For You.

You came into my life
Like sunshine peeking through drops of rain
Lighting up the sky with a soft golden glow.
You were soft jazz music
Playing on a Sunday morning
In a world that stood quiet
And watched us with a smile on it’s face.
You were a flickering flame
Dancing in the darkness
Showing me the way.
You were a starry night sky
In which I found constellations
Night after night.

You came into my life
To good to be true
And I was scared
Because happiness is never meant to last.
And I told myself
To resist your warmth
To shut my eyes and pretend you weren’t real
But you haunted me in my sleep
And every moment awake
That I spent without you
Was akin to agony.
You came into my life like a hurricane
Demanding to be felt
And I let you sweep me away
For I had no other choice.

You came into my life
When it was time for me to leave
And every fibre of my being screamed,
Telling me to run from you
With your words of silk
And arms that felt like home
A home that I could never make mine.
You came into my life
And I did not have the strength to say goodbye.
Because every time you said hello
My heart skipped a beat
It became my favourite word
And my worst fear.

You came into my life
And I vowed to never hurt you
For your sadness pierced my heart like a thousand frozen arrows.
I fell in love with your smile
Your laughter became my prayer
And every tear was a monster that I  would fight to the death.
But somehow I became a monster too
The worst of them all
I told you goodbye
And watched my world slowly fall apart.
Helpless as I did the only thing I knew how,
Walk away.

You came into my life,
But you never truly left.
You simply faded bit by bit
As I tried against all reason to hold on.
I was too weak to let you go,
Too addicted to falling apart every time you said enough.
I held on and you never left
But you did not stay either.
The warm fire that was once my refuge
Now became a frozen shield.
The arms that once pulled me into you
Now tried their hardest to push me away.
But I could not leave you completely
And for that I am sorry.

You came into my life
And I became your biggest regret.
You were a paradise which I could only visit
Not inhabit.
You were cruelly wonderful,
Everything I wanted
But could not have.
You were the most painful almost,
And the worst goodbye.
You are everything I want and I am everything you do not
So I must let you go.

Sorry

Sorry drips from my lips like a heavenly manna,
A lily extended to appease the gods.
Sorry is who I am, it is who I have learnt to be.
In this world full of flying arrows and angry bullets
Sorry has become my armor,
My undignified shield of white petals.
Sorry appears at the slightest sign of anger,
It escapes my mouth before my brain can react.
You see sorry is the only way to survive,
In a world where anger is only preceded by ego.
Sorry is a way of life, a form of warfare
Fought by those who do not wish to fight.
I am sorry when I speak out of turn,
I am sorry when you raise your hand,
I am sorry when I breathe your air,
I am sorry for who I am.
Indeed sorry does have a heavy price,
As it weighs my head down towards your feet.
Sorry extinguishes my flames,
Evaporates my thunder storms,
But in return it lets me live.

Is this a life worth living?
You ask.
With my words always muffled by sorry ‘s drooping leaves.
With my mind always screaming,
Raging to fight,
Fighting it’s rage.
You have of course misunderstood.
Sorry is not a choice, it is a necessity,
Borne by those whose tongues do not dance among the flames,
Whose skins cannot act as armor
Protecting them from the arrows of spite.
No sorry is for those,
Who feel too deeply to not be affected by the world.
It is for those whose humanity soars in a world
Where being human is a crime.
Sorry is for us,
The ones who wish to love, in spite of never being loved back.
Sorry is all we know,
Because it is all you can hear.

————————————————————————–

Original writing and artwork by yours truly.

Smoking kills

 

 

Flick.
Burn.
Sizzle.
Inhale.
You feel your palms heating up as the seconds pass,
They turn redder and redder before your smoke stained eyes.
The blood of innocents coming up for air,
Soaking through your white carpets and suede shoes.
A broken record plays the funeral march over and over and over again,
Till it’s cries fade into the background.
60 killed in a terror shooting.
A girl of eleven raped by her uncle.
Cops shoot an unarmed man.
Flick.
Burn.
Sizzle.
Inhale.
You breathe in smoke to choke your demons,
And they laugh around you as you become one of them.
A monster with gas chambers for lungs,
Who turns a reddened eye away from reality.
Their cries grow louder and you breathe more smoke,
A hoarse mocking laugh echoes in the smog.
Flick.
Burn.
Sizzle.
Inhale.
You incinerate your lungs,
While the world around you goes up in  flames.
Oceans of gasoline and mountains of wax.
A never ending cremation of innocence and joy.
Glowing cigarettes litter the streets as children light matches,
And babies chew tobacco.
Your palms grow restless and you clutch at your throat.
The smoke begins to thicken.
If only you could drop and roll,
Or better yet,
Burn the matches before they burnt you.
Flick.
Burn.
Sizzle.
Inhale.
No amount of smoke can mask what’s right in front of you,
Broken homes, families and hearts,
Covered by a translucent haze.
The cigarette ashes pile up,
As do the ashes of friends and strangers.
Exhale a cloud of masked regret,
Only to have it blown back into your face.
No amount of smoke can mask,
The cries of millions wronged.
Flick.
Burn.
Sizzle.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Repeat.


 

This is something I haven’t tried before, a combination of original artwork and writing. Hopefully the two tie together to convey what I had in mind.

You are not Beautiful.

You are not beautiful,

You are so much more than that.

Place your hand over your beating heart

And listen to the war drums proclaiming another battle won.

Close your eyes and listen.

Another day conquered,

Another step towards your goal.

Close your eyes and feel the sunlight permeate your skin,

You are strong, powerful, exquisite,

Don’t let one word hold you down.

 

You are not beautiful.

You are an infinite galaxy pulsating beneath flesh and blood.

You cannot be defined by a word as mundane as beauty.

Your eyes reflect constellations,

A million stars from which you are built.

Watch the tears fall from your eyes and rejoice,

For you are a living, feeling miracle.

Do not wipe them away but let them roll down your cheeks,

Leaving black trails that mar your pristine skin.

Battle scars that you should celebrate, don’t hold it in.

 

You are not beautiful,

You cannot be described in earthly tongue.

You smile through heartbreak and laugh at those who cheat you.

You wake up every day in spite of the shackles tied to your wrists

You wake up and slowly chip them away.

You are not the fools who leave you,

They were merely blinded by your light.

You are not the endless nights of wondering whether you are good enough,

Because you are.

More than you could imagine.

 

You are not beautiful.

Don’t let them tell you otherwise,

The vultures trying to silence your voice with a single label.

You are everything you wanted to be and more.

You go so much deeper than your pretty face,

You have hidden stories spelt out in your lungs.

Dark stories, stories which may not be pretty.

But these stories are a part of you wear them like a badge.

Show the world that you are not beautiful.

That you are a complex whirlwind of intertwined stories,

Stories of heartbreak and anger and failure and pity.

You are not beautiful,

You are human.

Reply to my daughter’s suicide note.

Dear Darling,

I want you to know that the two months you have been gone have seemed like an eternity.

Sometimes, when the sun is shining and the birds are singing, I forget that you are gone, only to be reminded of your absence as I pass by your empty room.

You must remember how the word “deceased” carried an undertone of convoluted vulgarity, how people spoke of the dead in hushed tones, almost furtively – as though their words would summon the grim reaper himself.

However I refuse to push your death under the rug, I refuse to spend my days like a well-oiled robot, fulfilling it’s duties only to be met with emptiness when her chores run out.

Before you took your life you left a note, written using the purple pen I bought you when you complained of how your life had lost all colour.

In it you told me that your days merged into never ending nights and that grey had become your entire spectrum.

You told me how sorry you were, and that you hoped I wouldn’t hold it against you. You told me your demons had grown too strong and that their voices were slowly driving you insane.

You never meant to push away the ones you love, but with pain and anger becoming your only emotions love had become a foreign concept.

You ended your last note, by telling me that it was all for the best, and that life had become a never ending maze that you would never escape.

 

Here is my reply.

 

Though your absence brings me pain as I never could have imagined, the thought of you living in misery pains me far more.

I want to tell you a story, a story of how an angel was born one midsummer night, whose heartbeat sounded like a heavenly choir. I want to tell you of how this angel was loved by everyone who knew her.

As she grew my love for her grew as well. I still remember the day we lay side by side in a magical meadow, breathing life and joy into the air around us.

I remember the way her brown eyes seemed to be whirlpools of molten gold, as she stared up at the sky forming stories out of clouds.

I remember how her voice would drift through the house on lazy Sunday mornings, infusing the air with a mystical calmness.

Slowly her songs began to fade away, and her eyes seemed to betray a heaviness that she tried her best to hide.

Her light step was now replaced by a heavy trudge, and her smile seemed forced, an afterthought of sorts.

My angel had now been replaced by a mask on legs, and I had no idea what to do.

I tried my best to reach out to her, to bring back her melody to this empty house. But I was met by a wall, a giant concrete monster that was infallible.

She was slipping through my fingers like sand, disappearing through the cracks into a nothingness I could not fathom.

I tried my best to bring her back, and for a while she tried as well. But empty cries can drain you and so they drained us, and after a while we both stopped trying.

My angel had left long before she took her life, and I want to tell her I am sorry.

You were loved every second of your life on earth and you are still loved with a fierceness that your death cannot erase.

Your kindness inspired all those who knew you and is my battle cry as I face each new day.

How it pains me to know that the girl who gave her all did not receive the one thing she needed the most, hope.

Though you are gone I want you to know you will always be my angel, and that you are remembered everyday. When I think of you I am not reminded of your absence but rather of the joy your presence never failed to bring.

Your life may have seemed of little worth to you, but it is what keeps me going when the dark clouds roll in.

Your death has not taken you away from us by any means. I still hum your favourite song on lazy Sunday mornings and I still see the gold of your eyes on a warm sunny day.

You are the light that will always keep me going and I want you to know that no matter how pointless your life may have seemed, it is the highlight of mine.

You will never be forgotten.

 

Letter to the Devil

Run your fingers through my hair,
Let your words drip from my eyes.
Arms of sinew and shadow wrapped around me,
Creeping in the night.
Whisper words of holy wisdom,
Chant a convoluted prayer.
Watch me grin a toothless grin,
Afraid to fall asleep.
O’ my demon,
My one true love.
My misunderstood saviour.
Take me from this tainted heaven,
Of lying preachers and their heirs.
Let the purists scream sacrilege,
As I dance in the flames with you.
Holy water burns less than
The tears I’ve shed with you.
Help me peel this fading mask,
This facade of cheshire smiles.
Kohl rimmed eyes that fail to hide,
The vacancy inside.
The true demons are far worse than you,
My disesteemed outcast.
Honey lies drip from their fangs,
From Serpentine black tongues.
They lure in innocents,
As they lured me,
With grand schemes that cannot fail.
Yet I drown while they laugh,
As blood drips from their hands.
So take me to your fiery lands,
Carry me on your jagged back.
Away from lands of golden thrones,
That are but built from sand.
You make no promises,
And are thus condemned,
By heroes making love to lies.
Cheered on by brainwashed crowds of fools,
Who see but with their eyes.
Shut my eyes with your charred skin and bone,
So I may be spared from the sight,
Of lines of perverted robots,
Deriving pleasure from empty cries.
Sometimes I wonder,
If heaven is a land,
For those who rape, murder, and lie
Yet turn up in their Sunday best.
Is there a holy, frail old being,
Crying over the monsters he created?
Cowering in fear,
Too afraid to make amends.
Are you my only hope at retribution,
My path less trodden,
My rose built of thorns.
Take me from this wasteland my lover.
Take me so I may burn away,
My impure flesh, my poisoned eyes.
Take me to a land,
Where I may condemn all lies.
If that is Hell then so be it.
Heaven is not for the honest,
As we are all monsters in disguise.

Enumeration

Seven pebbles in your unmarked hands:
Tears rolling down my face as mine protest at their emptiness,
I watch your dirt covered frame receding over the horizon,
Leaving me with the silence of the trees.

Eleven times I glance in your direction:
Watching you walk with the crème de la crème of the self-proclaimed kings,
A slight falter in your step when you notice my gaze,
That goes unnoticed by everyone else.

Fifteen times I tell myself to breathe:
As I watch your spotted face approaching like an exploding star,
Your breath mingling with mine as our lips touch,
And you steal my breath away for the very first time.

Seventeen bottles of beer that we steal in one month:
A tangle of confused limbs and hurried discarding of clothes,
As we lose ourselves in a cloud of smoke and chemically induced oblivion,
Sitting in your car at three in the night planning our battle strategies.

Nineteen hours we sit in each others arms before I leave:
You tell me about how your demons take the form of your brother,
Smiling with your parents as you fade into the background,
And I give you all that I have to patch your leaks.

Twenty one hours floating over a sea-of-clouds:
Shutting out screaming children protesting against the force of gravity.
You stand with crying mothers and stone-faced fathers,
Slightly taller, tanner, older and perhaps even wiser.

Twenty four roses on my birthday because I never had the heart to tell you I hate them:
A clean suit and a new dress head out to burn the town.
I end up taking off my heels and walking next to you down a misty alley-way,
Singing out-dated rock songs at the top of our intoxicated lungs.

Twenty eight steps to a white-washed gazebo:
Surrounded by the nauseating stench of musk-roses and the garbled laughter of crying couples.
You get down on both knees because you resist the status-quo,
And I say yes with dry eyes that I rub out of guilt and desperation.

Thirty guests at our small wedding by the sea:
Sighing with second hand happiness as we speak of eternal love.
A slow guitar riff encircles our swaying forms,
My head on your shoulder as you whisper that you will always love me.

Thirty two times you swear as she begins to cry again:
Her shrill cries piercing through the night and adding weight to my drooping eye-lids.
You storm out of the house after I tell you you’re not doing enough,
And I take our daughter in my arms as her tears mingle with mine.

Thirty six candles on your sugar-less chocolate cake:
That take three tries to be completely extinguished.
I kiss you on the lips then our daughter hands you a hand-made card,
And you pretend to be impressed as my stomach crawls beneath the spandex.

Thirty nine hours since you’ve been gone from home:
I pace the living room as she watches from the corner with watery eyes.
It’s four in the morning when you walk through the door and I run sobbing into your arms,
Only to recoil at the stench of perfume and alcohol.

Forty two miles to our brand new beginning:
I let our daughter hug you for the last time as I pretend to pack invisible items.
She gets into the passenger seat and I drive away without saying a word,
Pulling down my sweater sleeves to cover the finger prints.

Forty five dollars for a dress I’ll never wear:
That I buy because he likes the colour red.
I see you with a cigar balanced between your lips and my heart falls to the floor,
I run away hoping that you won’t notice, even though I know you will.

Fifty hours I lock myself in my room:
As images of a crashing car flash before my eyes.
The first time we kissed replays itself on my lips even as my eyes refuse to acknowledge your absence,
He asks me how I am, and I tell him I am fine.

Almost home

You gather me up with your artist’s hands,
Digging into the cold earth,
And slowly bring me to the surface.
Gasping for air,
My new-born eyes squinting in the dappled sunlight.
Your slender fingers wrap around my spine,
Playing a song on every vertebrae,
Until I stand up straight.
Your knuckles knead my knotted back,
Like a soldier marching to the drums,
Regular, rhythmic, soothing.
You breathe life into my lungs,
Drain out the coalesced rain drops,
A sigh of fresh musk-roses.
You drag your nails across my arms,
Raising tiny ghouls in their wake.
Dormant spirits that lay in wait for aeons.
We stand with our toes embracing the soil,
Our backs to the gnarled limbs of evil trees.
Our faces towards powdery peaks,
Balanced on which lie echoes of ancient promises
That fall to their end as we shout as loudly as our throats permit.
Fire-works shoot across golden sunsets,
A wolf sings his children to sleep,
Fireflies form constellations for those bound to the earth.
And we stand.
Two disfigured souls joined together by harmonic chords.
Your artist’s hands entwined with mine,
And we are almost home.

Stalemate

I can hear it in your voice.
The way your throat catches at the last syllable.
I can see it in your eyes,
The way they look at the ceiling, your watch, anywhere but mine.
You tell me you’ll be home a little late,
He won’t be in town for another six months.
He’s your childhood friend, you hope I don’t mind missing dinner?
I smile and tell you it’s alright.
I kiss your cheek which twitches slightly and hold you briefly before I let go.
Don’t be too late alright?
Of course darling.
As I shut the door behind you, I listen for your steps.
I hear you opening the door of our car,
You get in and drive away, even as I silently beg for you to run out of gas.
I see your car turn the corner,
And I pull the curtains shut.
I grab a bottle of wine,
Nothing too fancy of course,
The good stuff is reserved for special nights,
Nights when we stay in and have dinner on the patio.
Nights when your mind is always somewhere else,
In another woman’s eyes.
I suppose you grew tired of golden sunsets,
Began craving the icy blue of the Arctic.
We make small talk and I can see the way your lips spell out her name.
The way they long for another taste of her sweet lavender essence…
Fuck it.
I’ll have the special wine, I decide.
I take a bottle, an elegant glass, switch on some old jazz,
The kind of music you hate.
I enter your study with mild disgust,
Go to your drawer and pull out your secret cigars.
Flick, sizzle, burn.
I inhale deeply as I waltz around the room.
No one to dance with so I dance alone.
A sip of wine helps dull the hollowness,
Fills the empty rooms with a kind buzzing,
That distracts me from the thought of your arms around her slender waist.
The way you bite her neck, causing her to gasp in surprise.
The way you look into my eyes,
I mean her eyes,
And tell her how she’s the only one you’ll ever love,
How she is yours, and you are hers.
I wonder if she knows,
That there is a woman dancing to a lonely tune,
Sipping on expensive happiness,
Trying to wake up from this never ending nightmare.
I wonder if she sees the imprint of a silver ring,
That sits on your finger like a heavy boulder.
I go up to my room,
Change into your favourite dress.
The one that you said made me look like an elven queen.
I stain my lips red, the colour of the blood that rushed through my veins,
When we first made love.
I wonder if she knows,
How you recited my name like a holy chant,
As our breaths mingled as one in a forest of tangled limbs.
I wonder if you treat her as well as you treated me,
Or perhaps even better.
I go down to our living room and sink into your chair,
It smells like you.
A heady mixture of cologne and crashing waves.
I breathe smoke into the air,
And drown in the special wine.
I hear the doorbell ring.
I get up, slowly, purposefully.
A woman with all the time in the world.
I get up and open the door,
And he is here.
The boy who will help me get through another night.
A boy with the ruffled hair and deep set eyes that I have come to both loathe and love.
I wonder if you know,
That it takes two to play chess,
And it appears we have reached a stalemate darling.

Read more

Her name meant life

Why don’t we sit down,
The two of us with our privileged cynicism,
Tracing patterns of smoke on the night sky,
Sending our lungs into mourning.

Why don’t we sit down,
Drown our second-hand sorrow in stolen alcohol,
Rage against the bastards we shall never face.
Formulating elaborate plans under our silken duvet,
Spitting on sidewalks while we go to the grocery store.
Why don’t we sit down,
While a girl of seven is raped by men built of dirt,
And her mother lies unconscious in a corner next to her sister’s violated corpse,
Humiliated even in death.
Why don’t we sit down
And lament about the unfairness of the world,
For an unfair world it is indeed,
A world where we sit and cry,
While the blood of millions flows deeper than the Nile.
Why don’t we sit by the beach and fume in silence,
While ungrown bodies frozen in time wash upon shores.
While a father cries over the corpse of his daughter,
The baby girl he cradled in his arms,
The girl whose name meant life.
Let us ponder the galaxies whilst lost in a haze,
The very same galaxies that shine over monsters,
Dancing around bonfires in the guise of men,
Standing on mountains of mothers and lovers,
All the same in a crimson heap that forms a stairway to heaven.
Why don’t we sit down,
Watch our hands fester before our eyes,
Itching with the need to do something other than type out words of heartbreak.
While broken hearts accompany broken bones which accompany empty stomachs,
Which are all wrapped up in a parcel of skin and bone,
A broken relic swimming to merely stay afloat,
Wishing it could drown.
Why don’t we sit down,
And discuss vaguely intelligent sounding terms,
While a man has the air kicked out of his lungs,
For a crime he did not commit.
A group of men watch with mild interest,
Sipping on tea and exchanging gossip from the tavern.
Why don’t we sit down,
Puff our chests out with pride as we mention in passing,
The dollar we donated for the “needy”,
As men starving on sidewalks laugh through their bloodied teeth,
Because those who have seen the night,
Seen life being stamped out by life itself,
Seen mothers drowning to form rafters for their sons,
Seen young boys who wanted to become astronauts become murderers instead,
They are the ones who know,
That we are the needy, disillusioned, imbeciles,
Crying in a bubble,
Floating through a galaxy of needles.