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.

Sadstorming

So let me sort through what I still hold,
to what remains.
The sickness, the anguish, the solid
which couldn't be dissolved by the turning tide.
Let me breathe from these survivors,
swim closely to my heartless dangerous shores.
Sand that mourns, sand that weeps.
It never felt this close to the bottom.

I will browse for the pearls, for the sunken treasures,
and the neverending, hungry hope.
Starvation for life and survival.
Let me steal your glory, this single step in time,
swearing it will be enough to fill and to hide.
Let me be here, wanting to be and to see
what is still held close to the core.
A few unburdened jewels, lost from their shine
and their protective chest.
My survivors that insist, restlessly and surprisingly,
to breathe through the rough sand.

Let me join them.
My search must soon begin.

Running Backwards

Running backwards time is, still
And then he realises he remains undeserving
A natural disaster, wreckage of a person,
but born perfect in every visible way.
His cancer is not physical, his ways not healthy at all.
His mind an eternal countdown clock,
until life chooses to expire.
Tumorous ego, his heart swollen and unspoken,
in a socially acceptable and perfectly fitting vessel.
A cryptic design, mind and flesh coming undone.

She sends her love through postcards and leftover notes,
trying to fill in the void.
As if it could ever heal...

When the passionate fascination with death and the overwhelming, crushing fear of people and life itself merge into one colorless, intense and blurred
mirror of selfs.

Doubt, where art thou?