Red in disguise.

30/03/2011

Who told you we come into this world to be happy?
Who told you that the essence of life is jolly and free?
Who told you that your spirit is to flourish, rather than diminish and die?
Who told you that space will fit us all?
Who told you that your baggage won’t be the death of you?
Who told you letting go exists?
Who told you your sins won’t be the death of you?
Who told you there is a way back?
Who told you there is a way to the future?
Who told you there’s a way here, and now?
Who told you we’re adequate?
Who told you we were not kicked out of heaven because we’re mad?
Who told you that your brain won’t be the death of you?
Who told you that you’re heart is safe in your chest?
Who told you that giving will give back, that nothing goes unrewarded?
Who told you that you are ever enough?
Who told you that memories won’t be the death of you?
Who told you that gardens last?
Who told you that the sky is limit, while you haven’t even touched the sky?
Who told you your cells don’t hate you?
Who told you your hands don’t hate to touch you?
Who told you that your face doesn’t hate looking at your face?
Who told you that there’s an escape?
Who told you that it can all be erased?
Who told you that it can all be undone?
Who told you all you need is love?
Who told you that you’re not alone?
Who told you that you’re whole, and complete?
Who told you that pieces can be put back together?
Who told you that what’s not going to kill you, will make you stronger?
Who told you that you can take it?

Who told you anything at all?

Who told you that you won’t be the death of you?

Who told you, and why did you believe them?
Who told you, and how do they know?
Who told you, and who told them?
Who told you, and how do you know?

Who told you we come into this world to be happy?

Who told you, because I don’t know.

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Silver as the moon

29/03/2011

1 2 : 3 0 a.m.

I just wait till the earth turns around and stops.
to start writing.
The foggier my coherent thinking is,
the more honest I am.
the less I evaluate things,
the less I think of things,
the less I feel things,
the less I care about things,
the less I talk about things,
the less I listen to things,
the less I write things,
the less I sit, and write things,
the less I sketch out things,
the less I move,
the less I breathe,
the less I live,

the less I exist,
the lighter of a being i am.

the foggier my coherent thinking is,
the more honest i am.

it’s true.

1 2 : 3 7 a.m.

i contemplate deleting whatever that I intend to write even before I write it.

i’m being thrown into an abyss.
it’s like my whole life,
i was being prepared for this.
to be thrown into an abyss.
to be thrown into the ocean,
and learn to swim.
only the ocean is not an ocean,
it’s more of a consistent black waves of a long rung bell.
it’s beautiful.
it’s scary.

i can’t say i’m freaking out.
or that i’m scared shitless.
because really,
i’m not.
i’m just begging my audience for sympathy.
it’s the supposed-to-feel-like emotion that I should be feeling,
but I’m not.
or maybe i’m just in denial, still.

if I tell you i’m scared,
don’t believe me.
I’m not scared.

I’m just bored.

1 2 : 4 2 a.m.

stay.

1 2 : 4 3 a.m.

I lost touch with the divine.
I lost touch with everything that is close to divine.
I lost touch with innocence,
purity,
white,
peace,
beautiful ignorance,
the first time,
the second time,
the familiarity,
the love,
the surprises,
the pleasant surprises,
the smiles,
the words,
the rush,
the make believe.

I’ve lost touch with happy.
or the illusion of it.
or the place of it.
or the source of it.
or the reason of it.

Everything’s just on the verge of meh.
2 steps back and one step forward.

a dance that i dance.

I’ve lost touch with the divine,
or anything close to it.

Can it please find me?
because I cannot find it.

1 2 : 1 8 a m

she talks of compassion.
and she was hoping that they could dance together.
I think about using her words instead of mine because they rhyme and sound more beautiful.
and she was hoping they could crack each other up.
I think about how you crack me up all the time,
but then I remember too, that we said our clock was ticking.
the song ends, along with her hopes.
and mine.

1 2 : 2 2 a m

self-inflicted misery.
all of us.
i kill me. i like to make me suffer. i like to have an interesting storyline.
you kill you. you like to make you suffer. you like to have an interesting storyline.
always this ridiculous obsession with love.
endless stories that never end. endless stories that never start.
endless hopes. endless dreams. endless illusions.
always this ridiculous obsession with love.
you kill you. you like to make you suffer. you like to have an interesting storyline.
i kill me, i like to make me suffer, i like to have an interesting storyline.
all of us.
self-inflicted misery.

and it always ends, where it has started.
and it always starts where…

where?

1 2 : 2 9 a m

if you never use the word fuck, you are a hypocrite and a liar.
you know you wanna use the word fuck.
not fudge.
not ffffootball.
not eff.
fuck.
there.
fuck.
FUCK.

1 2 : 3 1 a m

I like anger.
I like the emotion.
i think we should be angrier.
angrier, more often.

26/03/2011

if I never see you again
I will always carry you
inside
outside

on my fingertips
and at brain edges

and in centers
centers
of what I am of
what remains.

Charles Bukowski