Existential Crisis

You close your eyes and think particles are blind, you shut your mouth and act deaf. You exist; you are in a room that is. There is a universe in your mind. There is a supernova on your neck. Necked from the Big Bang. There is a black hole in your lisp. In your speech, space fulminates. In your spine, mortals live and mortals die. Stars illuminate inside your chest. 

Manumitted by a first breath, life injected in the cells; behold lessening the jolts. Behold learning the crypts.

You swim. You land. You eject a second breath. Tattooing fingerprints on your children's foreheads. And then you walk, carving footprints on the seabed for meteorites to trace. 

We found hearts in a cleft. The clefts made a stream. The streams we wrecked, until our shadows became streaks. Conversed by smiles that spoke of engravers. We felt what no other creature could feel; tribe is safety, hunt is stability, loss is thirst. Home is circular and beasts are slaves.

We fought over land and game but still you remained under my skin —in the bones: free radical, wild and intangible, unrooted and disputant. I hinged on the mountains and you left like a fortune teller with not much for a luck. Floating on self-destruct. Traded your crystal ball with the globe, books with papercuts, lovers with stains. Loaded your pen-pencil with leads, and wrote me mechanical.

My people wandered Earth for water, and gulped down the seaside. My people are seasick. My people, their knees bleed on the plants lurking in the sunrise. My people, they shred the lands, wondering whose good is better. But only you know that insistence is good enough and resistance can keep you alive.

The world is our playground: valleys are slides when destruction is erupted. A tide is grace if you keep from drowning. Glazed eyes fool what the mind can already feel.

Pulp;

I have found sainthood within you.

You conquer my voice, even though it dances to the shivering of my fingers. The universe slows movement in each of your syllables and you leave me shaken, waiting for explanations. And I don't know what to expect.

I lock myself in for a moment or two, counting the seconds before you become my first, having no excuse; only scenarios as they wrap around our necks. But I'm the one losing breath.

I have found poetry in your guitar strings.

Ink-printed notes, muffled behind standing ovation, yet you still are a play.

And if bobby pens were voyagers, they would've made it to so-called villages, rumbled inside waves like duplicates of the sun rays, illuminating knots as they are. Your shoulder blades would've been shorelines and then fullstops.

Darling, we must be shattered enough to convulse Atlas off our berm

And we must be shattered enough

To scatter the children of bedlam for nameless skeletons. With bony toes that still curl platforms; this is one of three deadly things the dead can feel. The other two being rebirth and dirt.

There are too many wishbone bridges to carry a city of friability and to fill in blanks, wreckage for river banks. 

And then you speak flat notes fleeing opera house.

I have found pavements in your footprints.

This is how to find a way out with a broken compass.

This is how I bypass my base because I'm so easily triggered; my arms are rifles and, to my surprise, I carry bullets. 

Throwing stones from a glass door is the revolution sealing your backbone shut.

Secrets occupy the heart, rumors flow in the student body.

Beauty is learnt to exist like desired destruction, insisting on decaying like rubble that once built monuments for moments I used to count.

I am bound to be your angst-driven, self-indulgent lullaby.

I have found night watch circling your wrist instead of wristwatch.

Cremate me and scribe my ashes then scrub off the dust. Because home is the brutality in honesty which strengthens your temples. 

I am restless between elbows, I bow to never finish writing our closure, as I am trying to capture what's always vivid, and maybe this is why I am a flailing failing photographer.

After all, serendipities do no good to sirens. And you are the mess I regret creating and cleaning up.

I speak in the most improper of languages, but if you don't have a breaking point, you're already at it.

This comes from where I love rather from where I hate. 

The Kiddie Pool;

Here's to the part where I write badly edited spoken word poetry:

Absolute evil does not exist in this world. A few stains of innocence will always smudge the view; somehow, innocence isn't always pure.

Somehow, relevance hasn't got a clue.

Even if you evacuate the scene, a few drops of nonsense can purify the most elaborate loops.

You can tumble along the hallway, wrap my door, knock my bones, twist my knuckles, because their white is too honest and you can't bear casualties anymore.

I am not your crest; your target's way beneath my head; it can do nothing but kill me. My hell is not your Eden.

Even if I confuse the lot of my being, I won't bleach the dirt at my feet, preach what tics the clock. 

It takes too much dishonesty to distinguish distrust.

From West Amman until your pebbles trundle the fortune of breaking sticks for legs and stones for clones. Stones are bricks that pause the downfall, of the city that lasts. City on gunpowder. City that laughs. City that flounders over guests and cats.

I am clinging on each reason to stay. So don't cut the ropes; I carry your heart.

The tremble in me is sparked enough to sleepwalk. Don't you dare call me weak, when I've been losing sleep trying not to sleep-talk. Clutching my fists behind my back because I didn't want dreams to last.

All I know of fear; is that it is further from a black eye. A walk through the rasps, begging for the quiet.

Aphrodite would've made it out filthy and wealthy, cursing at the bolts. 

Put on a wreath of shame, crucified underneath your skin, praying you would grow out of your deeds. 

I halt despite the fact that I am yet to discover my company. The fervent rush at the end, seeking revenge in violent spit, spilled at gunpoint. Frantic pleas, or in lieu of them, quivering bliss. I tighten my hold around the words left unsaid, lost in clenched jaws and claws for interlocked grips. Crooked teeth sharing entries to diaries. Secrets are not so secretory once they collide. Chaps still fight, cry, lie for the best. Hang on best, even though the damage is done and consent is in resistance, when a portion of you leaves your body, it can't but slither lusciously into the possibilities. Gone. Forever.

I don't need you to save me. I belong to the demons; at least they talk to me.

I am only redeemed by my stutter. My beam isn't my shelter. 

Shallow thoughts are meant to surface.

I let my feet create my land, free enough to stiffen my thorns.

Father Sorrow,

Until you give up your throne, don't chant from above.