Morning
I thought of those who had died in their sleep
Such a beautiful way to go
You rest, you dream, you leave this earthly shell behind…
I wondered how peaceful it would be
How there would be no suffering; at least in death
A thought crossed my mind. But I didn’t say it out loud.
Wishes are made with closed eyes and secretly in the heart.
I closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep
6.30 am. Birds began to chirp. Sunlight beamed through the cracks in the curtain.
And I was awake.
Never have I felt so alone, so dejected, so sad.
Desolate
People are desolate,
Lonely islands walking about,
They lay barren
In the wake of the destruction.
People are foolish,
Blinded,
By their own selfish desires,
Unheeding, they pass each other by.
People are people,
Consumed by the worry of what the future holds
Engulfed in the past,
Sweet irony.
People are desolate,
Lonely islands walking about,
Oh, how they lay barren!
In the wake of the destruction called Life.
Artist For Both Pictures ~ Nigel Van Wieck
Too much
PC – Anastasia Smurova.
Sometimes we love people too much,
Love is responsibility.
Love is ache waiting to be felt.
Love is a tragedy in the making.
Love is beautiful.
Love makes you do all the things you yourself wouldn’t approve of.
Love pushes you to the point that you do not recognize yourself.
And if that love is poison to someone.
It’s best to let it go.
Sometimes we love people too much to keep them in our lives.
Sorrow In A Cave
The rebellion of the sorrow in a cave, temptress on walls and a blade to succumb too.
Let’s drill deep, further seep, into the shell. So safe so dark so at home why won’t the edges blur? Why won’t the world melt?
Scratches along the walls, the wolf behind this cage. How shallow seems the sand and how horridly the edges peel away.
You can’t hear him howling, nor can you feel his pain. You can only stare at the ferocious creature. So tamed by his own rage.
Writhing in my own monstrosity, I envelope in the arms of heartache, Fuming I curl helpless, bleeding on my own page.
The wolf peering at me through the mirror. Is it me I should be afraid of? Or is it the human face that hides the monster?
Stalk slow, Die slow. A tyrant stirs, Resilient every feeling so crippled. It’s my wake, your memory and the their ripples. . .
So engulfed in your wrath that you spill from your bones. Blood to dry your tears. Hope to slaughter love. Laugh you sinner.
Jeer while you can, the tides may turn and the caves may light up. Hope lies in shadows of fears, dare to love and fear to breathe
Blithering wind. Scorching warmth. Are you not frightened of the agonizing, terrorizing nothingness? Your soul withers.
My soul withers where wombs lay bare, as pure as sin and half as fair. Stones unturned and sorrow I’ve had my share.
Yet I smile with my life laid bare. At your feet. Where you kick and curse. Sweet.
I scream everything down, the caves painted grey and love burnt for warmth. Hide…hide…hide.
~ By Varun Chakravarty & Mitchelle Rozario Jansen
Checkout Varun’s other works on http://stateofmaroon.wordpress.com/
Divine Ipseity
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.
The Stage Is Set
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!
Admission Of Guilt
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.
Instead
Sometimes you look at the person and your heart skips a beat.
Sometimes you look at the person and your smile doesn’t cease.
Sometimes you speak to that person and time is a vacant entity.
Sometimes you look into that person’s eyes and all you want to do is kiss them tender and sweet,
So you just look away instead.
Picture Courtesy: Israel based photographer, Yell Saccani’s uses movement to create disturbing imagery. Combing both traditional and digital methods of photography many of Saccani’s subjects appear deranged or enraged, they are, as Saccani says, ’a recording of feelings, not easily deciphered, not meant to be understood but meant to be felt.’
This is my 14th contribution to NaPoWriMo. 🙂
This journey is more than just writing something for the heck of it. It is a process for me. A way in which I know my life is turning around. For the better.
They came, they saw, they said.