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Seeing the world through untinted sight #color #candid #uncensored
Loneliness met me at a friend's wedding, when i was dressed at my best and drunk on laughter. He wrapped his arms around my waist, whispered in my ears, "Come, it's much more lovely to dance at the back of the room."
Loneliness loved long slow walks by river banks and cherry blossom lined paths. He would point out couples in love and friends living life. He would try to paint their vivid smiles on my broken timid one.
Loneliness was a poet, a hopeless romantic. He had a thing for subtle silence and bitter sweet sadness. Loneliness liked wallflowers. Loneliness loved me above all else.
Hope went to a broken man. Hope went to a broken man's heart. Made a home out of his broken dreams, feasted over his broken spirit, sat on his trembling broken patience. Hope went to broken man's mind and asked it to worship her. Hope is a greedy goddess. An unyeilding mistresses. Love was never enough. She needed his faith, praise, to have him grovel at her feet to see his dwindling pride kneel. Hope would always have him praying
Hope goes to a broken man's heart and asks for his last strength. Hope always asks a broken man to protect her with his dying breath. Hope always chose beggars and bankrupt drunkards. Those who were always in debt. hope loves the heat of a death bed. She would slip in it during fever dream. Seduce the soul into believing. And on the next day there was always life in her belly that they were expecting.
Hope always goes to broken man heart to be revered, because hope is only god for those in need.
Some days another heart sings the words
my soul wanted to scream
and my heart aches.
Not from solidarity but envy
Anger from the knowledge
that even my pain could be shared,
That this scar isn't reserved to be just mine.
"Loneliness is a fire."
Loneliness is not.
It makes a not of you-
A forced substance to inexistence.
It is a familiar laughter of nothingness,
While you, an unfitting hug,
Spill yet again from his empty arms-
Blessed with the inability to be held in.
Loneliness is rejection.
To the one fan who nags me to write
Did you know i am reaching out from the end of a pen now. No more pencils. This is a confession. It will not have edits - the writer's lies- honesty stricken out in the name of artistic censorship. This will be a first. Firsts are always misplaced, mislabeled mistakes. Don't expect words here, these are nothing but sweats of my pen in the face of a page left empty. But i am not sorry.
To the one fan who asks me why i don't write
Did you know i picked the pen before knowing its name. Writing was a song i never heard but sang somehow. No, it wasn't an original. I took the slim instrument and played the notes of withered melodies. I was a prodigy, acclaimed for my stumbling as stylish. I was a cheat. I wore a skill i never honed, I was a sword that was never forge. Don't expect explanation, i don't have any. Accident never do. Neither are they sorry.
To the one fan who wonders if i will ever write
Did you know the pen was a gift i left at the return desk only to find it on my door step. Writing was a forced gratitude. But an offering imposed is no better than insult. My words burned as a sacrifice for a god who never asked. See, i was already blessed abundantly with a curse, given babylon for a tongue. I speak, only words that hailed from lost cities. I write, only to voice uncertainties. And for this and only this, i am sorry.
#gift
What comes next once you stop fighting the silence?
@heartlesswoes
"Why did you leave" he asks her. "You had a way of living in the past perfect," She said with a sad smile tugging on the corner of her lips, "I couldn't fight with your memories. I couldn't win. So i had to join."
@heartlesswoes
"Don't say forever if you haven't lived for that long."
#random
Q. What's the worst that can happen to a poet?
A. They could fall in love- with a muse that exists, with a story already written, with a life they are living. They could be happy.
@heartlesswoes
"Once," said the old man "I ran away once, but the life of a fugitive is of no peace."
"Not even in temporary homes, where delusion is the walls and hope, a ceiling?" asked the young man.
The old man chuckled "Oh boy, A renegade doesn't have a home. or walls. On the best days, on those nights where closed eyes are affordable, he sleeps with ancient merciless stones as his pillow and the earth as his bed. Hope, hope is a ceiling indeed. It is the night sky and the stars he would gaze to lull his lost soul in to rest. And in his slumber he dreams. A fugitive dreams of captivity."
-prodigal-
@heartlesswoes
I wonder,
If time knows truth is shy, a lady from a Victorian household: layered, pampered, beautiful yet beautified. Betrothed to him to be throned by his side when his reign arrives.
I wonder,
Would time still? Would he steel himself as she peels herself out of the soft silks of platitudes, as she steps out from the shadows of all the unspoken words lurking in the halls of the heart?
I wonder,
if he would pause mesmerized when a blush creeps up on her perstine skin and she stumbles upon the fears of the mind, the hesitation of the lips.
I wonder,
Would he slow pace, would he wait for her to reach the dias of unsuspecting ears?
Would he gasp in exclamation?
Would his breath catch in anticipation?
would he take a step back as she slowly walks to him in hesitant surity, afraid yet knowing he is her destiny- and she, his undoing?
@heartlesswoes
"This isn't home" she calls out to me letting her eyes wonder around as she waits for my reply- some sort of admission on my part. I stay silent. So her eyes walts back to what scared them off in the first place. Stumbling, yet again, as they reach the frame and the image it holds. The girl depicted in it wasn't beautiful, she wasn't meant to be. With authmn themed hair cascading downwards and her grey vacant eyes- lifeless as they were- hold her gaze. Their two pair of eyes interlock, one's sight passing through the other as if there was unendless void behind each. The girl smiled and then frowned, she looked at the girl for a while. Her fingers rising to leave kisses of touch on every detail of the face. She finally turned away from the mirror. Spooked. "This isn't home" she said again, "This isn't me."
@heartlesswoes
In his relentless pursuit to deserve the place she had for him, he lost the love she gave freely.
@preenzordeal
Lately she has turned her pen to walls. One word per day, "Eureka" she carves the blue into yellow
"Why not the paper?" He asks puzzled, "or your skin?" He adds uncertain, his eyes flashing over every letter, galzed. They rush afraid to read her. She sighs, "the pages crumple at my thought and this hide..." she trails off, her fingers aimlessly wondering on her tattoos. "Let's just say it is easier to paint over walls than shed another skin."
@heartlesswoes
"In my next life, i want to to come back as a king" he tells her, "for a king commands respect." She smiles picking up a leaf from the ground, "What about you?" he asks.
"Many different things, i would want to be the first golden sunrise or the crimson sunset immortalised in a teen's phone gallery. The snow flake that rests at a two year old's nose, the smell of broth from a childhood memory of the old. I would want to be the yellow autum leaf a man gives to his lover after telling her a story of how he fell. i would want to be stuck among the pages of her favourite book, resting with the forgotten words in there until she opens them one day and remembers of her first love." She rests the leaf on his palms and looks around.
"I want to come back as beauty, art and love," she says, "for they demand to be preserved."
@heartlesswoes
Telltale heart
Do you see the humility of my heritage screaming at you from behind my eyes,
can you see the family hand me down pain beneath my luxurious guise?
Can you smell the stench of desperation my perfume's trying to hide?
Does the way i dance speak of how my feet only learned to stand their ground?
do my lips and the way i kiss ever speak to you?
And if they do,
do they confide that my heart is still in the lost and found?
Does my voice ever confess? Do my words ever lie?
Can you read my story from a simple smile?
Tell me,
does my laughter sound like the songs of an empty can?
Does my cheer and step paint a late bloomed dawn?
Does it move your heart towards a half lived life, a broken child?
Does it show?
Does the way i spend my love ever show off what i've lacked?
Do you come with a warning label?
What does it read?
I am a guest among my words.
Funny, how time made a stranger even out of myself.
It's no wonder, dear,
For it is my curse to weigh every dead skin the face sheds,
To heft the heaviness of slimming hearts.
I am beholden to smiles saved for rainy days:
That one overcoat no one ever wears
It no wonder because i had long been called for distant wars,
Foreign corpses of old friends and unmarked graves behind enemy lines.
I had long been burdened with the overlooked.
My eyes made to gaze the blackness in between thousand suns, the dark we learned to thread through.
So yes, it's no wonder, dear pain, that amidst a sea of worthy muse,
my ink chose you.
She stares at the brown papers of her notebook. Her hands rest on the table palm first, her breathing is rhythmic as if she was the drummer. In she breathes, pauses and out the air goes. She reaches out to her pen, "i am ready" she says. She flaters and the rhythm stumbles. She pauses starting again. Inhales holds it in then lets go. She starts writing
Hello, it seems that introductions are needed. Why? Because most days you are a name with out a face, tip of the tongue moment in my mind. Most days you are silence, the long sigh that comes when words are stubborn. Did you know that you are the 10 songs i removed from my playlist and the other 10 i added to replace them. You are khaki trousers, old school compounds, dark brown skin tone and kind eyes: everything that lures out tears from eyes. Most days you are negatives of vacation pictures in a chest- charcoal drawings of happy clones that look like me. Most days you are lump free throats, and tear-free smiles. Most days you are blank pages of a poet's book. Most days you are gone. Most days you are forgotten, hidden. Most days you are a life with out a soul. It is amazing how many lives a person has until they lose the one.
I stare at your picture, trying to pin your transient face down to a time, a moment, a story, a you, a noun. Death feals like a dress you wore out of you grandmother's closet. It doesn't fit. Most days you feel more real than me, as if i was the one who didn't exist. But most days your name is a burden upon my lips. Weighing more than your memories. Most days you are stale air. I breath and i survive until the days my lungs slip and i am at sea, gasping.
See, these days you are a name and a face, the 10 songs you loved that i now hate and the 10 more i forced myself to like. You are the yellow trousers you gave away, footprints in grounds you would once have walked on- a projection of your unlived past. You are a page long introduction. You are sadness in the form of a smile- longing, lonely. These days you are loneliness. You are fear. You are the tears i lost to, the fights where i never stood a chance on- you never did either but you fought anyway. These days you are 3 wet dots on a writer's paper...
She pauses to watch as the paper bleeds in deeper shades.
...a story on your own. I gasp. These days you are everywhere. You are the tumor on my throat; it is just air but it is as real as you are. And i fight, because that's what you taught- to stand as goliath even after you have read the bible. You are a solider in a lost war- still fighting. So i am fighting growing islands in my throat, seas in my eyes, waves to my legs and pain - indescribable pain- just to remember. So you can be more than hospital gowns, dark IV bags and shaved head. I am an amnesiac trying to remember. So yes, introductions are in order.
Hello, you are a name of warriors, teach me how to be a solider.
The new master's voice shattered the silenced distance between them, echoing, "what of the people close to you, those who knew the story, who were in the story" the voice now falters to stillness, "what of us, of me. The ones you fought with, fought for."
"Ahhhh young one," said the old man, "in time you will learn no hero fights for himself but for the strangers and farway lands, for the minstrels and their songs." He smiled "that's why it is better to pass away, then you will live on. Remembered, only in your best"
"The story is over," the master said, "it's time for me to let go." The apprentice confused asked. "But you are the hero, what's the point of saving the day if you are not there to live it."
The master shook his head, "I have tried to outlive my tale once. It consumed my happiness," the old man sighed with a final note.
"This is my last lesson for you, lass, one that took me twice to master. A legend that has lived long enough, longer than the monster he has slain, shall be revealed human: a ghost to his own ode, an imposter when compared to his own name." The old man's eyes travelled long, lost in time and rusting memories. "Never forget, apprentice," he said, "A hero that survives, with time, shall be no better than the villian in the people's eyes."
@heartlesswoes
What is the proof of your pain?
@heartlesswoes
"What's the answer then," the youth asked desperately, "tell me, what's the secret to it all?"
A smile wiggled its way through the wrinkles of the elder's face, "it's in knowing that you are a slave until you're captured"
@heartlesswoes
The weight of an untimely love is but a burden of age to the heart. It shall wither, it shall wrinkle. All before it is broken, it shall wisen.
@heartlesswoes
"Honesty, dear, is not for the ambitious. It's the poison of the balanced, of the content." Her mother taught her, "seek not the mysteries of this world; claim none but the truth you're owed."
@heartlesswoes
She sits at the corner of a forgotten diner in the dark streets of a ghost city. Slow traffic drifts the grey street. The day was one of those that goes unnoticed: gloomy clouds suffocate the sky, yet even they know it won't rain. An old disco song blares from an equally ancient radio. It coughs up the same track, over and over again. A cold black coffee sits infront of her, mockingly daring her to take a sip, but she won't. She looks out the wondow, captive to her own thoughts. Yet, her mind was silent. Silent like the pause in the middle of a speech, like the moments before a duel, like the walls of a tortured house- it was clamorous, it was forced, it was expectant. Her face paints a painful tale of the war with in, of the battle on the losing side. slowly building up to the end, it finishes the story with an image of crumbled walls, burnt city and the bitter people that lived in it. "What's my name?" She thinks at last. "You have none" i tell her. She huffs, "What's a soul without a name?"
"Free" i whisper.
@heartlesswoes
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The day I get called a cliché is the day I realise how peaceful it is to be unremarkable.
@preenzordeal
"Blank papers again" he says, "how silent is it in there?"
She shrugs "oh no, it's not quiet, not by a mile. My pen is a washed out songwriter at the back end of a coffee house, he hears the rumble of a storm brewing, the broken pieces of thoughts chattering, the indistinct lyrics of a sad song humming. They mesh into a harmony of white noise."
"What's your pen doing there?" He asks.
"He is waiting for the perfectly orchestrated accident that breaks the order so his muse can slip in."
@heartlesswoes