anything at all,
for, oh, young and old,
the mere existence of nights, such,
is to grieve the great and small,
is to, in the silent night,
grieve life in all,