Archive for April, 2011

The Stranger within us.

Listen to: Luigi Rubino – Nostalgie

There is a stranger walking down my streets;

Turning my sweet serendipity into murky fate

There is a stranger in my home invading my rooms;

Asking me to move tamely across my hallways

There is a stranger lying naked on my bed;

Soaking my pure bed sheets with stained crimson

There is a stranger in my closet searching through my cloth;

Ripping my fabrics and stitching them onto my skin

There is a stranger inhaling my air;

Forcing me to hold my breath for a pleasure of theirs

There is a stranger in my heart rupturing my vein;

Telling me to bleed my way out of my heart

There is a stranger in my womb feeding on my nutrients;

Weakening my body with an unwelcomed murderous stay

There is a stranger roaming in my dreams;

Haunting my consciousness with bereavement

There is a stranger upon us, in between us, and within us;

Thou shan’t leave;

Thou shall destroy;

Thou shall harm;

Thou shall slay;

Thou shall possess;

Thou shall dictate;

Thou shan’t be but not to let us be.

Temptations: The Sagacity of Demons.

Listen to: The wind, for it cries – silently, with her tonight.

This is it; she thought. This is the end of the end, and it was not as happy as everyone described it to be. The road she walks is engraved in failure; the air she breaths is saturated with disappointment; this darkened sun is beaming pain instead of rays of sunshine; and that poisoned ivy she lived on has taken the best of her.

Pain; leave – her pleas, screams, shouts are maimed. No response; but more pain of pain. She had drunk enough pain that pain itself ridicules her absurd weakness. Ah, no more hiding, no more fear; she thinks to herself in front of a careless crowd as she removes her countless masks. Yes, all of this fakeness; exercised happiness, restricted thoughts, trained optimism, yes; yes, all of it goes.

As she breaks down and melts into nothingness she is accused of overdramatizing her masked emotions; enough, enough. What do they know but what she allows them to know. Who plays whom; she wonders. Is she the master of her own? Or is it they – those who hurt her, those who abandoned her, those who ridiculed her, those who judged her, those, those, these, these, them, and all of them.

Today she looks into the mirror of her true reflection. How could they be silent to this much ugliness; she painfully doubts. Mostly all people have a balanced equation between their interior and exterior, but she is not most, she is one young lady staring into a mirror that reflects both her insides and outside; a painting of herself. O, the atrocity of it all.

Her thoughts are a complete mess. This is the first and only time of her life where she felt vulnerable towards nothingness. That monster that creeps within us; that mass of darkness that never takes over has almost taken over her entire being. She has those dark thoughts; God Forbid. She prays they exit her mind, for she can fight her demons for only so long.

She has searched long enough for the source of the pain, and alas finally located the bleeding wound within her. The source of agony, the beauty in ache, the throbbing of the truth; the mother of all woe lies in front of a helpless her. The only way to rid of this net of darkness, and those damned thoughts; is to rid of herself.

She wonders if this is indeed the end. She thinks of a well to write, but she owns nothing worthy. She thinks of wisdom to share, but she is only an inch of age. She thinks of love, but finds no one to share it with. She thinks of family, alas, they had all given up – or really, they never cared to begin with. She thinks of friends, but no – she spent her life building walls and fences around her that no one pushed through. She has no one but her vulnerable self and vile demons.

Those demons are thoughts of self-riddance; forbidden they are, forsaken she will forever be – she wonders at this late of night if she would ever see the light of day again. Perhaps this darkness certainly got the best of her. This earth never welcomed her, its people always harmed her; even what nature gave her as family, and at most those she devoted her life to. Not only did she fail in her battles, but she lost the ultimate war against pity and pride.

Maybe God has better plans for her, but for now – she has no plans to herself but to cease the inner war within her, begin anew – or end it all and for once; taking control of her destiny.

Note: She never knew they could this much pain in this world, or God would give power to anyone to harm one person by such means and depths. She never knew it would get worse than her worst; and there could not have been any worse than what she was in.

A Soul Drenched in Agony

Listen to: Dustin O’Halloran, Opus 37.

The moon has shifted a little, and is about to fade away into vast heavens. Clouds move gently towards the chirping of birds as though they want to engulf them. The stars, however, refuse to shine. For they have grown out of this sickened earth and traveled afar in search of a new land to mystify.

The weeping soul of a demonized woman is nothing but a mere mask she wears within. Humans and common courtesy only meet when humans agree to only wear masks on the outside; sheltering themselves from a peripheral world. Nevertheless, that is not the case with this woman in specific. She has indeed grown out of her desperate wallows and misleading thoughts. What was once the most common, and occupying thought in her head, is now a traveling cloud that has almost emptied all its rain within her and soon to departure.

Her demons have taken over her soul and like every other time; she has no control over herself but to witness as she falls apart – tragically. Her countless wonders and tiresome thoughts have rested upon her soul, and yet another night is spent with the owls of lonesome and forlorn.

Her sin is not anew, for she has been forever guilty. However, to realize something and to commit it – are two entirely different states of mind that only meet in one breaking point to imbalance the cartilage of hope. Nonetheless, she has become anew. She never stopped praying for her other self to rest in peace, but this other self of hers has an impish, haunting ghost. She enjoy its company; the ghost. Metaphorically speaking, that is.

For years and years proverbs were passed on to generations and were told to her. Alas, her soul is too deaf to hear cries of the past and her eyes are too blind to see an obscure future. Those thoughts of hers; she is certain, will be the end of her one day. The question is not how, or where, but when.

To live within each line of her words has been her only asylum. Indeed, she is nothing but a lost soul that roams this earth in search of a sanctum. Hitherto, never did she peek inside of her screaming soul to see the sanctum within it; strangled, silenced, and forsaken.

Her dreams are the poisonous ivy of time. Those wishes of her, they are of a young maiden that merely wants a peaceful mind. Thus far, she craves pain and the endless struggle of her days. She has a sense of belonging to agony. More or less, she knows no other companion in this limited life but ache and feeds only on poisonous ivy.

Wasted and inebriated is her mind at awe. Her acumen is poor and drained of strength. Ah, the weeping soul of a lost woman, so tempting, so tiring, so deceiving, so secrete. Myriad days pass as she involuntary sets back by standing put. Her footsteps are washed away by passing sand and wind – that is how fragile her path truly is.

“No more” she utters. Ironically, fate screams with a frightening thunder and bolting lightening that she does not set the rules. She; just like any other lost case in this world, has no power over fate. How could she, anyway. She has no control over her desires and vulgar aspirations.

Common courtesy always wins. Thus, she will always fail – because her nature is to defy nature itself. The stubbornness she has is surely genetic. Somehow, it resembles the ugliness she sees every time she sets her eyes on mirrors.

Instead of smashing those reflecting mirrors, she lets their beams refract inside her, and plunge the wounds deeper within. Scars are a work of art, she believes. One day, she knows those scars will be her source of pride. Until then – she seeks solitude in a cave one step away from fantasy and one step back from reality.