Revelations .+

It was only when she looked at herself in the mirror- at the darkened skin around her sunken eyes, the deep gashes on her arms and the tear-tracks running down her cheeks ending up nowhere- that she realized exactly what she’d lost. Half her soul, her entity, her mere existence was gone. Where? That, she needed to find out.

And then, she remembered the countless number of nights she’d spent, looking out of the window, filling the paper-bin with heaps of discarded poetry- about discarded love, thrown away so brutally, it ended all hopes of a happier tomorrow.

Happiness? What exactly was happiness to her? An emotion she no longer felt? No. Happiness was knowing he’s happy, wherever he is, whoever he’s with.

As for her, her happy ending had been set alight in orange flames and put on top of the burning carcass of her heart. That, too, by the she never wanted to let go of.

But God, He has His own ways. One after the other, her fingers were plucked off of him, the grip loosened. And with the last finger, they heard a snap, like a wishbone broken into two. And it hurt. Not the fact that the finger was in two separate pieces, but that her heart was in a million.

And the sad part? She was ready to let him go.
Only, not like this. Brutally. Heartlessly.

A Lecture Upon The Shadow .+

Stand still, and I will read to thee
A lecture, Love, in Love's philosophy.
These three hours that we have spent,
Walking here, two shadows went
Along with us, which we ourselves produced.
But, now the sun is just above our head,
We do those shadows tread,
And to brave clearness all things are reduced.
So whilst our infant loves did grow,
Disguises did, and shadows, flow
From us and our cares ; but now 'tis not so.

That love hath not attain'd the highest degree,
Which is still diligent lest others see.

Except our loves at this noon stay,
We shall new shadows make the other way.
As the first were made to blind
Others, these which come behind
Will work upon ourselves, and blind our eyes.
If our loves faint, and westerwardly decline,
To me thou, falsely, thine
And I to thee mine actions shall disguise.
The morning shadows wear away,
But these grow longer all the day ;
But O ! love's day is short, if love decay.

Love is a growing, or full constant light,
And his short minute, after noon, is night.


-John Donne

Etched Hunger .+

The hunger in his eyes,
Pierced my heart yellow.
The cold, deep sighs,
From the dirty little fellow.
I’ve seen him before,
He lurks on the streets.
With clenched teeth and an empty stomach,
And more than one mouth to feed.

He looks at the table,
And sees a feast,
Though it’s only me,
He sees a beast.
I can see his desire,
What we, cold-blooded, can’t see.
Rescue him from this mire,
Too cruel, are we.

He’s peering through the glass,
Into my half-filled one,
He’s from an entirely different class,
And yet, he’s human.

The Lampost And Other Mutilated Pets .+

I started enjoying today, as though it was my last day on earth, for someone told me it might be. I went around town. Looking at all the different kinds of people around, people I’d never bothered to notice up till now. It’s funny how it happens. Tch tch. Nonetheless, I went to all the places I’d always wanted to visit. Places that were in my city, but I was too darn busy to take time out and go there.

I don’t want to relive all the mistakes I’ve made along the way. It’s funny how it happens. Tsk tsk. And, believe you me; I’ve had my share of blunders. People I’ve hurt that I didn’t mean to; words, once spoken, but never forgotten; people forgotten, but never forgiven. After my picture fades, and darkness has turned to gray, pray to the only God I’ve ever known to forgive me, to forgive my mistakes.

I know I’ve been mistaken, but just give me a break and see the changes that I’ve made. You always find the words to say to keep me right here waiting. ‘tis funny how it happens. Sigh.

I don’t want to be forgotten. It’s funny how it happens. Alas. Hold me when I’m here, right me when I’m wrong, hold me when I’m scared, and love me when I’m gone. I don’t want to forget, either. Nothing. Even when I’m gone.

P.S - It's Bloody Jumbled. I Know. They're Songs. Random Shite.