the times in between you are filled with dust, fear and sighs

you.

you make me want to be more of me. 
you make me want to be happy with myself because i know thats how you love me best.
you make me want to share love, not have it.
you are perfection. you always have been.

avatars.

It's funny how names hold such burdens.
Sometimes it 's not even just a word anymore-- a familiar incantation rolling off your tongue to a magical door to un-eraseable memories. The hauntings of a past life, a former self.

Jealousy is often only the envy of the passing of time. A wink to impatience, how can you fight it? Similarly how age is said to "denote maturity." You can't deny the volume of time.
But then again, who is to say that only time itself bears fruit? What of those sad, neglected trees-- months and years cannot give it what a day of sunshine and love can.

victimized

She swept the rooms with her eyes, as though a thorough inspection would unearth an appropriate response to his clincher of a question. Her eyes flashed right, left, right, left-- "HA!" Suddenly, she was the victim of the triumph of misplaced evidence-- the guilty look left, so they say. Oh, so they say, do they? Now bound to the word of the unknowable souls, "they" have made her a liar, a betrayer. How does one fight that which they do not see or can even fathom? The omnipresent grasp of "society".. How dost one dare defend themself in the face of an executor's certainty? No foothold in morality, but rather, in only duty done. Fealty.

That's how they worked, those baser fools. Their life was a simple question of "do, do, do." Haphazard consumers of life. Pigs.
They were no different from the next stage of life though. Those wading in their subsidiary questions were cycling through those pre-cognizant gears of thought: "To do or not to do."
Those next were puddling around at the foundation of it all: "To be or not to be."
At this point, everything is a question, is it not? Everything is an uncertainty. Yet, you come out the same way you went in. Baptism really may not be more than a simple cleansing of water, but we are speaking of minds here. The cleansing of the mind may only be achieved when one is open and willing to be. Nothing should ever be forced. There is no need.

motivations

She needed narration in her life! At last! The constant voice in her head put to good use. This way she could read her thoughts and actually absorb them. She realized it was her words and not her thoughts that called her ideas into reality. She was a writer, words were her tools of change, her currency into buying a better life. She realized she sat in blank thought because she forced surfacing thoughts to pass by in fear of unpleasant and unwanted emotions. Perhaps, she thought to herself, perhaps she did not write to rid herself of feelings. Perhaps, she had feelings so that she could write.

She had often sat in emptiness when trying to create different lands to immerse herself in. But upon further discovery, she came to the conclusion that she could not "be " in a other words if she was not in this one. She had to tell stories of the life she experienced so that she could transcend them and write new stories. One must learn the rules before they could break them. It all cycles back. One must be in the game, play the game, before they can find any secret doors. One cannot jump in looking for shortcuts. And learning is no mistake-free process, let me tell you.

Do not let the fear of hearing unwanted answers deter you from asking questions.

Colours

And he filled her with an energetic discipline like she had never known. He rarely did what he did not want. That mentality mixed with diplomacy made him a criminally smooth, yet raw, partner in crime. He was the most perfect opaque, semi-permeable purple. Royalty in velvet violets and lavender as sweet as a lover's caress...
They all want reds and blues nowadays. He was a decidedly uncommon color, yet in a beautiful stormy way.
She was another uncommon color. Orange..often awkward and ungainly, but time-decidedly rich and vibrant. At her best, she was a sparkling golden -- both a warm foundation and high-ended magic, but she could get red, get deep, get invested...Too much so, often times. An interesting take on maturity, she was the ultimate color of warmth and love.
Realization slowly creeped over her, as she thought, with a sinking, semi-bouyant, heart that she could never be as cooling and cutting as she had all wished to be.
There was no need to be. She was radiant sophistication. She was a camel-haired coat on a winters day. A cup of hazelnut coffee on a cold spring morning. Raspberry sorbet on a summer sunset. The crisp, crunchy leaves of fall...
But she yearned. She longed to be the biting North wind on a fall day. Perfectly poised ice blue points on the eaves of domesticity; the vestiges of melting snow as spring buds begin to unfurl...
 Yet she moved through everyone like fire, and she was a flame.

ill follow you into the dark.

Honestly, I feel that most of the time I'm so wrapped up in the inner workings of my mind that I can't think of anything else at all. My heads so busy struggling between thoughts that it can't think beyond them.
Ha, and most of the time I'm so consumed with wanting to be "an interesting person" that I can't pull my head out of my ass long enough to be.

unstable

been feeling strange recently. insecurity bubbling up into the strange hot spring of the mind..
why?? Everything is all right from frontal view. Where are these fear-feelings coming from? even more so now having gone back to Motherland for a bit again?
Why afraid of unrequited affections? Why even care at all? What is going on?????

not so sure i feel about this relative to me

Who are you?

Zen saying-
"They say there are three ways you can tell who a person really is:
the way people are when they drink,
how they become when they are angry,
and the way they spend their money.
What do these three actions tell you about yourself?

Sometimes it feels like no writing comes out of happiness.
I believe in this romanticised ideal of a writer: tortured, drunk, raging..
Passionate words.

Whenever I sit at my screen I want a creation. I want an art piece. Same as playing music.
Can't practice anymore.. impatient soul.

It's okay to write like this just to get my feelings out. Otherwise.. what would writing be for?

grip feel slip reel

Holding on to a gripping feeling,
I'm slipping, reeling into a nature unappealing..
desperate, concealing...wiping out.
When so full of doubt, how can you go without
feeling empty as a canteen in the desert..
you're in heat and on pressure-
they tell you its the weather
condition.
but don't listen...

Its not outside, but inside
Down to the great divide
of the soul.
Divine Interpol.

whiteolive.

To quiet my mind, and think no thought at all..
just a white curtained room with eyes to abroad
to a distant sea, Greece, olive branches to peace..
And pebbled stones on the road to the river
where fish jump to the rhythm
of the water that flows continusouly in never-ending movement..
What does it all mean? The birds chirp and the tree's swing in dance...
Tranquility is but a thin veneer..
If you shield yourself in it, will the inside be clear?
Inside you roil with such turmoil.
How shall I still the waters of my mind..

Last Dance

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0R5hNmFvK1I
rhye.


Continually punished my past..
They make it last with creational mind-power..
A poison germinated and flowered.

Drowning in a sea of virtue, there's a devil inside me and I won't deny it.
I can only abide it--the demon clinging to my soul and my exhausted heart must fight it.
I've left behind so many forms, so many Selfs, but everybody wants the whole picture.
They want to string together the haves(halves), what ifs, coulds, shoulds- thinking these are whats in her.

But all I see is her face now. The well-worn tear trails that harbored so many feelings willing to fling themselves into oblivion at the end of the road. Is that my fate also?


Too tired to be anything but my stripped self, bone-white acceptance.

Mono no aware..

the realization that all is impermanence, the things change, love fades, pain stays..
She's gone. The one you loved, the one that gave you light.. she's not there anymore.
I'm glad you got to say one last goodbye to her last night. It was hard for me to say goodbye too.

I'm Sophy now. I've left that broken girl behind. Leaving her behind is as hard as leaving you behind because you're part of her too. I don't want to think of old days. They were wonderful...

But what can I do but look forward now? The sun will dry my tears. The sun understands me. I am love, unconditional love.. sometimes I love too hard and I'll burn them.. sometimes they'll take me for granted.. and sometimes I'll creep into their room as they sleep to look softly upon their nascent form.. their fluttering baby's breaths...childlike pleasure in dream's land...
I am everything, and yet so full of nothing.

...................................................................................................................................................................
And yet in the face of love, I am afraid. What do I deserve, really? And does it matter? Its too beautiful to be true..
Please reach out, give me a little something. I just need to hold your hand for a little bit. Its with a heavy-heart that I accept that things have to change, but I don't want you to be one of them..

A conversation on fate, dance, and happenstance.

Joker: Fitting with your writing fingerprint

WV: Am I just a fingerprint? Trying to read the lines to see my face in it..

Joker: You're not just a fingerprint, but no one else has yours. Or your face.

WV: Maybe in the space between the lines and the grooves, there's room to improve.. What do we have to lose? Will you wear the mask that they choose? We're the fools- they tell us its cruel to rule and then they'll run the game, coward kings life-lined to fame..

Joker: My smile is my mask. I am the all licensed fool. Whipped all for truth, lies, and for silence all the same. So I simply present the truth in the best illusion I can find for you. My eyes make others blind. Shade of the coldness and the kindness in my heart. Kings would never understand.

WV: And is it by their hand that we fall and rise and dance? Puppets on string have no chance to break free.. ostensibly the only lack is maturity to clear mind-fogs to clarity, but that ‘truth is lies’ is a verity..

Joker: Or do the puppets control the hand? Bending its fingers to their will. Demanding that the hand make us move. Or is or freedom in our coexistence with the string toting glove of the crooked kings? We dance as their muscles cramp and ache. Where is the master?

WV: Or do the puppets control the hand? Bending its fingers to our demand. How do we stay still as they try to kill our free will by forcing us to dance, dance, dance? Perchance they make us sing, automatically tuned to hymns praising idol-ed glories.. forcing myths to stories.. ah, but is not life a game?

Memento mori.

Joker: The hand could never sing for itself. All it leaves behind results in nothing more than a church made of bones. We are the spirit of what they overdue. I know no hand who can speak, can sing, can think like you. So if true and lying be the head and tails of the rotating flat circle, then I'll leave it to fate to decide my reaction. But still no hand crafts the allure of your song and dance. Puppet or not.

Lucky Joker gets the last word. 

what are we doing?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EHhobtwob64

In-action

I walk slowly.

Each step outstretched, with mind's intent..

In harmony, and tranquility..

They solicite me.

I tell them I am InAction,

and they tell me its Inactivity.

And when positivity is put forth,

They brush it off in ReActivity.

what must I do to change their minds?

Their eyes get foggy when the mind is blind..

I'm just a monster spitting hell at the flames that brought me forth: the spiteful torch.

I've been struggling in this world where I live out of desperation, clinging to the vestiges of colors once close..
Live out of love, not fear, everything has its time and place, and that is neither here nor there, until it IS.

Stop your petty whims, darling. You (I) have bigger plans.

weakweakweakweakweakweakweekweekweekweekweekweekweekweek.

The we(a)eks drag on. I am fucking bullshit.

In[vo(ke)cation]

What is passion anymore?
the stone cold hearth of fires once burned..
I, half burned, part-scarred...
Lying among the charred arborescence,
former flame of the inner spark,
A calling-driven soul listening for a profession..

Retracing my deep-rooted steps, back into the grave of a life once buried,
Take your measured steps, never flustered, never hurried,
and soon you'll be there caressing the dust off its face, overcome with lust..
in awe of the latent bestial power, locked away,
tamed to 'Sit' and 'Stay'...

eyeglasses.

A tainted conception straight to immaculate perception,

Your glasses 20/20, but sight in the wrong direction-

Correction: If you’d only pay attention, have intention, no pretension, the inflections cause deceptions, embrace expression, expel retention..

look in the mirror at your broken reflection

Or a broken form in a different dimension?

Don’t let it take you to d(i)men(s)ia [dementia]--- Another world undefined? 

Or do my verses take you somewhere in between the lines?

They say there's a rainbow there if you only read it,

you’ll be in perpetuate despair---- if you only feed it.

I’m Candide’s Paula Deen, call me “food for thought”

I can make you something more than all the pain you've wrought..

tired.

washed out, cold, grey, dead, deaths,
the shortening puffs of smoky breaths..
feeling really tired.
and gone.
Called a couple therapy clinics today. Feels like I come away with excessive amounts of sticky notes covered in suicide hotlines. Should collage them, ha.

Why is it so embarrassing for me? Why don't I want to come clean about it? Why can't I come clean about anything? Bluntness seems so crude for me.
And labeling myself as "depressed" or "anxious", makes it seem like I'm buying into this 'fad' of mental illness. I don't like the label, because I don't feel like I'd fit it, and people will judge me for perhaps not aligning with the understood "symptoms". Because, well I look fine, don't I? I hope so, I try my hardest.

why am I not okay with not being okay?

(D/R)epressed

(th)E-pit-o(f)-me depression.
A well in my mind,
the water, a lesson
in dark mirrored reflectivity,
slowed down,
time out,
learn in-activity

From some time before..

Struggling through feelings, and trying to find meanings In the thump of love’s pitter-pat. --Was it clap before boom? Or boom and then clap? One is Eros arrows, But the other is a wistful trap How virtuous the heart! affirms EKG, Yet its still pumping my brain with sinful fantasies.

How can it be a symbol of all we perceive? The bloody reality of the immaculate dream. Without it, we’ll die, But with it, we’re dead. Does it matter? We all know love is just in the head…

But is anything ever real?
And is anything ever fake?
No just obstacles to be overcome
As Oedipal products of fate?
Should we sit and wait?
Our time, we’ll take,
With acceptance to given.
Man, is this it when they talked about 'livin'?

Leggo my Ego.

What is it about his antics that are bothering me right now?
Is it because I want to feel important and he's trying to step on me to feel important?
Is this my ego?
Is it a culmination of disliking the circumstances of my job and his added stress?
Is my way of chasing just what I want a way of avoiding what I don't want?
Which battles do I have to fight and which battles can I sidestep?
There are certain things I want to be surrounded with.. is it my way of protecting myself?
Why does it bother me so much?
why am I letting it bother me so much?
Is it because he is continually pointing out things I don't know the answer to? Is it my ego?
I do have issues with "not-knowing"....

But its so fucking annoying! Its rude for you to ask me about it, and its really none of my business, and not under my jurisdiction. For that particular problem, its not because I don't have any answers, its because he's asking ridiculous questions. Questions that there are no answers to, really.
Its not even like he remembers the answer I give him anyways...


What do I do. Where do I go. How do I handle.

Hush Ego. You have no place here. Lets see how things go, Ego-less. If it's still annoying, I know we have a problem on our hands.

Mind talk-outs.

After reaching a certain level of stability, you don't want to lose it. You're afraid that, since you've taken all the time to climb up all these stairs, that one, two steps down will be a waste of the effort that you so painstakingly put in. Why though? Why is it that we feel this way? Maybe its because we believe there is nowhere else to go but up. To keep moving forward.

I'm at this point where I keep trying to push forward, but I know I'm in denial: this is a dead end. There is nowhere else to go this way. And yet I keep pushing, staying, wishing, hoping - because I'm afraid of being in freefall again. I finally had a taste of The life(of stability).. and while its really not that tasty, I get huge portions.
My fear is that in seeking quality, I won't be able to take in enough nutrients to function. How will I do the things that make me happy?
But if I love what I do, do I need to seek anything else?

Fear. fear. fear.
Fear! I should just take the leap, shouldn't I?
Everything will work out as it should.

But every time I focus my attention, I feel it squirm away into another direction. Why? Is it forced?
My body seems to innately want just grace, ease and lightness.. but what good is that when I want to make things happen?
Maybe it really is: work smarter, not harder.
As in.. there is a huge difference between being busy and productivity. Being busy makes you feel important.. and everybody wants to feel important. But I'm just rushing, rushing, rushing. Being busy doesn't make me feel important at all. It makes me feel like a hapless rag doll being tossed around in the wind.
I feel more like a victim this way. 

If I'm in control, there is no busyness. There is only serenity. There is only me.


Time to take the leap.

Ambitions in contrition..

Funny things, aspirations. You must asphyxiate the conglomerate mind that dominates the times.

Why, "what do you want to do"?
Why not, "what DO you do"?

I am..
a musician,
a model,
a writer,
a dancer,
an artist,
a chef,
an athlete,
a teacher,
a student
a mother ( to my one and only love, Vader <3 ),


more to come.

impregnation.

Been conceivin' there's a reason that my mind-full brain is bleedin' : body's heavin for a freein'.
It's the season for the tee-in, no more teasin'- don't believe'em with their treason, they just theivin', wrapped in grievin'.
I ain't leavin' though.

Its the original,
cynical,
clinical,
principle--
In this digital, the criminal is fixable, all fictional is biblical expecting instant miracles from minimizing minimals. 

You're formidable! An unforgivable individual smothering stress in a cigarette box..
Throw out all your lung-glocks, they're voice-locks building stock for that day that you drop.

welcome to wonderland.

a little here, a little there, a little everywhere..
leaves scatter in the mind chatter making mad hatters
pour dormouse tea. Wasted in a cheshire tree's, under the grinning mooncheese..
Without even a "if you please", you grovel on your knees, aftertaste of a power tease..
All you wanted is fear, drawing tears on the masks with eyes in knowing leer..
Lest you hear a whisper that you'll grow bigger, give in to "eat me!", now nothing fits her..

there's these voices in my head, mind-mangled choices into 'dead', another hoax to see in red..
 But instead you say its against the world, but you just want your ego feathers curled..
Peacock eyes to hide the frailty of reality, mind-eyes blinded by closed vanity..
Open up and shut up.

If you don't eat the fruits of your labor, they will rot inside you.

A disclaimer...

Let me tell you that I don't like to write about love.
Let me tell you that I detest the sappy, the romance, the feelings (God forbid..)
Let me tell you that I'm not concerned with souls, or hearts ,or fires between minds.

And yet why is it that I cannot stop the flow? The upsurge of magic in the places, spaces, I abhor?

I guess I haven't told you that I could be lying about all of this.
I guess I haven't told you that I could be denying myself all of this.



But I think I haven't yet told myself that:

it is okay to change. it is okay to love and be loved. 

And even in those words, does my brain cringe with the saccharinity of it all.
Yet persist, Heart! Please persist.

possibilities.

'I was never insane except upon occasions when my heart was touched.'- Edgar Allan Poe


And you had touched me, all right. Cashmere fingers of the Midas touch.. Shivering, slithering light cut through the glass to accentuate the already burning passions inside. A room on fire. Two hearts in flames. Their forms clung to silver like a second skin set alight from some hell-bent furnace within. Frozen hands leave behind golden trails laden with the crackling question of possibility... what is the warmth of love supposed to feel like? Tell me, for when I feel the heat of a thousand needles of icy rain, I know that I've found it.

whatever it may be.


and thus begins.. the paradoxical insanity of what was, what is, and what  could be.

possibilities.

The patchwork circus.

Honestly, these days, I don't know who I am anymore.
Amalgamations of all the vision's we've seen, patchwork gleam in the eyes of the tigers made in circus train steam...

Sunshine.

Lying in bed, talking about politics
Hand sun-stroking my head.. I feel the heat of your palms
I'm in vitamin D withdrawal...

Words don't come as easy as they did before
I've turned into a butchered societal-jargon whore..
No more yearning, nostalgia, wheretofore --
foray into .."Nigga, what you doin that for.." and "Nigga ain't got money, I'm broke poor.."
Spewing back the trash I've eaten, its defeatin', into cretin I have weakened..

But radiance draws me in, basorexia, melt that smiling grin... sunshine for days...
How so much clarity? Living in this drunken, lovelorn haze..

wotd: Iktsuarpok

an indulgence in insecurity.


Its cold outside.
Hands shivering, eyes quivering..
with anticipation.

Is that you?
Are you here?
I cup the sound to my ear..

The breeze plays with my hair...
Wishing it was your fingers...

am i forcing myself to write for him?
what are the words that I want to say?

I want to say I'm scared
Am I waiting for someone who isn't coming?
The fear.. I feel.. abandoment
..the desperation
the  curiosity
burning like a fire inside.. it should have warmed me tonight...


Baby please come home
I promise..anything to ease the pain, i live so panic-prone..
come home..
I'm waiting for you outside.. It's so cold.. my eyes full of starlight..
iktsuarpok..




Iktsuarpok: The feeling of anticipation that leads you to keep looking outside to see if anyone is coming

wotd: Basorexia

Nose to nose, a heated flush --!
I'm getting close..
Eyes stare at eyes, mirror or disguise?
Those eyes are mine set in another place.. mirrored pools in another's face..

Close, close yet closer still,
pull your lips to the edge, thirsting to drink your fill
Close, yet still so far away..
"kiss me, you fool.

kiss me, I say."


Basorexia

-the overwhelming desire to kiss.

rambles in genesis..

fuckkkk.what a m i supposed to write about
i hate blank white pages
what is there to talk about anymore once you'r ein the moment?
what is there more than now?
Where does my imagination go?
What lands can I go live on?
Dogged acceptance makes a dog out of me
I want to go explore more lands
I thought I found happiness in calm,
in acceptance.
but I want feeling
I want more
I want passion
and tears
and life
and pain
and romance


such a human I am..zetigeist..
yearning
passion



I want to fall in love with my words
I want to go to great beautiful places
and live in lovely spaces..
I must be content with myself.. but others cannot learn such lessons
my characters must live the hard life.. they must learn..
they will live in squalor
they will be ugly
dirty
rough children
hewn from stone..
but I am their mother
I love them
I shall take care of them
I must accept that they are ugly ducklings, soon to be swans
once cannot start a hero
and I need to stop looking for them

From ashes we rise, the phoenix, on sickly wings arrives to be born again in the flame of the sun..the golden one..



They won't be pretty... they won't be kind...
How do I feel being the Creator, the God of such people. Why such an obsession with beauty?
Why such a preoccupation with perfection? Is that what I'm searching for? Why must things "be a certain way"?
No, I 'prefer' things "a certain way", no? Thats okay.,.. surely


You shall be ugly my children. Wings of earth to drive you to dust..
I am sorry my loves...