A kaleidoscope of doubt

Toxic is the air invading the space between my mouth and nostrils

grown a fool waiting for love to sprout on winged petunia

I’ve clawed my heart to recover crystals that glistens darkness in my eyes

Fear has returned to torment a dusty cobwebbed casket.

A ripple of the river reflects the subtle complexity of existence

An existence separated by colours, seen and unseen. Gold and silver.

Separating further into hues that are too bright and overly sharp.

I fear I have triggered a cascade of events.

Pillars of white ricochet their luminosity, giving the illusion of separate divinity, or separate existence, dividing life and living, body and soul, is there a difference between living and breathing?

I may very well be buried under an oasis of doubt, coughing up sputum and goo, invading the intangible crevices like a broken mannequin underneath a glacier.

And I have survived, I mean I’m still living — and breathing.

The stars shine so bright that they rip a hole in a time-space continuum

and all I wish to do is swim in the penumbra of twilight.

Collect kisses from a thousand crows

As they nest on top the clay that holds the secret to my doubts.

I’ve sworn a vow to do better. I’ll be better. I’ll hold a matchstick close to a furnace and bask in it’s golden glow.

I will light a candle close to my heart and let my tears bounce off it’s flames. I can do it, just you watch.

I can make the sun and moon kiss in cosmic bureaucracy.

The emo in me is like a sand that won’t let you see the delicate ocean circling in my eyes.

You need not look at me, if you wish not to. But I bid you,

Remove the anchor that weighs so heavily on my ankle.

Find me in a kaleidoscope of doubt.

Follow the trail of lost serendipity in my voice.

It’ll get better

The stream refused to stand still.

it chipped at the roots of trees, and the toes of little adventurers.

I find myself choking from lack of air

Pure oxygen won’t do, without hydrogen hysteria is only a matter of time.

In hindsight I’ve forgotten the feel of the earth underneath my foot

like a hamster running in circles, chasing fool’s gold. Bewitched by the sun.

And I know I have to breath, grapple at the element with both nostrils

because it’ll make me better, It’ll feels less nauseating. I’ll survive a while longer.

They say it’ll get better,

but when?

The stream longs to stand still

to hear the working nocturnal beavers

still to the rustling withered leaves

But today, currents are high.

the anxiety will explode from the base of my ribcage

the strictures at the back of my throat won’t disappear

Now I’m at loss for words

my heart is overflowing but my glass is empty

somehow dark emotions pour out of my chakras

Currents are sky rocketing

and sky is painting all shades of crimson

But

I’d like to stand still

to hold back the worries, that’s gnawing and spitting at my ankle

I’d like to hold back the fusty dam from over-flooding.

They say it’ll get better, I’m tired of asking when.

Random Gothic Anthem

Crest

I spy with my eyes

An unmistakable whiff of cheap cologne

persists, lingering on my philtrum

grows wider than spaces between lyrical innuendoes

Odysseus walls

somersaulting ruins

I cannot unlearn my inevitable mortality

even if I cried sunshine and peed rainbow

Rose coloured Polaroids

I remember when I used to mope around

Waiting to recover my vitreousness

rummaging the things that have been shipwrecked

Love

Hate

Hate is not an equal to love

I love the things you hate the most

Wring me dry

wring me plaid

stretch me under your adventure boots

as you sail from high to low tides

Stand still

It is quintessence that flows to the brink of surrender

eccentric little goldfinch blushing in pitch darkness

Silence recruits ravens to unearth ethereal promises

Shattered fear

a seed of poison drawn on the lips

Winter colour muse from a sardonic artist’s heart

A brothel couldn’t hide you behind it’s wall of cigarette smoke

Labyrinth

bodies hidden between the corridors and cracks

to be made whole, I must be found

to be found, I must vanish behind a random gothic windowsill

The Giant

I’m sitting on a balcony, separated from a motor way by a field of corn. Long enough that the swaash of Autos sound like binaural beats in my ears. Today is one when the sun is extra shy, so she’s hidden behind the clouds. The howling wind is substantive proof that a storm is brewing in the distance.

I do not fear the trickle of rain or the cold that has trapped my waning breath. Through the gaps between the trees, I’m stifled by a horrific giant. He is twice the height of an oak with skin so pale, it’s almost cyanotic. The veins on his forehead are visible, like a helmet made from the thickest part of a black widow’s web.

His eyes are buggy and bulgy, and they’re resting heavily on me.

I’ve never felt so weak like I do now, felt the need to plead for a chance of redemption. My breath is faint. My voice wont give up more than a fragile moan. My heart is beating slower by the day as the giant draws nearer.

I can’t keep on living this way. I am barely surviving. Something has to change, and fast. I wish I could snap my fingers and sentence this giant to the edge of the earth. His brawny body struggling to balance against the weigh of gravity, so that he is suspended in astral Limbo

What delight that would be. I’d dance again with rekindled passion. My lungs would be inspired to sing an old song in a new tune. And I’d walk out of the battle camp holding his decapitated head as a laurel.

I would like that very much I would. Even the thought of it warms my heart and causes my lips to curve upward.

Yet he draws closer everyday to me.

I do have another theory, one that terrifies me more. I do not know from where my giant came, perhaps he was formed between crevices in a mountainous region. But what if, he is harmless. Perhaps his hideous features are just for me to welcome and accept. And his mission is to help me align perspectives. It wouldn’t do much good to treat him like an unapproachable vermin.

He may well be an ally. I couldn’t know.

It’s the more reason to surrender, rather than dig a moat and build a buttress. I want to believe that the clouds are tired of absorbing the precipitation and will consequently release the blizzard that propagates the giant’s footstep to me.

The worse he could do would be to obscure my stance, challenging me to find refined vision in a paler shade of umbra. Maybe then he would vanish, taking with him the manacles weighing on my limbs and leaving behind an aura, that strips every façade and laces my tongue with a dose of truth.

image courtesy: Pixabay.com

Toxic People with Toxic hands

You lost your childhood somewhere at the corner of Cleveland avenue to toxic people with waddling hands. They sunk you deeper into the clouds.

You reappeared here. Waiting.

Waiting for poetry to be read. Waiting for the trees to bear fruits and the seams of summer to sprout at the stems of a sycamore tree. For some reason, that was where you were looking for yourself. For your ego.

That was where your spider senses were leading you. They said it was bad luck to yell your dreams out of the window at daytime. It was toxic even, but you already knew that.

You are not surprised by the storm. You have seen it brewing from a distance. It’s been getting stronger. More acidic like grapefruits being fermented to alcohol. This is how we are, you and me you see.

All your senses know the toxic hands grappling your shinbones. An endogenic heat spurring within you is begging to release your alcoholic nature, but when the night disguises the sun and the days turn bronze, all you are left with are;

Toxic people with toxic hands.

Nevertheless, you are still waiting. All summer-long, you stood still. You feel your torso sink further into the clouds of toxic hands. The trees bleed violet. Your senses melt. You forget the reason you were waiting in the first place because a woman with an oversized ears pointed at you as she poisoned your mind with a toxic snake.

You breath yourself back to stillness. It will be okay now. The sun will shine again at the end of autumn because they can’t take away twice what you’ve already lost once.

One Hell of a Survivor

For the longest time. I was that kid at the back of the class. Forming rhymes, doodling caricatures. Melting away time with the matches of my mind. That kid whose name was a whisper behind a shadow, that existed in a shell. She was everyone’s bestie when exams was around the corner, besides that she was that face that never lifted her hand, yet always knew the answer.

I have not forgotten her passive demeanour. I have not forgotten She sat with the teacher when others were out like conquaestor in the playground. At times the teacher would leave, the teacher had friends too, and would ask her to watch herself. I have not forgotten the girls , that said she had to own a pair of Nike to be initiated into the cool kids club.

She doodled the earth with wide arms so that it could hug her back and remembered a thousand faces she painted with brazen fingers. She let her heart bleed each time she pressed kohl to a page. Then she’d fill in the spaces with pressure from a crayon and gave it to her teacher instead of a rose. She couldn’t stop rhyming every song in her heart that she could only utter when absolutely certain her voice would echo through the concrete without interference.

She had learnt that the quieter she became, the more she could hear.

Alone in her mind was when she stole the spotlight. No one could deflect it. There she was the comedian, the musician and the ballerina. Then she was the only one sitting at the front of the class.

She is a peculiar one she is; the more she hid it, the more her roots grew . A peculiar lonesome girl at the back of the class. Halfway into adulthood still crossing paths with her kind;

the one who sits alone at lunch and reads an adult novel to herself . She’ll show up without delay at violin recital but sluggishly plays dress up.

She is everywhere, and I know her well because she is still inside me smiling like she dreams in lucid colours and that’s how she couldn’t have sacrifice even a nail to adjust for she is one hell of a survivor.

Illustration by Yaoyao Ma Van 

The Cinder Path

There are some who traipse down a cinder path

they survived the lightening bolts exploding from the sky

They climb the same mountains that caused their stumble

they do not yield to unforgiving salty tears

they kiss the rose that pricks their lips

their love is chronic and in-toxic

They are creatures that know not precaution

they let sadness drown in a sea of golden promises

and warn their younger self against naive facts

giving new life to the meaning of survivor

imitating freedom as an active sport

practicing outside of a melancholic life

letting their guards down and

accepting agony like falling icicles

for wisdom has been embedded in trusted hands

too many battle scars, much more lived experiences

they chose to nourish the earth and Gaia

for siblings and their successors

Invoking an oath of resurrection

they are labelled winged free spirits

for others they are belle âme

because their words are as eloquent as their soul

and their tongues are coated with lotus leaves

they are forever hung to the web of empathy.

Today more than ever

more people need to lose the tree

and grow a forest of millefleur and fauna

to forfeit fitting all into a one-sized coat

but embrace the uniqueness of every soul

by following the cinder path

Antionette Dreams

All my wishes are far from real

nothing in my reach, or here to stay

I may have been hibernating all my life

now awake as the arms of my creator paints my smile

A beautiful smile it is and yet no heart reflects

Porcelain beauty, Antoinette dreams

my soul is enchanted

I am a delightful breeze

to boy, girls and squirrel friends everywhere

wherefore can my mind wander outside my bubble world

Porcelain beauty , antoinette dreams

kids fall in love for all I am made of;

smoothened wood, lace strings in equal parts

molten plastic all over their itty bitty beating hearts

precious wonder I could never have

Every form I take , a marionette of sorts

transforms into magnificent architecture

The theatre is flooded with ceramic faces

freckled cheeks, gaping mouth. enchanted dolls

pointy noses like nobles of days old

My eyes as wide as the hollow in my thorax

Close your eyes and you may hear

a tally of ventriloquist tales

attached to their chest like the strings on my limbs

and silence so provoking it has it’s own rhythm

After all the glam and glitter

An exhilaration that make my smile ache

the stage lights dim, curtain drawn

Left alone in a broad misty chest

a tinge of cold in the piece of me

where my Antoinette dreams may well be buried

Image Source: The-maksimov.livejournal.com

Nehéz

I heard resilience calling out to me through the shards of a shattered window to my seat of consciousness.

It is carried around by the pollens of my un-evolved ideas and by the hoot of a crashing owl in late September, whose eyes illuminating yellow sketches in the thick of the woodland area. Here you will find;

Untold stories. Unchanged people. Never-ending parties.

Portraits of the world. hives of the universe burrowing into my mind. Free falling feelings.

Vibing instrumentals.

But you see it is nearly impossible to forgive the lies you told yourself, to let your head fall back, as if obedience to the daughters of infinity.

Time after time your jaw gets hinged, your muscles will tighten. Your palms will bleed. Bleed for something worth holding onto.

Bleed for retribution.

Yet if anyone can relate, it’s the ones who footsteps you’re retracing

The ones whose public monuments remember the embrace of the wind.

I can still hear resilience whisper if I listen.

It says the only currency is surrender to the ambience you live, to the milk that washes your skin.

To the vortex that ransomed your innocence for youthfulness.

That’s why I started to wear my heart like a crown and made a home in my chest.

It’s hard but I can still hear it when I close my eyes.

The Ventriloquist

Cecil has been planning her dream wedding since whatever age little girls do. Now the days were leading up to weeks, weeks to months. She had a scanty 3 months left. What everyone wanted to know was what her theme would be, “you gotta have a theme, what’s a wedding without a theme?” they asked

She always answered. “Picturesque, serene and whimsical”. The last part seemed to have them guessing, but then they’d quickly laugh it off.

As the days dwindled down, Cecil had a lunch date with the one person who was for the majority of her life a phantom that has never been invited in. They had only started weaving their still fragile relationship, a year and half ago. She remembered him always being the funny guy. He could enchant even a funeral’s atmosphere and he dared to build on his talent, for which she admired him for, rather than become a pilot like the family wanted. He was a ventriloquist and the opening performance on her wedding reception.

Cecil sat in the crowded bar, munching her sacher torte and revelling on the memories of her half-brother that she didn’t notice him walk in till he draped his chest around her back like an armoured plate and planted a loving peck on her rosy cheek. He sat adjacent her and could immediately sense distress and a bluish aura so he tugs on a rope and Ed the dummy pops out. Ed proceeds to question Cecil, ” why the long face?”

“Thanks for coming Ed. it’s just whenever i think about this wedding, I want to rip my nose off

I understand schätzchen, Ed will take care of your guests for you”

Cecil couldn’t help but giggle. Her brother always had a way of exchanging her worries for cheers. This is just like when they were kids. She whispered, “Thank you”

Anything for the bride, nodded Ed.