Pale September

I'll wait in the pale light of september,
yearning for the day to set me free.
I'll paint the light deep into existence,
And bury my love beneath it.

I'll send her off with a kiss on the cheek,
Should my pale September pass me by.
I'll mix my calm into the waters of the lake,
And watch it spread into clear placidity.

I'll touch the cool breeze with my brow,
I'll greet the time with a gentle embrace,
In these few seconds I have the silence,
In these few minutes I have life.

Tell my pale September all is forgotten,
The ticking doesn't escalate into arias,
It simply melts into the stillness, breathing
Soft thoughts into the the living room.

I'll find love when there is room for it,
I'll touch city ground when I have shoes,
I'll see the planet piece by pretty piece,
Until I have rendered the map foreseen.

Till then pale September, keep me steady,
Keep me covered in a thin blanket of quiet.
While I sleep in the pale light that filters in,
From a world that is secretly aging with me.

Summer Skin

I wish I could dive right into your Summer Skin,
I’d never have to come up for air, or light.
Just knowing I exist in the twilight glow of your body,
Is sustenance enough to nourish me.

Battles fought with time have lain hours to waste,
The heaving of your chest is calm euphoria,
I cannot contain joy as it attempts to contain me still,
Summer afternoons were our personal mornings.

Sleep came and went while I rubbed my eyes and adjusted,
To the light that embezzled some kind of dream,
Like we were the perpetrators of some idle fantasy,
That had found its way into sentient reality.

The rain fell and the thunderstorms only brought us closer,
I diminished in size with every breath I breathed,
I coloured differently with every touch,
My body found what my mind only had sought.

It's hard not to be distracted by your skin, your grip,

Harder still to not freeze for your eyes.
Holding on to the world seemed frail, so I let it slip,
And hid in the shadow of your frame on mine.

Your shadow bends light, it even bends time.
I'm a puppet in your hands, that aches.
I'm far too fond of breaking your silence sublime,
When you claim even necessary words are unnecessary.


While the rain kept coming we lay there in the stillness waiting,
For the silence to break into some kind of song,
I waited for you tell me that we’re leaving together,
You waited to tell me you were already gone.

Now and again, I still feel your summer skin against mine,
And I lose myself in the wave of phantom affection,
Till I’m driven back to the empty bed,
Where I used to dive into your summer skin.

Endlessly.

Lovers, movers, shovers. Liquors, stickers, and smoke.
Once what beat like a drum on a roll, is now comatose.
I could fill up these lines, like wine that  fills romance,
I could tap my feet senselessly, and pretend to dance.

That wouldn't mean much now darling, would it?
Though it would be pretty hard to not make it pretty.
With the stokes of a brush that happens perchance,
A picture of a coincidence on the canvas of a fluke.

I'm alive, but I haven't been living, or so I'm told.
If one could only explain to me, what I'm missing?
Perhaps the vain lingering of thought after thought,
Could dismiss the void that breeds on the inside.

Appalled by how easy it is, to sever these bonds,
The kind that had held me close, rattled my soul.
This unkind winter has turned from a testy season,
Into the perpetual setting of an already cold mind.

I repeat, I am not plagued, I am only pensive.
I keep a toll of the trinkets I find on the street.
They're not very many and they don't relate,
But form a chain that rants on endlessly.

Endlessly.

Images.

There’s so much of a void to fill out.

There are epiphanies to be sought.

Enlightenment is to be gained;

Loves to be lost, lovers to be made.

Why does everything cry when I touch it?

There are so many shiny trinkets to soothe me.

They fill me with sparkle that is borrowed shine.

Yet I cannot lift my feet off ground;

Questions to be given, answers foretold,

Why does sister-solace elude me still?

There are images to be played in the screen of my head.

White boys with shaven heads, cracking their mother open.

An expression of confused innocence,

Rites to be performed, not felt or understood;

Why does sorrow wrinkle such a happy face?

There are so many tensed breaths to be exhaled in a year.

They do not diffuse the tension, neither the conviction of relief.

Instead I will inhale thirty different intoxicants,

That will addle my brain, but not my experiences.

Why does memory defiantly scratch itself into the heart?

 There are so many songs to put me at ease or regret.

There is literature that makes me forget if only for a while,

Until logic crashes open, both the past and future.

Everything is connected, but not complementary.

Why does resilience play so subtly in my constitution?

There are so many wretched, kind people in the city.

They are wretched for they are kind in not knowing.

Spending on morals, flaming their highs,

There is no dignity in good, and good is un-glorified.

Why does a lingering eye see more than it means to?

There is so much wisdom to grow old in, to die into.

Up until the breach, loneliness is a single companion.

It lingers on when everyone is around.

It does not let live, but will not let die.

Why does a limbo feel so cathartic?

I could chase this mist forever.

Diseased That Way.

Father let go, don't you know
That if you touch me,
Your hands will turn to stone?
I'm diseased that way.

Mother accursed, cherished but hurt,
If you fall down,
I won't be there to pick you up again.
I'm diseased that way.

Brother so quiet, you might riot,
If only you knew,
The words that run from my mouth,
I'm diseased that way.

As for my mind, I refuse to find,
Any consequences,
That could compel to me to believe,
I'm not diseased that way.

Strangers I beseech, heed my speech,
I have much to say,
But you can only understand wickedness,
If you're diseased that way.

You're crying, while I'm sighing,
Because I no longer care,
Roll my eyes and drum on the forehead,
It's diseased that way.

My body is weak, the mind bleak,
A heaviness to drown,
That builds up from gut to my brain.
I'm diseased that way.

Building and break, still shaking,
For armies in my blood,
For they fight against not for me.
I'm diseased that way.

Tall tales to tell, about how you're in hell,
Yet I can consume you,
You can consume anyone in one bite,
When you're diseased that way.

I'm diseased that way.

Annie, Are You Happy?

I

The door creaked open, and she was lit up by the single beam of light coming in through the doorway of the otherwise pitchblack room. She shielded her eyes with her hands, and one could see she was holding a crayon. It was sky blue, and half-used. She was knelt over sheets of paper and other crayons.  The sheet she’d been working on had a two eyes on it, amidst mountains,  a river, and a house.  She was a little girl with two butterfly clips in her hair, pink shorts, and freckles.

The man in the doorway called out, “Annie! Are you happy?”

“I’m happy father.”

“Okay.”

He shut the door throwing the room into thick darkness.

II

Annie was older now; a girl of about 11, her hair had grown out and was naturally brown. She heard his footsteps much before she heard the door creak open again. She shielded her eyes again, until his silhouette appeared in the doorway and cast some shadow. Her hand held a pen this time. On the sheets in front of her were words, lengthy words, and absurd figures like eyes made of radios and trees of rocks. The foremost sheet had a mess of images on it. It was mostly red, with tornadoes on the edges and a giant red sun in the middle. He look at her face, and then down at the papers. She wore glasses on a freckly face, with her hair pulled back into a ponytail.

He called out, “Annie! Are you happy?”

She didn’t respond.

“Annie! Are you happy? Answer quickly!”

“Yes father.”

“Okay.”

With one swing of the door, she was plunged back into black.

III

Heavy knocking reverberated through the darkness and trembled in thin air in front of her. Until the doors burst open casting a rectangle of yellow light on her once again. Annie was a young woman now. She wore a t-shirt and jeans, she had no glasses or freckles and she was beautiful. Her father was in the doorway again, but he breathing was heavy and exaggerated. He was clutching at his chest. Annie’s hand held a brush, a pen, and an eraser. On the sheets before her were pictures of landscapes; perfectly drawn birds, ships and clouds. The  tip of her of brush was tinged blue as she was about to shade the sky.  The silhouette in the doorway leaned against the frame of the door and looks as if he might drop to the floor.

In a breathy, raspy voice he yelled out, “Annie! Are you happy?”

“I am not too sure, but  I’m starting to believe so.”

“Okay.”

With that, the man collapsed in the doorway. Annie leaned back to her canvas and flooded the landscape with the blue on her brush. She drowned the birds, the trees, the lands. Everything.

IV

When the light fell on her face, it led the eye to her prostrate body. Thin, lean and raw.  She no longer tied her that had turned darker and fell all about her face. She wore a white gown and in her hand was a piece of charcoal. The sheets before her were almost invisible. They had been blackened out completely. The hands were black too, covered in powdered charcoal. She did not shield her eyes from the light and went right through her translucent, unblinking eyes. There was a multitude of figures in the doorway all looking into the room. She couldn’t see their faces, only the silhouette of a crowd.

They called out softly, “Annie! Are you happy?”
She raised her head and blinked, “I can try.”

V

She wore a green business blouse and skirt. Her hair was tied into a neat bun with one  loose hair falling across her forehead. When the light fell on her, one could she sat straight and looked directly at the doorway, the source of light.  In her hand was a ball pen, and on the sheets before here were long essays, documents, and letters. The sheet on top of the pile had notary stamps on them. Her face was hard, unmoving and expressionless. There were figures in the doorway again, only they were fewer in number this time. Only about two or three.

They leaned forward slightly, and called out, “Annie! Are you happy?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

VI

The door was slammed open this time, and Annie was sleeping in the light. Her breathing was a steady monotonous rhythm, and she lay on the floor with her palms under one side of her face. There was a man in the doorway. He slammed the door again, and Annie was jerked awake. In the sheets before her were the letters, contracts, and other articles. On the sheet before her, lay a pen and underneath the pen was a little scribble of a house on a hill. Annie narrowed her eyes to slits to try and see who was at the doorway while shielding her face with one hand from the light. Her eyes widened, as the man took a step across the threshold, and walked into the room. She screamed.

An hour later he walked back to the door, turned around, laughed and asked, “Annie! Are you happy?”

The only response that came from the dark was sobbing that continued long after the door was shut.

VII

Nobody opened the door for a long time. When it opened, there Annie lay. She wore a white gown and her hair was short. She was pale, and sickly looking. She lay on the ground and in her were a pair of scissors and before her a pile of paper shreds of different shapes and sizes.  Her wrists were barely able to support the heavy metal scissors in her hand. There was a man in the doorway again, from his silhouette she could tell he was wearing a coat. He mumbled to himself and flipped through a book in his hands.

He called out in a soft, polite, but firm voice, “Annie! Are you happy?”

“GET OUT!” she screamed, and lay her head back on the floor.

VIII

The light this time was a softer one that fell in through the doorway. Annie sat in a raggedy white gown, her hair longer, but dirtier. Her cheeks were sunken in, and she had baggy eyes. In her hand was a blue colour pencil.  She sat up straight with her legs folded in front her, her arms just hanging from her shoulders. She held the pencil loosely, barely gripping it between her fingers. Near her legs were many other colour pencils of different colours spread out among sheets of paper. Every sheet was blank. The man in the coat mumbled to himself again, flipped through his book and shook his head. Annie stared blankly back at him.

He called out, “Annie. Are you happy?”

“No.”

He shook his head more vigorously and shut the door.

IX

The door opened a month later, and the man in the coat called out for Annie.

“Annie! Are you happy?”

There was no response.

“Annie, are you there?”

Annie was not there in the light of the door. Instead there was only a single sheet of paper, on which was scrawled out in pencil the word:
Yes.

The man in the coat called out again, “Annie?”

He shook his head, and shut the door, plunging the room into darkness forever.

With frowning eyes, I turn up to the sun.
It's new, I'm old, there's a tragedy in that.
Escapades of last night peel off into layers,
And I wonder where I'm speechless with words.

The rays seem to poke holes where my soul existed,
My body is simply a sieve for varied intoxicants.
The light is still inadmissible, it wont bend to my nature,
Because guilt has blackened the sheen of my frame.

I rub my eyes; I wonder and groan at being awake,
I wander into my consciousness, and tap myself alive.
I think I understand the merit in being aware of me,
I think I understand why the body dies only once.

I stretch my flesh fully, and with it my coiled spirit,
An honest empathy from the bones encourages me.
I turn to look at the people around me arranged randomly,
Watch them still asleep in a world of haughty ignorance.

There's a totality in the addiction that lay me to waste,
For surely, enlightened minds are not filtered to believe?
Yet I can now only feel as a falling man might feel,
One now content with only falling and not why and he fell.

Curling my toes as a last sign of fatigue, I leap,
Bound into the green, past bottles and tobacco butts.
A heaviness is drifting away, a haze wearing off,
With a clear head I understand the clear sky again.

I stand in the grass and watch the day take full form,
Smile inwardly to myself at the ideas only I understand.
A warm summer breeze plays with the trees this winter,
And perhaps visions of last night are only illusions after all.

This winter is no longer just a season,
It is the perpetual setting of my mind.

Conversations With Myself.

Put yourself,

Before your faith.

Put yourself,

Before me.

Is it because you are alone under this blanket? Is it because you do not touch your own skin, for your cold fingertips might shock you? Something is steadily slipping by you, the onset of age, the passing of an experience you might miss out on. If only you could be aware of the million opportunities you posses all at once, and take them all, at the same time. Wouldn't that be wonderful? To know you've never made the mistake of choosing the incorrect answer. Yet you cannot, and your beating heart must once again be cajoled into silence. 

"Yes, I'm afraid.

Of what? Of myself. Of what tomorrow might bring. Will I be able to cope with the waves of turbulence throwing my world into disarray? I know, I must let go of the old, embrace the new and not heed the conscience that tells me otherwise. But I can no longer pretend to avoid eye contact with society. I can no longer hold a poker face while my friends and family recede into the giant wall of grey behind me"

This music is dulling your senses, and these pictures only make you wistful. Do you want to pervade into to the garish pixels of the computer screen and pull at those faces till they're distorted to the satisfaction of your vanity? Yet you can only sigh and silently curse them under your breath for gifts they were born with, ones which you were never even offered. You wonder if before your before your birth, cosmic beings deliberated upon the exactitude of your appearance, and if so, whether they had a personal vendetta against an unborn child. You chuckle, but not so loudly  as to disrupt the unattractive yet peculiarly ambiance elevating sound of snoring. Unfinished conversations pressure you to cease pondering and you wish you had someone to love, right there and then, under a pretentious blanket of real wool, under a pretentious sky made up of allegedly real stars you cannot see. So you turn over to your side and sleep, hoping thoughtless will wake you in the morning.

You cannot lay here,

Beseeching your own mind.

You cannot stay here,

Forever.

I'll draw Nazca lines across my heart,
So even from the sky your words can be read,
"There were no random reasons to love you,
There are no reasons for anything.", you said.