Dependance

If that page disappeared yesterday,

would you be bothered by the gap in narrative?

The content was mostly very cryptic, subtly psychological,

and self-consciously analytical in nature,

but maybe not essential to your comprehension of the whole.

Was it ever, after all?

The page may happen to be floating to some foreign wind,

also ignorant of your story being told.

But could it really unfold in any chapter other than your own?

Words thrown to the breeze, characters lost to some weird rhyme,

scribbled in a page you may not care to even notice.

An essay on the uninteresting spirit

vanishing, without effort, on the sly.

It is not missed, neither can survive,

as it reckons in the absence of your watchful eyes.

Reflective

In my house of mirrors.
I stride and glide throughout its corridors
Followed by an accusing glance on every wall
Each perspective weighing on my silhouette a new judgement
As each step brings nigh the meeting with my own shadow
The reflections sing and dance and hop out of harmony
Each one to its own fit of madness or epiphany
But I willingly proceed on to ignoring the circus
A soft, salty breeze slipping through my heels
As the walking on continues

Surrounded but alone
Ridiculously self-aware, as if the walls didn't remind me all along
Remaining hidden from them, still
Fiercely fearful of the outside view
It may be said it is barely surviving in here
In my house of mirrors

The distortions held dear will somehow keep me company
Even if they laugh or scream in waves of pent-up anger at my naked face
In the sane confusion of these years, kept will be the pace
The pain of a fallen bird may be multiplied in such territory, but at a price fair enough if it is to see
The rising flight of victory, again
Watch I will the whole phenomenon, as grounded as ever
And as the walking on continues.

Recurring

smoke swirling

dancing

from my mouth

skywards high

smoke is whispering deeply

that it vanishes only seemingly

but remains in the eternity

of clouds

thoughts of nebula

thoughts of fire,

red thoughts of someone

i once knew

on lexical and artistic dissatisfaction

I profoundly despise the way that we remain trapped into old and somewhat predictable clichés of ourselves, patterns identified long ago and that we can never escape from. Mostly hurtful, and always disappointing, such patterns never seem to translate who we essentially are, besides being insecure and mildly depressed walking dilemmata. The pain does not reveal itself as something translatable in any form. Art sometimes manages to express some of it, but still the words, sounds and colors are too vague, sheerly failed attempts.

Useless language.

< 3

My main muse. Then, now and forever.
I hope my words can somehow reflect how much your love and supportiveness have inspired and saved me, when nothing else would.

Live on. For the next 68 years, and into eternity.

Struggles for Balance (Lucy V)

She balances her damaged body,
tremblingly, as she stands on the fine line
between tragedy and stupidity.
If aiming for a fall,
she would choose the shallower side, or what seemed like it.
Knowing whereabouts and consequences
of her violence, self-inflicted,
and well-aware of the damages caused
with the arrival of her explosion.
Knowledge which does not agree
to maintain the equilibrium.

Considering the able leaps of faith,
one of which may do her well,
it becomes hard deciding not to fall.
But the story was told and repeated a thousand times before.
There will be no need for any trial or anything
of such nature,
with causes so sheer and desires so cruelly simple.
Intentions never lie, after all,
and neither hide their perpetrators.
Gallows will always be gallows,
and each crime to its own.

Lucy wondered, and sighed
at the mischief of her own weak will
and distorted sight.

So she began to walk again.

Adrian, pt. II

For so long left in the cupboard,
hidden in between daily moves and routines,
forgotten you tried to be.
My favorite from all the drinks, the stand-out from my hash.
Never ceasing to sweeten my daydreams,
thinking of how I'd ever see the return of such glorious days.

You were took out and placed on
my dining table,
where once guilt meals were once binged,
and crowds in my mind were pleased
with the acid, mischievous outbursts.
Delighted in such position, you seemed,
as I poured, drip by drip, your essence
into my crystal clear glass.
Bubbles and expectations went skywards.
I loved the sounds, that never gave up on bringing back
the memories of your taste.
Tragic and unexpectable, sweet and intense,
unique beverage that worked out the wickedest substance,
when mixed with my flaming blood.
Straight to my conscience, you insisted on heading.

I fear for our past, I long for our future,
but only during these seconds while the tip of my tongue
still holds some liquid.

You will never disappear, from my cupboard or my sight, my dear.
For the crises do not concern your existence,
and your taste subdues every single thing.
Nobody sparkles like you.

Live and rush in,
my bloodstream and my flesh,
the ways you were pushed out
and the ways I'll always let you in,
tasting each time just as sweeter.
From my skin
to all that lies deeper.