WRITING Archives - Page 2 of 2

Grooving to the classics, velveteen smooth, with devilish antics.
Never seen through my pirate-themed ruse or the skeleton captain.
X-ray embellishing, developing cancer.
The elephant in the room, and the rest is in captions,
subtitled. Lexicons added for your pleasurable view,
I’ve got a penchant for ad-libs.
Subdued in my intelligence, say hello to the masses;
yeah, it’s just you, some gel tablets, and the medicine cabinet.
They’re like a president’s cabinet, a group of advisers:
the Vicodins, the vice president, the alcohol, the confidant,
all loose on the side. Hiding the bruises you’ve captured.
A group of counselors, grouped into family matters ending in -cillin.
The chancellor, the consultant, all there to mentor you, alla’them chilling ,
as if it was meant to instill some impressionable feeling.
Dandruff building, scratching until it bleeds,
where’s the Selsun Blue?
Telekinetic view, light a match
until it ceases and recedes until the black
hits my thumb. Black from the burning.
The burn will bring me back from the dumps.
Marvel at the stars, watching the TV watching me from the sofa.
I turn on the TV but drown it out with the garbage disposal.
My credit score is pristine, except I crashed my car last year.
Now I have nightmares about Geico could save me fifteen percent.

Blues and Bruises: A Selsun Blue Symphony

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Feb 23

He drifts through life, an elusive specter of emotional detachment. His friends, mere stand-ins for the void that lingers within, serve as placeholders in a desolate existence. In his solitary moments, he’s tempted to serenade himself while tending to nonexistent plants, a poetic yearning for a connection with nature that remains unfulfilled.

He dances with actions he later laments, a discord of choices and regrets, tangled like a web in his tormented psyche. Regret becomes his constant companion, an enigmatic shadow cast by deeds both committed and omitted. A heart, once gilded with hope, now mired in decay, bears the scars of unspoken sorrows.

He gazes upon pretty faces, seeking solace or salvation, finding amusement in the theatrics of humanity’s grand masquerade, all performed in stealth. His cry for help is cloaked in the guise of self-sufficiency, a silent plea that he masks effortlessly.

“I don’t,” he declares, rejecting the notion of need. What he truly craves is a fragment of hope, the bedrock on which to establish sound footing in a world that constantly threatens to pull him under.

Today, the simple act of toothbrushing eludes him. Instead, he commits to memory the braille-like patterns etched into his plaque, indifferent to their fate in his daily routine.

His friends smile, blissfully unaware of the tempest that rages within him. The warmth of sunshine is an opportunity to bask in the fleeting embrace of sun rays, to stretch his weary back and fingers toward the heavens. Yet, he questions, “Why?” A sigh of disillusionment escapes his lips, refusing to engage in a debate of differing opinions, for what’s the point when nothing matters?

He remains an island of indifference in a sea of fervent causes. “I don’t care,” he mutters, disengaged from the million battles people wage, for his war unfolds silently within the confines of his own mind. It’s a minuscule arena where the weight of millennia rests heavily on his shoulders, suffocating him to the point where even drawing breath feels like an arduous task.

He makes sounds, inhuman noises reminiscent of a mournful puppy, disoriented by the cacophony of fragmented voices that have led him to this desolate place. His eyes well up with tears, and his throat aches from the unspoken sorrows that weigh him down, like an anchor to the depths of despair.

Fatigue and discontent are his constant companions. The imprint of his body on his bed has become a work of art, a testament to his inertia and solitude. He abstains from the numbing embrace of alcohol and drugs, not out of virtue, but out of sheer boredom. He’s too uninspired to become a worse version of the self he barely recognizes.

Close to the Edge of Regret: A Portrait of Isolation

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Feb 17

I’m trapped in this love for you, and it’s a place I wish I could escape from. I can’t help but hold you responsible for the mess I’m in, even though, deep down, I know it’s not your fault. You were just this tiny glimmer of hope, a speck of light in the pitch-black abyss of my life.

I can’t forget that one particular moment when you hugged me. It was at your doorstep, right after you came back from wherever. I thought I knew you inside and out, and I had a little something for you, probably flowers – but honestly, I can barely recall. As you disappeared behind those glass doors, you had no clue it was me standing there. I’d been dropping hints about leaving in my messages, but you didn’t quite catch on.

Then, you opened the door, and I started saying things that, in retrospect, didn’t matter at all. Silly stuff like, “Why didn’t you…” But what’s haunting about that memory is that I was desperately trying to push away the overwhelming wave of emotions your hug had stirred in me. I was attempting to shield myself from being utterly consumed by your touch, even if it was just a simple hug. So, I babbled on, hoping it would somehow distract from the intensity of the moment.

But you, you hugged me harder right there on your doorstep. You pulled me close, almost as if by instinct, but it was a passionate pull that yanked me deep into your world. I remember it so vividly, even though it’s been two long years. It feels like it happened just a few hours ago. Time has lost all meaning for me.

To give you an idea, people ask me how long it’s been since I last got a haircut, and I casually say, “Oh, just a few months.” In reality, it’s been well over two years. I’ve completely lost my grasp on time, and that hug was the catalyst for this strange and twisted time warp I’ve been trapped in.

Recently, a coworker patted me on the back to brush off some dirt, and I didn’t want them to stop. It’s bizarre how even the most mundane interactions with people, like a simple pat on the back, can transport me right back to that damn doorstep.

Nowadays, when I hug someone, I do it with an intensity that borders on obsession. I want them to remember those hugs, to feel what you made me feel, day in and day out.

If I had the power, I’d pay a king’s ransom to Picasso – and even more to whoever could resurrect him – just so we could go back in time to that precise moment when your arms enveloped me. You were wearing that black coat I’d never seen you in before. I’d want him to immortalize that moment in a painting and name it “Broken Heart.” Because at that moment, my heart wasn’t broken; it was whole, it was healed. But in the days, months, and years that followed – well, in my world, it all felt like mere minutes – it got shattered all over again.

I often wonder if anyone can even begin to fathom the turmoil I endure every single day, all because of a damn hug. It’s infuriating, really. I just wish I could breathe freely once more.

At the Doors of My Desolation

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Feb 12

Tired of decomposing, dried up, my dreams are dozing,
My body has peaked the opus, through godly retreat,
I hope, trying to feel a pulse, a pariah that feels opposed,
Pinching my grip, controlling, picture my mind in solace.

Pitching and writhing, gritting and grinding my teeth to focus,
Witch-doctors reveal a poem, my palms have been reading growth,
Exhausted, my being’s broken, loathe signs that concede to smoke,
I need the tar to feed compulsions, exhaust that secretes emotions.

Tyrants as deacons, posing; Goliath as people cloaking,
A lion in sheeplings’ clothing, a tiger that feels repulsed,
About the lines that he sees his coat in, why do I feel insulted?
Sonnets revealed in quotient, to calm this conceited ghost,

But while I sleep, I know that the mind is a demon’s crow’s nest,
Fire that feeds ferocious, piles of sheathed explosives.

Unearthing the Mind’s Explosive Secrets

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Jan 14

Fireplace with Tourette’s, pops and crackles in depth,
Drunkenly asking questions I wouldn’t dare, I was shy,
Recherché brunette, with curlicue braids on her head,
There’s a reason wine glasses are in the shape of a Y.

Fork in the road, left or go right, slicing tension with knives,
I went left, it felt right, spooning you ’cause the etiquette’s nice,
Drinking the truths I fed you, intoxicated with lies,
Sedated and high, I’ve contemplated for help.

What kills you isn’t the virus, it’s the inoculation itself,
It’s what helps you and what hurts you, it’s complicated as hell,
Whatever, that isn’t what I wanted to say,
I wanted to go, but in jest, I wanted to stay.

It’s getting awfully late, capturing arguments offside,
Cured by clever wording, Cambridge-Oxford alumni,
Defunct and debased, aim the hair and the trigger,
Selfishly enamored with death, a date at 8, before dinner.

Ignoring the nosebleed as I stare in the mirror,
Tighten my necktie, debonair of elixir,
Ignored the pain, hailed a taxi to a chain up in Gloucester,
Took off her pea coat, pulled up her chair, and with posture,

Stayed after pay, after lobster, chatting crucially after,
Doodled on napkins, flirty exchanges on contours,
“Draw a monster for me. Now, what makes it a monster?”
Voodoo and magic, pin the needle on the doll,

Incognito, high libido in the stalls,
Torpedoed, and we fall, mistaking distress ’cause I’m loyal,
Disrobing attempts at joy, sex as a crutch to enjoy you,
Aware, but yet not so, picked up on the influenced behavior,

Clues like, you were nice to me, but were rude to the waiter,
Apprehensive as creatures, egotistical shroud we bestowed,
Jealous of the fires made when I was set out in the cold,
Mistakes are subjective, practicing repetition till death,

Like a photo out of focus is a blunder, but ten are a trend,
Ambien, ambiance, ambulance, a picture of you in a locket near my heart’s strings,
Open it up, learning to stop looking for happiness where I lost it.

Cambridge Whispers: A Tale of Eloquence and Enigma

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Jan 6

Dreams and reverie boast,
Roasted with pearly green chimerical gold.
God Delusion. Hallucinating a miracle told,
Where lightning strikes the conscious,
Lively minded, constant.
Smile by a goddess,
Where perfection’s unfurled by Pangaea,
Curvy hips, sangria, and rooftops,
Inebriated in a sea, with a jukebox.
Charismatic, dispelling drama, adorable,
Gospel sings for the saga approaching,
Americanah and rooted, salsa and dance,
Savannah beauty, with a lot to command,
Sailor of wisdom, a body tailored for rhythm,
Samba routine, enigma, for her frolicking waist,
Marvelous taste, whiskey and fruit wine,
Yin and yang in spirit, spirits and moonshine,
Clamoring percussion, fireworks on the eve,
Ten seconds for eruption, heart on her sleeve,
Little black dress, static libido,
Attracted me, magnetic tuxedo,
Countdown in Manila, three seconds to go,
Loud sounds pound now, as we disrobe.

Dancing in the Fireworks: A Sensory Delight

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Jan 4

I’m sitting alone at the cosmic stump,
Sipping my soul, and I’m vodka drunk.
Thinking of goals I’ve not yet done,
Fission control, visit me in my head.
Cataclysmic logarithms, picture dreams that are dead.
Bickering silence, word by word, I fell into your haiku,
Only heard what you wanted when I told you I love you.
Nervous, respond. I fell into the lust pool,
Mouth of sin, out of breath,
A spell was cast on my lungs too.
She promised me passion, she promised me endless,
A synonym for forever. All I got was a toxic expansion.
Mantras to mansion, so deceptive it hurt,
Quoted my tantrums, like an excerpt from a book.
Don’t mention the looks. I wonder how you mention me now?
Sat on the couch, watching Netflix. Forget heaven and clouds,
Came from the kitchen with a spoon full of sauce that you fed into my mouth.
Cilantro, “Does the chicken francaise taste good, my love?”
Now I find spooning so distasteful. It sucks.
Double entendre tornado, a marksman from the start,
Haloed your heart, rainbow, and darts at the bar,
Volcano and smog, now I counted a hundred horseshoes,
Barely put into words how much I adore you.
So scared, and it hurts, I’ve come to assortments,
From arid. It’s gravid, it varied, of course.
Marriage, like cherries, best pick to engorge,
Eviction of souls, dependent on the glare you reflected.
You sold me religion, with laissez-faire in effect.
I flare up, I gave up on describing this feeling,
Inscribed when I speak, shine on the shrine I requested,
Dried my lips on your teeth, a psychic connection,
Read the Braille on my tongue without trying to French kiss.
Assignment: Accepted. Binary in sign language,
With tension so hectic, you’d barely bury the knife hatchet.
Fury. Attachment. To the universe that emblazoned,
The jury and gavel, as well as the executioner faceless.
Fell into Jupiter’s orbit, and you didn’t notice,
Consumed in your work. My mutation was forced.
I knew it, of course, I ballooned and transmogrified,
With evolutionary pose, soon to be broken, I
Cocooned. I was born, alas, a new metamorphosis. Rise,
Using the moon’s pull as a force, so isotopic,
The butterfly, psychotropic, new skull and a heart.

I Didn’t Want to Believe It: A Transformational Journey

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Jan 3

Category: WRITING