POET'S SKIN

I dance around vivid imagery and try to create sparks

Category: Poetry

it ain’t me

Stashed away in a secret hide-out: those kinda places are the best, they said.

Where mystery lives, attraction will thrive and people will soon come streaming in through the doors, they said.

Just gotta wait a while longer, they’re finding their way here, they said.

So i waited.

and waited.

Because they said so. 

Waited until my knees buckled, vision blurred, lying on the floor now realizing

that the reason why they’re taking so long is because they’re never going to come around at all.

Large, yet small.

I clear my throat, just in case the world wants to hear my opinions.
I run my tongue over the edges of my white rocks –
smooth and white.
Trust me,
they matter.

But suddenly I am aware that we are flecks of the reflected sun;
and I am just but a minuscule speck of dust –
physically meagre and trifling.
Trust me,
I don’t matter.

I rub my eyes and I look straight – back at myself in the reflection.
My hands move and the image in front of me moves.
Every muscle I clench – it is major.
Trust me,
I matter.

But then I see a trussed up carcass buried below dead grass and dried flowers;
blowflies hanging from the holes where meat once filled.
Everything I am will be gone, in time. It is already gone.
Trust me,
I, you, me, they – we all – don’t matter.

Modern Isolation

An instant; a click,
and resounding applause fills the vessel.
It’s sound reverberates in the plastic walls –
clamorous at first, but silent at next.

IT’S NOT ENOUGH.

Canes and whips; volcanoes and lava;
spotlight’s on me now.
Hands thrown themselves into the vessel,
but no one takes the hand.

IT’S NOT ENOUGH.

So I scroll past everything once more,
searching for meaning,
anything, really,
to take the pain away.

AND IT STILL ISN’T FREAKING ENOUGH.

It’s not right. No, I’m not doing it right.
There are chains on my ankles
and a balloon around my neck.
I want to fly.

SO I’M LEAVING THIS HOLE.

Indolence and hope (i, ii and iii).


i.
The universe and its entire population sees you –
scrambling, searing, scotch-hopping across island isles.
Past the dunes,round mountain tops, up steep inclines full of jutting rocks.
You’d think that even fabricated creatures would not come to know of your news,
but alas my friend, even the wind carries your name too.

ii.
Don’t think for a second, that I would partake in this jamboree.
I’m too weary to carry the wings that you’d need,
nor give the hecatombs that would take away what I can feed.
And in this evanescent day and night, I pray that what thoughts I breed
will succor and assist me throughout this circus deed.

iii.
And as you carry a ton on your sturdy back, climbing up robust structures
and even more of that, I will take a helicopter ride, and watch you merely from the side.
But as you tear past pine trees with your wooden chalk, and I watch with safety locked,
I know that this will all be of nought, because well, you see, these are scenes from my dream –
a dream in passing moonlight, a dream concocted without a single thought.

Futile plans

underwater_cosply01.jpg

Everything was supposed to turn out a different way –
aligned, arrayed and arranged day by day.
But like the arbitrary winds that carry the El Ninos up to shore,
and like the Hurricanes that were named after people and nothing more,
everything is indefinite and NOTHING is written in stone –
our lives really weren’t carved in black and gold.

RRRRRRIIIIIINNNNNNNNGGGG

The phone is ringing, but I’m not answering it.
Not till I am done here, my keys are still clicking.
It’s not a cinch to have a perfect plan in mind,
yet watch it sink right before your eye.
And the phone does no help in reminding me,
that not everything can stay the way it is.

RRRRRRIIIIIINNNNNNNNGGGGG

When will the people stop calling? …
Can’t they see that they’ve made things turn into a mocking?
This so called canvassed ‘perfect plan’
was actually just a rose in the sand –
Lovely, but cast in vain, no more to it than that.

I experimented with a new technique added in to make the poem more interesting, in a way trying to be avant-garde here 🙂 Yep I love poetry because sometimes when I want to rant but don’t want to be too direct, writing helps. Hope you liked it!

I dreamt that I flew


As I lay my systems down
on a bed of velvet, I
drowned;

Hidden under the duvet,
rests my mind set on fire,
ire.

But why, does this feel so light?
My brain’s not burning that bright,
right?

And yet I’m able to fly.
No wings, no jets, just I. Oh
my!

Was that just a ring of my
mind’s eye, that’s as free as a
sky?

But my body went against
a flow of air so lucid;
bright.

Was it real? Maybe, and not.
(Perhaps I was really soaring, just
under a different sky.)
Perhaps it was just a dream.
Oh.


For those of you who don’t really understand poems and their meanings, let me break it down to colloquial language for you. Basically, for the past 2 days, I had a really special dream. The content of my dreams were different but there was one constant – in my dreams, I flew. I really did seem to have flown across the green earth, and the feeling was really just too clear for me to even define it as a dream. It felt incredible. I always wanted to know how it felt like to be able to fly, and now I know. And I would give anything to have that dream again. Let me fly again.

City of love.

“Table for?”
“One, please”
“This way.”

She follows the lady in,
and points to a window seat.
“I’d love it there, please.”
And so, there she finally sits.

She whips out her white machine –
now there it sits in angellic glory.
They match the color of the table,
both pristine, both adore-ry.

Flowers are casted by her side –
the resplendently pink creatures defining every line
of beauty aboard the world of mankind.
Sumptuous beings incarcerated by inanimate glass chugs –
a living paradox casted by her side.

And there she goes – typing away, fingers a fluttering
mess of puppets masquerading Juliet’s play.
Her stomach grumbles and roars like a grey sky.
It needs food, her mind plays out, like a signal obtained
from a morse code, wrapping deceit in perfect disguise.

She was supposed to be on a diet.
Groaning, she ordered half a dozen of croissants anyway.
After all, her stomach – it needed food to survive,
if not, her energy would go on a descent and her mood, ire.

“Half a dozen croissants for the lady in…”
She looked up at the bellowing voice of the waiter,
whose eyes greeted her with cerulean tints.
His voice wandered off in plumes of his minty breath
and their eyes locked for a minute and more seconds.

They cleared their throats and at that moment,
he swore to himself

that he just caught the most winsome smile of them all
The ravishing definitions of her face,
really, the most beautiful he had ever seen before.

And she swore to herself
that for once she felt
like her heart could handle
someone more than what
she ever hand held.

“Whats your name?”
They chimed in unison.
Hello, mellow, cello –
a greeting, a feeling, a note

that right then,

they               both                felt.

On rainy days

I breathe out frosty mist,
and inhale the damp and clammy miasma clogged in the air
around my legs and around my wrists.

The rain wrapped me in a frigid blanket,
topped with icy stalactites on their stalagmites,
biting into my skin with their glacial fangs.

I sigh but relent,
oh,
how the rain is back again.

Pitter-patter, pitter-patter,
I hear as onomatopoeia played on in full glory,
beating against the muted drums in my ear.

Pitter-patter, pitter-patter,
say the rain drops dipped in melancholy,
oh, how the rain left my body bloodied with fear.

On this rainy day, I am
void of shelter,
void of protection (where is my umbrella when I need it?)

On this rainy day, I tread
atop moist soil
atop nature’s toys (thank God for my platformed sneakers)

Yet the salience is not
on what I do on this day filled with thought –
it is that I feel the same way as the rain.

(b, s)

Child’s apocalypse

neverland001.jpg

It is scribbled limpidly across the skyline –
in darksome ink, by a brush with fibers so fine
that every other accustomed unco can see
from outside of the barricades packed with glee, that
he’s years too late, this is the apocalypse.

He didn’t know when to finish, Oh no, did he?
After all, his thorns were like pineapples on trees
Serrated, thorny-sharp, and everything it is
so much such that they pierced through the hearts of his kids
Mercy! screams cried out, but drowned by the crimson sea.

Emancipate us, pater, they begged him. Threw down on
knees scratched with blisters, skin torn by their wary father.
Valiance sublimed, they approached the figure which honed
them in character – or so he thought. In actual,
he fought a demon’s war, his young the only soldiers aboard.

(b, s)


A/n: The first poem of mine to be in a syllabic format, with 5 lines for every stanza. My neatest arranged poem yet. Can’t wait for the day I add in meters to my poems.

Ghost

underwater_dark19.jpg

My ghost is back
cloaked in a stygian black, colossal cloak,
hair over her eyes.
Wayward tendencies;
Surreptitious eyes;
Recalcitrant girl.

Maybe if I stand here long enough,
I will blend into the corrugated surfaces of walls;
Maybe if I lay here long enough,
I will be all rough and no smooth, like the bituminous road I am lying on;
Maybe if I stay still long enough,
I will be just a mere prop in a masquerade ball –
forgotten and thrown aside for dazzling ores.

No need for elusion, everything is ephemeral
And if I chant this to sleep every night,
will she disappear?

I fear that it is no longer opportune –
I am steps too late.
Epitome of disaster, epitome of hate
Even I can’t save myself now.


a/n: Someone please, please, please, tell me how to save myself from me.