a feeling as empty and pervasive as air

overflow

of thoughts and feelings

my eyes are drained from seeing

too much of my reflection

if i look any deeper

i’m afraid all i’ll see

is the void within

that envelops my soul

from end to end

i’m reaching out from the seas

that keep pulling me in

the last thing i need

is the loss of a limb

is the loss of a consciousness

is the loss of a love

that for so long

offered me a calmer tide

what if i’m not meant

for this sea

for this wind

for this tide

what if i’m meant to float

or maybe even drown

My Sculptured Sea

I think I made her,
the way I didn’t talk,
my silence,
moments between the lines,
I gave her space to be
something
un-free
of me,

I think I made her
of wood I carpentered
skilfully,
my house, my empty bench,
my sculptured sea,

I took some of her,
in a little fish bowl,
spent days
contaminated with particles of me,
she became.

I made a trip back to her,
Across the vague shoreline,
confused by the broken waves,
I came back with my little sea
and poured into
the immense,
the blue,
the enigma,
my forlorn mystery,

Now that you have
a little of a corrupt reek
of my love,
you shall never be,
anything pure
of me.

 

a mis-dream

psychotic neurotic

she treds on broken glass

she never bled

her tears are colored red

she can hold herself

all along

all night

dreaming of the old book shelf

once a passion

burning free

oxygen is holding sea

crashing waves

crashing hard

she can never stop

falling apart

Bludgeoned

You were breathing at my neck. It felt surreal.

You were too close, not only like the cigarettes to my mouth, essential for the emanation of smoke, but like the birds as they scathe their dryness as they approach the waves, barely touching but ruining the wavelet frontiers.

I was the one holding back so strongly, it seemed like soon enough I would fall apart without your presence. I was the one creating within the illusion of being my own. Like I originated from myself, some sort of heretical thought of how I was a God of my own. Self-created and self-acclaimed.

But all these illusions were drawn out from the moment you approached me, held me by my thoughts, and urged my heart to feel so exteriorly.

You were the one who never thought of anything but love. And yet you showed so little of it and to so little people in the most incredulous of ways. You were the bewildered innocence realizing how destructive my recklessness made you.

You thought I was changing you. I thought I was changing you. I wasn’t sure I wanted to anyways. But it seemed like the silver coating that thrashed across your golden mind was expanding exponentially.

And while your eyes changed to some sort of sea-blue shade, my heart was slowly yearning for summer to shake away the autumn leaves so easily crushed underneath you.

And even though I always longed for something dead within me to never allow the flourishing to change me, it seemed like the longer I stayed there with you, the less beauty of orange autumn leaves I saw, and the more dark-grey shade of not dead, but long-gone and dead leaves of agony.

My bones started growing with some sort of irrevocable soot that trudged across my lungs, leaving only traces of white.

You let my fingertips ink some scribbles inside of you. Some psychological traumas and frequent life-changing moments. Some for the sake of aesthetics and some for the sake of insanity. You let me ink deep blotches in your skin. But I never touched your lungs. You stood there breathing heavily, but I never grew inside of them. Simply because nothing grew there.

I started to question where our love started, how it even began. But then I remembered, that it never really begins. It’s like a question smudged on the back of your mind, never really gone. Once drawn out by some ancient memory or thought, it never really walked away. Unlike your sentences which made way for endearment, my sentences were cut from rigid letters and rough emotions.

But unlike the breaking of my blood cells, you stood there, tall enough to stand for the next decade untouched by all but blotches of color.

Sea

The fear that wakes you up in the afternoon when heavy eyelids after long days and the deprivation of yesterday’s nights kick in.

The word that stretches in your mind. So hollow how can you exist so slim in thought and shallow in person, where is the depth how can your waves not coincide and interfere where is your maxima

Tell me when I can go finding the source of your animus, how can I stimulate it. You are looking over everything and I don’t know whether I admire your vulnerability to moderation and compromise or would anyone rather compensate openess of perspective for color

I want to see you; I want your distinct transitions taking different levels and emitting all your different energies I want to see you.

I want to dream your face tonight and imagine the rest of your body, draw out your words and color you with the thoughts of my first impressions.

I want you. To be through you and with you; colliding.

I want to explore your layers and riddle every word so many times, too many times for repetition to be redundant. I want to see you, not look into your soul and your eyes I want to see who you are, your favorite flavors and distinct style of walking across the street. Every single hair of your existence rises when I look at you, I see through you but I don’t see you.

Your transparent body is full of a spectrum of unknown ideas.

I want to see you and I hope you don’t vanish just yet.

Waves of Heart-Ache

Let me cry for I have the bitterness of the sea buried under waves of heart ache.