I Bleed Words Sometimes

Author Archive

Now what?

Tim Walker

 

Now what?

Should I just let the door CLOSE, and shut out the voices?

Or should I fight, knowing it’s a lost battle?

 

Now what?

Should I pick up the pieces?

Or should I DANCE on them and watch the colours unfurl!

 

Now what?

Are you going to just WATCH as I bare myself, moment by moment, piece by piece, one by one, to one and all?

Aren’t you going to stop me? Slap me? Shake me from my trance?

Do you delight in my reverie?

 

Now what, sweetheart?

Now what?

Is there no beginning after this end?

There should be, the stories say so,

Legend says so

History isn’t going to REPEAT itself?

 

But mama made me believe…

And I believed. Sadly, I still do.

This is going to CHANGE, right darling?

You’ll wake up any moment now,

Abandon your grave and hug me tight?

 

I can’t hear you.

You’re scaring me!

Don’t joke with me anymore!

Just SPEAK to me once baby,

Tell me love…

Now What?


Beautiful Mess

20131227-000651.jpg

She sunk further in to the mess she, so beautifully, created,
Every fissure carved out with love,
Every hammer rammed through with passion,
Every cut traced out and made with precision,
Meticulous detailing of the cracks,
Scratched out blue wallpaper…

She breathed the mess through her soul and it came to be!

Her inspiration, you ask?

Oh! nothing really,

Just her heart.

Just her old, tattered, torn, little heart.


I Miss You

Sometimes I miss you

But I guess I shouldn’t

 

I’ve only to close my eyes and I’ll feel your embrace

I’ve only to hum our song and I’ll hear your sweet voice

I’ve only to remember and I’d find your lips meeting mine

I’ve only to lose myself and my soul shall drift to you

 

I guess I don’t need to miss you

Because…

It is you in I and I in you

Forever

Or is it?


You’re beautiful

"Dialog"  Rudolf Bonvie. 1977.

You’re so beautiful.
And you deserve so much better.
And even though I miss you,
I’m happy for you and this new life you’ve chosen.

But I’m selfish and sad.
And you being beautiful just makes it all the more insufferable.

Why do you have to be so beautiful?

Heiner Luepke.

 


Quote

Sometimes I hate

Sometimes I hate everything
And everyone
But then, on those days, I hate myself the most.


Living Or Dying

Lucy Reynolds.

 

 

Every moment counts,

Every word,

Every touch,

Every promise,

Every breath counts.

 

Enjoy it while it lasts.

 

Life and its uncertainties…

You can never tell

This mystery is some vulgar, beautiful, wretchedness,

We have got to endure.

 

Loving empties us within.

 

We forget that we’re losing strength

We forget that it’s robbing us of our sanity

But we give in any way,

Just for those few stolen moments of bliss.

 

Temptation. Yes, we’re tempted to enjoy the temporary glory.

 

Forgetting the eternal damnation we are calling upon ourselves.

 

Life. Love. Misery.

 

I know not of any other way of living,

Or dying.


A Love Story

What’s lost?
She didn’t mourn during the last rites. Numb with bereavement, she stood motionless.
They lowered his body into the earth and therewith buried her spirit.
She had not wept at all in days. They shook her, wailed, brought forth memories of him, but to no avail.
She had lost the will to feel…

Read and please vote for the full piece here:

http://bit.ly/16Cm8Sj

Appreciate it!

Pina Bausch.

 

 


The Walk

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I walked the path to your beautiful little home.

To our beautiful little home.

The overwhelming familiarity made my steps heavier.

Each step killing me a little.

I started losing parts of me.

At every step something went missing, an eye, a hand, a leg, my shoulder, nose, ears, arms, thighs, face…

Every step took away a part of me.

When I reached your doorstep, our doorstep, there was just one thing left of me.

The faint throbbing of an aching heart.


The Crowd

And when I let it in, it crushed every ounce of me within seconds.

I was a goner the minute I let my guard down.

 

It was as if the consequence I so feared were unraveling in front me at the speed of light.

And the blow… Oh, it was just too fatal.

 

I took a deep breath, again, in search for some solace. Ha, all in vain.

 

Standing there, in the middle of the square, no one could tell the tornado inside.

People indulged in the hustle and bustle of their own lives.

 

Babies crying.

Old couples holding hands walking in the silence of their love.

Young couples fighting over a trivial deal.

Children rushing to school.

Mothers scolding kids.

Father rushing to earn the bread and butter…

 

Standing there in the middle of the square, no one, absolutely no one, could tell there was a tornado whirling within.

The calm facade camouflaging the crumbling structure.

 

So beautiful.
So lovely.
So picturesque.

 

Yes, life is poetry.

 

And I just hugged the soil beneath my feet.


Divine Ipseity

Lydia Roberts.

We’re afraid to face ourselves.

We’re afraid of what it might do to us,

Even worse, what we might never be able to do, ever again.

Once the truth is spilled from our lips,

Ones ugliness is made known.

 

We feed ourselves with pride and then with guilt.

We revolt harmony,

We treat it like we would an enemy.

But why should it matter?

We do what we think we should.

We do what we must.

And in doing so there should be no remorse,

Only contentment, that we did what we truly wanted.

 

There’s great joy in being who you truly are.

No matter how crude, lonely, gruesome, painful it gets.

 

It’s a beautiful melody when we reveal the true ugliness of our soul.

It brings a very evident change in us, celebrates our liberty and all that we are, is made known to all and sundry.

Grace After The Beauty Is Gone.

Grace After The Beauty Is Gone.


The Stage Is Set

Luminous Lu

She staggered through the desert, not stopping for breath, or water.

She recognized that the only way to conquer fear is to saunter on.

And so she did.

 

She held her anguish close to her bosom

A mother looking over her nursling

Glancing at it through the fissure

She wanted to ascertain her own desolation

It gave her courage.

You see, that’s how she was reminded of her mission, her machination, her need and her want.

 

Having walked on for miles, she lost all strength.

But she reminded herself, time and again, to not lose her will.

There’s some formidable power in misery that makes us do crazy things,

And do them well!

 

Hope began to lose its grip.

Because there was nothing but the vast desert, the sand, as far as the eye could see.

She began to cry until her tears ran dry and the sky put on its dark cloak.

 

It was only by the end of her journey that she began to run.

She could finally see the gallows.

Surrounded by voices from her past

Regret, shame, guilt, selfishness, greed, intemperance, love, care, tenderness were bawling their displeasure in the open.

 

Melancholy laments

Despondent her

She ran to her fate

Embraced it like it was her lover

Kissing it with a fierce passion

It was her time to bid adieu

And she did

With a beauteous smile

 

Now that’s a goodbye!


That Still Night

Denis Roche.

It was the first time she felt the fearsome marvel of a man’s body. She asked him about his deepest darkest terror. His eyes glistened at the very thought of that day. After what seemed like an eternity, he answered her, with every detail and vehemence as though he was reliving that very moment again, once again. They sat there in the haunting silence of their hearts and souls. She had learnt of the most ghastly experience of his life and she could not unlearn it. She did not wish to. She did not need to.

She leaned forward and touched his temple with her quivering lips. And moving slowly like the orange basked sky disappearing into the purple haze of the misty cloud, she kissed his high cheeks, his sharp nose and whispered gently to his lips. And without contemplation, without any resolve or question he responded to her every silent command. She did not wish for him to lead, today was her day to give. For the first time in her life she was sure of what she wanted. She wanted to touch him, caress him and kiss him right in that dark, fearful part of his soul that had been so meticulously concealed, never to be revealed to any being, breathing or deceased.
His pain and terror wasn’t hers to take away. It wasn’t her intention to make it go away because she knew, more than anything, that she could never erase that grisly memory which was a part of him. A part that had been carved and embedded into the bottomless abyss of his very being. Memories can never be replaced, she could not replace his with hers either. All she could do with every sway was attach this memory to the unpleasant one he already owns. And maybe, just maybe when he remembers the original gruesome memory, he will remember this; he will remember her and remember the poetry they created together-alone that still night. It was the first time she felt the fearsome marvel of a man’s body. It was just like she always dreamed of it to be.
~ by Madonna Rozario Jansen

Do You Understand?

Sometimes all you need is for someone to understand you.

For someone to overlook the inequities and embrace the flaws.

For someone to let you scrape your knee and let the tears roll by.

Sit with you, laughing, when you’ve fallen, face down, in a muddy puddle.

Clap, when you’re on stage terribly nervous.

Hug you when you want to be left alone.

 

Someone who…

Walks in your shoes instead of judging you,

But never lets your selfishness go unnoticed

Holds your hand through the proverbial storm

Sticks a foot in the door when you’re closing them out

Gifts you a book, knowing you’ll probably end up weeping all night reading it,

Knowing also, that the gesture would brighten your heart

 

Sometimes you wish you weren’t loved.

But understood.


Stranger To My Skin

There's a lonely place inside ourselves.

There’s a lonely place inside ourselves.

Sometimes you got to be a man you are not. Sometimes you’ve just got to take the road you’ve never imagined you would tread.

Sometimes you’ve got to befriend strangers… abandoning friends and family. Sometimes you’ve got to be a stranger to yourself. It’s the only way; only way you can find who you really are.

But no one can promise you it will come to be. And you could travel far and wide and yet never find your place. Never belong and be lost for what seems like eternity.

But you’ll never know what’s attainable if you never try. If you never leave. If you sit at the corner and wait for happiness or even satisfaction to hit you like a wave. It may never happen.

Isn’t that a scary thought? That you’ll go all your life not knowing what you truly are capable of? It scares me to no end.

And some day I’m going to have to pick the pieces up and run, run like it’s the only right thing to do, run like my life depended on it. Run like death was the beast chasing me to a dead end of a dark alley.

It’s the only way, my friend, it’s the only way to know who I am.

And to know what lies within I will have to abandon what I build on the outside.

Knowing well that it took years of love, care, sweat and blood to create. Knowing well that once destroyed, it could take years to rebuild. That if I lose, and am forced to mold whatever is left of me I could lose the will and walk away from the debris my life has become. That I may not have the strength or the power of will to start from scratch. Lethargy could be my enemy. But these are all the ‘buts’ I’m ready to overlook. Because the ‘What could be’ is enticing. Like the tempting devil in the desert of life.

I will have to make my own journey now. Carve out a new path. And meet people I’ve never known. Go to a land the language of which I do not speak. Under a sky that isn’t mine. I will have to leave. And the Now could be Tomorrow, Next week, A month later or Years from today.

What counts, is that my soul is ready to make the voyage.

Maria Aparicio Puentes.

I’ll know in my heart when it is time to sail.

Rembrandt Harmenszoon van Rijn.


A Little Dream

Vincent Bourilhon.

I wish so much for you to go, and grow and be.

I wish so much for you to leave.

But somehow, somewhere it’s difficult to say.

It has been difficult to feel.

 

The possibility of a together tomorrow is tempting.

It’s tempting because somehow I know It’s unattainable.

And I’m OK with it being so.

And yet, it’s difficult to see it happen.

 

I’ve wished too much lately,

But here are a few more,

You see it doesn’t hurt to dream.

 

So I wish,

I wish, that when the rain pours down on your face, you miss me,

When the same sun shines upon your frame, you miss me,

When the same moon kisses you under the night sky, you miss me,

When morning comes, you smile, knowing I miss you.

When the night puts on its armor you let down your guard and you miss me.

 

Is that too much to ask?

I think it is.

You see, no one said love would be easy.


Waters

Nastya Kaletkina

There’s a price to pay,
For every thought that passes our vulgar mind.

The sand holds no answers,
Yet we kiss it with our anxious feet.

We let the waters caress our soul,
In hope that freedom will be ours when dawn approaches

We let our minds drift with the winds,
They brush the horizon and there’s a momentary gleam in our eyes.

 

Hope is a killer.
A killer we mould with our very own hands.

Hope is the glass house,
We build or tear down as we please.

 

Is there no way to let our hearts go numb?
Is there no way to feel but not shatter?
Is there no way to let go off that which we have no control over?
Is there no way to free ourselves from ourselves?

 

I guess there isn’t.

 

So let’s move with the waves.
Let the cold outside brew the cold within.
And let’s just float away.
Far, Far and away
To somewhere we don’t want to go.
To a land or water or sky we won’t call home.

Let’s just leave to never return.


Admission Of Guilt

Joe Webb.

I have wronged you,

And there’s nothing I can say to soothe the blister,

Nor anything I can do to take it all away.

I have wronged you and an apology is futile.

 

I replay in my mind over and over,

The venom I spat,

The curses I yelled,

And couldn’t understand why?

 

And that moment it felt right.

 

But does that make it so?

NO!

I was wrong then and I’m mistaken now,

In thinking you’ll relent and let it all slip away.

Let it all go.

Like nothing ever happened.

Like it was all a bad dream.

And we’ll be us again.

Can’t we be us again?

Please.


Comfortably Broken

Christophe Remy

And Some Days I Like To Let Myself Be.

Oh, It Does Get Exasperating,

It’s Unnerving, This Joy Brewing Within

But The realization That It Won’t Last

Is Comforting

Turmoil Is Not Just A Phase

It’s A Way Of Life For Some People

Some People Like Me

People Who Don’t See The Point In Being Happy All The Time

People Who Don’t Mind The Ache

People Who’ve Found A Way To Tread On The Frozen River Of Sorrow And Loneliness

Self Enforced Sorrow And Loneliness…

Living Perpetually In Fear

Wanting Nothing More Than To Just Sink

And Get It Over With

But Some days

We Love To Break Away From The Mundane Obligation Of Being Miserable

And We Smile. A full, Broken Hearted, Smile

You See

Who Doesn’t Like Change…

Even If For A Little While.

 


Men

I have been infatuated by several men.

Some for their Adonis like frames.

Some for their mere sensibilities.

Others for their strength of character.

 

But I’ve learned to love just one.

Yes, I’ve learned.

 

And once you learn something…

It takes a lot of will and time to unlearn it.


Rhythm Of The Rain

Image

“I love the rains,” she said. “Is that so?” He was intrigued.

“Oh yes, a beautiful sunny day saddens me.”

“The rain on the other hand, I love how it mirrors the state of my heart.”

To this he sang back, “My dark cloudy soul drifts into the abyss of nothingness, going nowhere, leaving no trace, just pouring, and weeping a little, every passing minute.”

 

That day he found his soul mate

And she found love.


I, Me & Myself

Ankahee:

Patte jo shaakhon se toote
Bewajah toh nahin roothe, hain sabhi..

Image

The solitary being doesn’t need anybody.

It loves company,

Revels in laughter and belongingness,

But does it need them?

 

It was forced to thrive in ruins and it did. Alone.

 

The self’s conversation with loneliness

Is one of great wisdom,

The colloquy of that which doesn’t exist,

That which could be,

And that which can never come to be

 

It leaves the heart brooding over meaningless incidents,

Scarring even the beauty that once was

And you watch

And you yell

And you spit venom

Because that’s all you’ve known to do well

 

Me, Me, Me.

I, I, I.

And that’s all that matters.

Right?


Dost

Why mask what hides on your skin? A puzzle of a chaotic struggle, You call that love?

I call that life. Endless struggle. Art made of scars. Red with blood, honey, black with sorrow.

I’ll come for you oh my friend, with kneaded bread and sweetest wine.  You’ve suffered enough in these places so cold.

I’ll sit with you. Exchanging silence for love. Is that enough?

It’s enough, if I can watch you lie in embrace with the warm hay and a fire to tend to you.

So then come, my friend. Let’s meet under the stars. Like old times. Like forgotten times. Let’s live again. Without fear.

Let’s taste grass, fall off a hill.  Snow kissed cheeks and let rivers be so still.

Let’s play games for two. And laugh mindlessly. Let’s just be, you and me. The world can melt for now, while we watch.

Let’s hide behind trees and lie through the sands, run along the daffodils, let this madness creep for our hearts it fills.

And you words, they drill. Like ink on my skin. They leave a beautiful imprint on my heart.

I’m not here to stay, mark my ways with dagger on willow. Promise me, you’ll stay so glee,  never look back or down below.

I can’t promise you glee. But I promise to smile even if warmth flows down my cheeks.

~ By Varun Chakravarty & Mitchelle Rozario Jansen

Checkout Varun’s other works on http://stateofmaroon.wordpress.com/


Letters from the son…

Subject Under Focus ~ Smokey Semantics.
This Moved me to tears. What more can I say?

InkBlood

Dear Father,                                                                                        August 1974

It has been more months than I can remember, since I wrote to you last. While I have no words to justify my regret over my inability to inform you, as to whether I am alive or not, I feel a certain sense of relief, that I have brought myself to be able to say the things I will in this letter, here forth.

Much has changed, worth talking about, in the last few weeks but it isn’t worth sharing. It has no ounce of joy in it, or happiness, or capacity of reflection for anyone, I feel. Still, I have decided to…

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Battle

My contribution to InkBlood’s upcoming workshop subject “Lascivious Love”.

InkBlood

love_violently__kill_tenderly_by_juliangraves-d1rkap1

 

You see; letting go is never easy.

Love is a beautiful sentiment. You’ll know when it happens.

Sometimes, this love has to be nurtured for it to bloom. At other times, it just exists in its full glory. Either way, love is something you can never run away from.

And that’s what makes its beauty so terribly dangerous.

It jeopardizes our sanity and in turn, our life.

You’ve got to battle it out. Like a soldier on the battlefield fights for his life, you’ve got to fight for your sanity.

Things aren’t always black or white. They’re grey.

Love is that dark shade of grey you wished you were never acquainted with.

Yet it is the sheet tent you made as a child, to lie under. Do you know what I mean?

It’s an addiction, one that ruins you.

Yet you’re infatuated by it. You keep going back. You’re…

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