Poison

"You came close enough to know my heartbeat but still not close enough for me."
Oscar Isaac

~

These tears lack flow.
This ink is dead.
What have you broken?

This heart shakes
Like yellowish purple foliage
In capricious disquiet.

These words break
Like hollow-hearted smiles
And I can't let you in.

I usually find myself torn between the cosmic orchestra and the abysmal void. This time, though, I'm not stuck. I'm somewhere else. The alchemic lake has dried. The trees of knowledge are naked. But the sky is clear. Always remember that the sky is clear.

You entrust your heart and its blood-flow to someone and you suddenly find yourself waking up to wet, reddened lips.

"So con, convince your mirror, as you've always done before, giving substance to shadows, giving substance evermore." Whatever the poison, it's not really making any difference is it? And no matter how sweet the music, its mysterious remedial force can't stop this internal haemorrhage. And that's okay. I'm okay.

Now take this uninspired garbage and bury it alongside your decapitated principles.

This despair is all I have
And it's not yours to hold
I'm not yours to hold.

This encounter is a delusion,
Boring encrypted mythology.
I'm not here.

This perseverance is an empty shell,
And now I break it into letters.
Everything will change.
Everything will change.

~

"Oh why can't you let go
Like a bird in the snow
This is no place to build your home."
Imagine Dragons

Sleep

“In a mad world, only the mad are sane.”
Akira Kurosawa

~

The echo behind the whisper in the voice told me that the meaning of the meaning of life reveals itself in those colored bits outside the lines.

Do you see them?

Now do you see the artist's hand tearing through the painting? It throws a spear into your left eye because it wants you to see it right. It wants you to get out of your supposed self, zoom out, and see the second painting, the picture of a recollection of a bloodshot awakening.

Now go back to the first one.
Do you smell the blood on your cheeks?

This is the blood of the heart of the heart of the matter, the co-authored fabric of a waning soul as it weaves waves of scented verses, a red and wrinkled rhyme, a poem on your face.

Truth is, broken borders are gateways for the gallant, to embrace the patterns beneath the chaos, to hold the pulse in the blood of the heart of the heart of the matter that has nothing to do with matter.

So can you hear it? It's knocking on the door behind you, like the wind of sinusoidal hope fading in and out of faithful light, through the only keyhole you've ever really known.

Yeah. Okay. Now what? What do I do with all these words?

[...]

How do I turn it off? How do I make it stop? Why am I thinking about so many things that I don't really want to say? I don't want to get it right anymore, I just want to get it. I want to say what's really going on. I want what's inside to come out unchanged even if all that I am left with is noise. I want the words to honestly reflect who I am without all the games and illusions. I want to make sure that I am not a fraud, that I am not a growing cancer of fabrications. I want to be real. I don't want to be a well-told lie about the content of an empty shell. I want to be real. I don't want fiction anymore. I want to be real. Why won't anyone teach me how to be real?

[...]

What a sad way to wake up. The pain brings you to your knees. You're all alone - just like you always were. And all these metaphors you take shelter in are just as weak and broken as you are. Just go back to sleep.

Live on.

I can't anymore.

~

"He who lives more than one life, more than one death he suffers."
Oscar Wilde

Dawn

"Those who are dead are not dead, they're just living in my head.

And since I fell for that spell, I am living there as well."

Coldplay

~

To whoever has buried the soul within, I write this to you.

The night is still and the beat is faint as the fight continues between sinner and saint. The night is still and this world is empty for you have lost both self and will. The night is still and your face just turned off all the lights with that flickering candle dancing with your blinks. The night is still and this foreign body I possess longs to see the paintings on your skin. The night is still and starless as I breathe in a scent of dying sighs and microscopic supernovas. The night is still and I still don't know how to move at the sound of this soundless music. The night is still and silent as your lips slowly close and break these words I inaudibly bleed. The night is still and the empty feeling of emptiness envelops me because I am inhibited by an enforced lack of inhibitions. The night is still and you still don't get it, do you? The night is still and I'm failing at writing a musical letter because harmony has long forgotten me. The night is still and the rhyme is free, as I fill the blanks in my memory. The night is still and the blanks reveal themselves as ancient bullets within the beats. The night is still and my blood streams through the electrified hell I hide behind my eyes. The night is still and the supposed windows of the soul are bloodshot with reddish dew, burning in and out and through. So break the door and the still of the night, for tonight the angel's wearing black and the devil, smoking white. Break the door and kill the guards, before the spirit jumps off and turns into red and broken shards. I know that you are the light that shines on the broken and that each person is his own savior. And I know that I am numb and frozen still. But the night is still and I knit this painting with lips made of smoke. The night is still and you still don't get it, do you? The night is still and earthly love mostly swings between a proof and a quest for a self that's always somewhere else. The night is still and these are ashes of a cigarette and not those of a phoenix. The night is still and the fire you start in me burns this quill into blessed sinful ink. The night is still and calm and I wish I could smell your perfume as I imagine kissing the fire off the palm of your hand. The night is still and the wind is pretending to understand how destiny is handwritten with a flowering faith shaking in the storm that fights freedom, the storm that fails to realize that this rose is made of heavenly fire. So enter the world of lonely nights and dying lights. Enter the world that writes with that bright and blissful fabric you fail to hide, to paint the still night with bright broken letters in envelopes you unfold in your dreams. Still, the night is still, so still that it reminds time of my undying love for you while I remind you why those envelopes are undated. So break the door between your heart and mine. Break the door because the music within me is that dimmed light on the floor outside your bedroom. The night is still and you still don't get it. Please wake up. Wake up and break the door. Break it and enter this world with fire in your hands for the night will remain still until you light this broken sky with the dewy faith on your bedroom window and mend it with the reign of the divine love that's beating in raindrops within your chest. The night is still and you still don't get it, do you?

[...]

We are one with fire and rain. We are one with the rose and the flame. We are one with the birds and wolves. We are one with the equations we solve. We are one with the general emotion and the particular thought. We are one in this rainy drought. We are one with the wind in the music. We are one with the beats in our heart, and this heart doesn't rhyme with anything else.

[...]

The night is still but it knows that we are one even if you don't. The night is still and the ending is always the most difficult part. So enter this world of endless stories and maybe one day we'll write the ending of this musical masterpiece of cosmic love, together.

I'll start with the first line.

Your hand is in mine and the lines intersect at dawn.
[...]

I already know your line, by the way.

~

"But I believe in music... 

The way that some people believe in fairy tales."

August Rush

Words

“Words are, of course, the most powerful drug used by mankind.” 
Rudyard Kipling

~

The words can't flow because they're drowning.

And so I hide the cracks in my soul with these whispers of the metaphoric sand that carries your scent.

And they can't flow because people made of sand once lost all their words to the sea. And yet each time you place your hand on my skin, I find my dusty soul floating across the waters, like fireworks melting into constellations because of that slight magical shiver at the edge of your fingers.

And now my eyes are this quill of chaos with waves of heartbeats as their ink. And the words still can't flow because I'm drowning on the surface of this heavenly universe you enclose with a blink, because I fall deeper and deeper every time we lock eyes and I can't look away.

So here, at sunrise, are daydreams, and you, daydreams of you. And there, at the edge of nightfall, I am the night that's falling in love with you.

And thus, the quill, it spirals down the ocean, spelling your name in breathless bubbles, wondering if this is all a hopeless dream. Yet, what are dreams when my soul is building an underwater sandcastle with yours? And what are hopes when I have your hand in mine?

[...]

We build and break and fall, then tell stories to ourselves about the mysterious beauty of it all. But I know that these words are but a distorted memory engraved in the record of skipped beats and words unsaid, swallowed breaths and sighs unread. But next come the words that kill, beyond my darkest corner, in that old pain within me moving still. Next come the words that kill, temporarily scattered in disfigured letters floating atop the sea of untold tragedies I bury in my mind. Next come the words that kill, and I can't arrange those letters and read what they have to say because I know that they'll tell me that my heart is dead. They'll tell me that my heart was nice but now it's dead and that no metaphor in the world can't bring it back.

So what are you doing?
What are you doing and why are you walking next to the sea I never told anyone about?
What are you doing and why are you here?

[...]

In this world, you're either broken, dead or insane. And deep inside, no matter which one - or two - you are, there are words that could change you, words that could tear you apart and words that could bring you back anew. And they usually don't flow because they pity your existence and they don't want to flood it into void. Mine couldn't flow because I hid them in the nonexistent layer between your heart and my empty chest when we first hugged.

But I guess your heart rearranged the letters for me.

So next come the words that kill, faintly beating still,

Some things are meant to be.

~

“We wrapped our dreams in words and patterned the words so that they would live forever, unforgettable.” 

Neil Gaiman