Posts tagged writing

I am ambitious, non-fictitious, artistic, realistic, a cynic who learned from her mistakes. In the past, she missed her pace—she went too fast—risked the race and missed her place—she got last and she got lost. She misplaced her brain and heart, but what she’s learned has made her smarter and harder, what she’s heard has made her wiser, she can’t be fooled by any lies nor will you ever see her cry. Old soul, young mind, bold goals, unblind. Ambitious eyes look ahead, looking for more challenges. Artistic instincts sync together, I walk this ambitious endeavor, I want this for forever. And this, guys, is no guise, no disguise, just my life through my eyes.

I’m suffocating. I’ve had enough of saying things on mute, volume down, speaking with no sound. I’m asphyxiating—hating these conditions. Conditioned to keep quiet, now reprogrammed to start a riot, I was on a word diet but now I’m spitting up words like my stomach is irate. Don’t hesitate to question it if you disagree because what they see isn’t always what it be. If you think they’re wrong, move along, move away, go astray from the crowd, from the sheep & while they look at the surface, you look deep.

(Source: tranggbanggx)

(Source: tranggbanggx)

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Phosphene dreams with deleted scenes, diluted screams, polluted screens. Stars in me, scars on me with open seams. Nothing seems real to me; this is my surreality. Are you feeling me with sympathy, or empathy? My apathy makes me empty, see. But I am filled with calamity, galaxies of phosphene dreams of you and me. Hopeless beams, telescopic themes; reality is a misery.

(Source: tranggbanggx)

There’s hysteria in Syria but no one’s there to hear it, uh. No one wants to hear it, those that do, they fear it; too afraid to speak of the havoc that’s been wreaked. Seeing deaths, fleeing right and left, children left bereft of home and family. Deaths, massacres, another tragedy hushed down by the government. All this calamity, no amity from the president, his sanity is gone, no longer present, but that’s no longer relevant. The deaths and injustice are the main reason I’m so against this. So help raise awareness, show some kinda fairness; ya’ll were aware of Kony for about a day or two, so be aware of Assad, another cruel man, too.

There’s more breaking up and giving up than making up and living up to what love used to be: more lying, less trying, more byes, less greetings, less faith, more cheating, lack of communication, too quick consummations. Love is a word, no longer a verb, only a noun, a sound thrown around.

(Source: tranggbanggx)

And when he raps, he sets free what was trapped, lets loose what was capped, in the pit in the bottom of his heart and from end to start he’s rewinding history, rewriting his story. His words are a masterpiece; art is what music is to this artist, and everything that he sees he keeps in his memory, in an archive of perception, free from deception, replaying each day from its inception. His confessions are all lessons for those without taintedness, but not for those who are faint of heart. He’s creating art, remaking his heart, elating a new start.

Observing Ophelia

Phalanges and knuckles, wrists and palms. The lines of little webs and vines above your veins. Four mountains and three valleys appear when you clench your fist. Nails unvarnished, hanging above cliffs of fingertips. Your bones beneath your skin, I can see them through your transparent flesh. And when your fingers grace and trace the air, like piano keys, phalanges raise in place for only a second before they fall, trading off.

You smile, unhappily and unsadly; Mona Lisa taught you well. You blink in rhythm to your tears, sending them away. Breathing is unnatural; your speech is mostly forced. Tongue tied down but freed to speak only to please society. 

Not even lips which Shakespeare’s taught can ease your constant wariness. Not even music from Mozart’s hands can cure you any less. Picasso’s colors and conceptions can never fill your black and grey; your vision will never stray from possibilities and facts. You hear but never listen, talk but never tell, look but never see. You never believe.

Your eyes, they pierce like knives. So cold, your gaze (you caught my glance), an iris maze. Your name contains a word that contradicts yourself: “feel.” And when you introduce yourself, do you ever sense the falsity of your identity? You never feel nor do you live; you only exist. An object—inanimate, intangible. Ophelia.

For thee, I have such strong ardor. For me, each day in love gets harder, for you, sir, have no heart, smiling as I tear apart. I’m stumbling on broken words and crumbling as it hurts for me to speak. You’re so strong and I’m so weak. You have all the power,
for my heart you have devoured. Am I just a coward?—for when you speak I cower and scour for my tongue and brain to find a single lane. Am I just insane for allowing you to gain the power to bring me pain?

Liar, liar,
I’m so tired
of your falsing.
It’s exhausting;
My fallacies
of you should cease.
You’re a liar
and I’m just tired. 

Two people whose paths never cross—
Winning at the other’s loss.
One will find what the other’s lost
The latter catches what the former’s tossed.
Opposing poles, melt and frost,
attracting opposites, come with cost.
Two poles pointed at the same
So all comes crashing within the frame.
As the flame burns at both poles,
As the piecing of both souls,
The world between subsides to see
The destructing by, and of, I and thee. 

I’m at a loss for words, because all were left unheard. Screaming inside, smiling out—for every laugh conceals a shout. Dizzy dungeons lead to doom, cascading stairwells will crumble soon. An angry storm my heart has brewed, a hurricane with a dark, harsh hue. I’ve tried so hard to calm it, see, but there is too much calamity. Lightning strikes throughout my veins, the boiled blood and adrenaline. I shall not speak nor shall I weep, just let the anger seep and creep throughout my body and to my soul, now replaced by an empty hole. An abyss of words I’ve heard and said, words which actions had betrayed. And I’ve cried wolf, but the wolf was real. But now the wolf has been concealed. These silent screams and cries for help are stored in empty, dusty shelves. So no more words are left to say—only silence can convey the yearn for someone to lend an ear, so that maybe then they hear the house behind the locks, the howl between the ticks and tocks.

What a good morning to mourn in, with the leaves in the trees adorned with blossoms and bees. As the trees waltz with the bare breeze, the eagles and seagulls soar in the sky and graze the sea top in search of life. Glittered grass blades gleam to outshine the sun’s graceful glow but it is she who shows we how weeds glow and grow. Birds sing (and swing from branch to branch) an anthem, hymn, or melody, an avalanche of notes and chirpy chants, they dedicate to me. No grey above, no gloomy air, just a gorgeous day to spare and stare at a sepulchre’s farewell as it’s six feet closer down to Hell. You picked a perfect morning—a morning like this—to mourn in, with bliss.

I have ideas I can’t explain, murals of memories in my brain, feelings that I cannot contain, adrenaline rushes throughout my veins, smiles that I’ve learnt to feign, reasons to cry with the rain, once-then secrets which now are slain, and youthful wishes that yearly wane.