Worn

You enter through my mouth,
And exit through my soul,
darling, you're wearing me thin.
Like the garment you wore eve before last,
You're wearing me thin.

Push at the back of my throat.
Down into my stomach,
churning in my gut,
like masses singing choir songs,
in the temple of regret.

I'm knocking on your door,
like I'm knocking at your ego,
Inviting myself in, because i'm looking for love tonight.
I'm knocking on the pavement,
Like I'm knocking at myself,
losing self respect.
Because I was looking for love tonight.

Enter through my mouth,
and exit through my soul,
darling, you're wearing me thin.
Like those scraping noises in the gutter,
you're wearing me thin.

Cement, Six Buildings, Circles.

Everything he touched was cold. Winter had penetrated all and nothing around him, freezing every last bit of warmth into a clear, sharp cold. He dug his hands deeper into his pockets, clenching and unclenching his fingers to heat them with some blood flow. He had never imagined winters to be this way. They were always portrayed as beautiful, white snow-capped scenery with people in pretty winter coats and scarves, laughing and playing in frozen solitude. Instead, he found it out to be dry, harsh, with a searing sense of reproach toward anyone who dared to stand before it. The winds that escaped into the collar of his jacket were edged and they hacked at his skin, making him shiver like he had been immersed in cold water. It was lonely too. He’d been walking in circles for over 2 hours around the same 6 buildings, shuffling his feet over cement, hugging himself tighter with every passing minute. He narrowed his eyes and gritted his teeth, pushed against the winds. His body only wanted to be inside again, his mind however, refused to comply. Every now and then, he’d sneeze making his entire body convulse into a jittering bag of bones. But he kept on walking. There was something so hateful in that weather that translated his self-loathing for him. He need not despise himself; the seasons were doing it for him.  Something bitter stirred inside his mind, something to match the lack of warmth in the air. He wanted to be home so bad. He only wanted to climb into his double bed under his window that let in the sun and birdsong each morning. He closed his eyes for a moment, and sought the sun’s yellow light. First there was nothing, his mind was dark and blank. Then slowly a shimmer of pale light convalesced into a bright burning yellow fire.

He opened his eyes slowly. The pasty cream coloured ceiling patched and burnt was the background of his focus. The periphery of his vision was sparkling bright. Turning his head he noticed everything was tainted golden sepia. He heard birds! It was morning, he smiled. He was oddly aware that his entire body looked golden. Rolling his eyes to the back of his head, he was blinded by the light filtering in from the window, onto his hair, his face, his body and what he believed, his soul too. He had no memory of his dreams, but was certain they’d been pleasant. He rose slowly and deliberately enjoying the awakening of his muscles and bones. His favourite sheets slithered off his legs, his favourite painting hung on the wall to his right, and the table before him was just as chaotic as he’d left it. Stretching in bed, he yawned and closed his mouth in a goofy grin, not different from the ones he’d seen make as a child in photographs. He felt ready to start a new day and hopped off the bed. He rushed to his door and swung it open. He grinned again. The dining room was flooded with that gorgeous golden light; it made even the dullest object sparkle. He smelt food on the table and guessed there was even more food to come. He ran into the kitchen and hugged whatever figure stood in front of the stove from behind.  He clutched it tightly and murmured his thanks. There was no response. Something felt out of place about his. He stepped back to get a proper view of whom he’d hugged. It wasn’t mother, it wasn’t anything at all. There was no one there. Then whom had he hugged? He heard his lover call from the living room. Thoughts of his mystery mother dissipated and rushed to the other end of the house, smiling idiotically once again. He heard echoes of his name, and teasing laughter which he followed mechanically. The voice led him to the drawing room and then stopped. He looked frantically around the room and saw nobody. On the table in front of him was a crystal ashtray, with a half lit cigarette breathing wisps of smoke into the room, one glowing end flashing red, orange, yellow and then black.  Something rose and fell in his chest. He fell silent and walked out the front door.

The road was paved with dried leaves, bold blocks of sunburnt orange that crunched underneath his feet. As he walked, he passed under the shadow of a tree, temporarily banishing the bright glow on his skin. As he passed out from under the shadow, the glow did not return. He looked up and saw the sun had concealed itself in astonishingly grey clouds. He looked back down at the tar and kept on walking. He could not remember how much time had passed when he looked up again, it was cold now, and he was back where he had begun; cement, six buildings, circles. He clutched himself for a minute and stopped. He closed his eyes again, concentrating hard.

 A minute later he opened them and looked around:

Cement, six buildings, circles.

Call It What You Want.

Who is he to question or admonish him?

He who holds him tight, are only his hands.

He who cradles him, is only his ghost.

Who are you to defend his reality for him?

Who is she to tell him he is naked when he cries?

Only when his soul is drained, he cannot speak.

Only when he is pampered, he is lonely.

Who are you to measure his flesh, in that kind?

Who were they to push his buttons in summer?

Can he not speak and be heard at the same time?

Can he not hold up a mirror to the sun, and shine?

Who are you to colour his eyes a dirty brown?

Who is he, to hold him in gratitude now and forever?

He does not carry a heart on his bloodstained sleeve.

He does not carry his shoes on his shoulders either.

Who are you, to provoke him into being beautiful?

Who are you to question and answer for him at all?

He doesn’t begin with a favour, and end in a paradox.

He doesn’t write your name on his pillow every night.

Who are you to vitiate his existence, by talking about it?

The Cold, It's Killing Me

If I cry and give out altogether, turn to nothing.
Will it be enough for you to hold me again?

I can't hear my own soul screaming anymore.
I can't hear my own voice beating me anymore.

If I jump off this cliff down into my conscience,
Will you be swimming there, waiting to catch me?

I can't see my own face in the mirror anymore.
I can't feel my toes on the ground anymore.

It's getting too grey to breathe.

Loneliness, is the fickle manifestation of all I'm lacking.

An ubiquitous fire, all consuming the very depth of being.

Open the doors and windows, turn open the showers,

Blow this fire out, drown it in a feeble cry of joy.

Father figures, mother figures, shadow figures,

Silhouettes that wander on my wall at night,

Demanding that I love them, plead them in plunder,

And then smile and let go of imaginary shoulders.

So simply they assume their roles as they can,

Unbecoming the trivial picture they painted before.

Repairing, mending, heeding to every need,

Becoming a crutch, ill-disposed of necessity.

Then just just as smoothly as was the arrival,

Is the exit of the medication that holds you.

Compels me to believe that I am helpless,

Compels me to pine for their existence.

And suddenly, we are withdrawn addicts,

Narcoleptics that wake screaming for love,

And hunger for sustenance in bitter sleep,

Men that are bitter for independence forsake them.

Reminiscent of what loneliness began with,

Cognizant of why lies healed temporarily

Immune to words of comfort, and endorsement,

But still consumed by every bit of our own being.

Full of your own soul, or empty of another's,

The fire keeps on burning, the light of day,

Sending us searching, barefoot and mind,

Till we can somehow extinguish it with someone else.

Sounds of the Earth

The day was half done; the golden orb in the sky mocked him, tempting you to rest, for slumber’s deep calling. Sweat dribbled down his face falling into the cracks in the mud, disappearing into the fine black veins that covered the ground, like a capillary system carry nought but emptiness itself. A giant organ was this breathing earth, venous and pumping, if only people could listen to it like he did. He felt it pulsate, even under the glare of the sun, when his mind thought of nothing but the distance between him and home he did not know, he couldn’t resist stopping and listening. Deeper and louder it got, with the passing of the afternoon as he sat there with a stick in his hand drawing figures in the parched brown. It was sighing, what at first seemed like rasping agony was actually just thirst. He nodded. He understood thirst, it was not just the debilitating need for water, it was nutrition, it was hope, and it was life. One could achieve so much, if they only had water. Little seeds sucking on the drops of milk moist earth mothered into them, asking them to grow, whispering words of calm motivation, saying, Drink! And you shall be. To repopulate this barren wasteland, to decorate these once beautiful green blossoms that now were wretched crooked women, hunched in the sunlight, their witch-like fingers grabbing at weary souls that sat underneath them. He understood this too, and he tapped the earth three times willing for something to grow. The cloth wrapped around his head undid itself and fell to his shoulders. He looked much smaller than he was already without it. His frail frame, naked in the heat save for a loin cloth and his head cloth. He was the son of the soil; his skin was a piece of it, like dark cocoa baked in the sun. His eyes were small but accommodated the entire landscape, taking in every little detail, every contour or lack of it.

He unstrung a small satchel of water tied around his waist and sipped from it. There was little water remaining, he sprinkled a few drops on the cloth and tied it back on his head. This water would have to last until the next day, until he could find somewhere to refill it. He noticed a thin dried root protruding from the husk of the earth, like an umbilical cord between a long gone mother and its dead offspring. He touched it and it shivered, dispelling dust into the burning air around it. He stared at the root for some time, smiled and then poured the remainder of his water into the soil below it. The soil drained the water and in seconds it was as if there had never been any water there to begin with. His smile disappeared as he realized that his brother was dead for there was no hope. The dull ache in the back of skull became stronger, as something in his guts plunged. He began to breathe heavily, but continued to listen to sounds of the earth. Now they mimicked his breathing, raspy, dry and forced. He only listened through the deafening silence of the land, his own breath and the song of the earth. The deeper each breath was, the louder the earth responded. He forced his lungs to pump their hardest and his skeletal frame trembled as he heaved his chest trying to get the earth to reciprocate, to coax it into a duet. The answer came, this time with a drumming, a thumping beat in synchrony with his own aching. His eyelids drooped over his dry eyes and his head began to spin for the lack of oxygen in his brain. But his soul was alive, wailing with the earth, crying for every loss it had ever begotten. His body began to sway to this sound, this only sound he now heard. His mind called it deliverance; his soul called it the earth, the earth called it life and they all cried for it. In unison, his body, mind and earth all shook, daring somebody to stop them. They vibrated in the still air, until they all fell silent, for his body gave way first, and he collapsed to the ground. A cloud of dust rose with the impact of the body and settled back down upon his corpse. His eyes lay open, glinting in the sunlight, face packed with dirt. His mouth lay open, red on the inside, his lips a black miniature of the landscape. The earth rumbled a last time, and fell silent.

 Only the quiet remained for a while roasting in the sun, until the evening came and skies dimmed. Clouds began to gather, and it began to rain. A grey pallor tinted everything and his body seemed like a ghost, grey under the thundering sky. Water washed over him, down his face, clearing it of dirt, down to the ground where his body touched the earth, where a single, green leaf protruded from the soil.

[Please excuse any grammatical errors or lack of talent thereof]

Tired

Summer came. With the tired hands of a mother, it lifted me off the ground, playing upon a breeze. Carrying me this way and that, through fields and trees, above children that play everyday in the sun, above towns and cities,
and I smiled.

It lay me down among my friends, they told me stories of their past and enigmas of their present, they scolded me for my lack of scrutiny towards my own life. They sang, we danced, under smoke and fire, somewhere beside the rain and I felt home again. I drowned in the simple decadence of bliss and I smiled.

The wind picked me up again, forward this time, blew into the hands of a lover, that comforted my fears, magnified my hopes and thawed many winters in my mind. I smelt the earth after rain, the aroma of my favorite food, the tobacco on my breath and I smiled once more.

Another scene, this time I descended with the sun, with the back to the west and my eyes to east. I landed in the garden of the house I grew up in, and the Jasmine tree in the yard began to shed it's flowers. My mother stepped out, handed me a spoon and invited me in. She told me about her day and doted over my hair. I laughed and told her I was tired, that I must sleep because I'd lived a full life. I left for bed and as I fell asleep,
I smiled from ear to ear, immersed in joy I could not explain.

I woke today morning to find myself sleeping, and when I woke myself, I had stopped dreaming.