Tell Me

Would you believe me if I told you that this was unintentional?
The sentimental aspects of my sub-mentality merge “my reality” with “our fantasy”.
This is why I choose to take the chance to see you as a manifestation of my emotional sanity.
Clarity of mind no longer has bearing when I’m only hearing your soft whisper in my dreams.
That is why it seems that my eyes cry streams as I sleep.
Instantaneous.
Spontaneous.
Dangerous…
Since all this is still new to us.
Still true to us are the very feelings that eluded us.
The same feelings that cleansed us as life tainted us.
Tell me,
Would you believe that it’s these moods that paint us
And maintain us in this dance that enchants us?
Imaginary is the fantasy that is passing me.
Reality is only evident in the moments when we are happening.
Rapidly elapsing the time between us to intertwine our minds,
Striking me with more flavours than fine wine.
Tell me,
Do you feel what I feel?
Do you know that my heart bleeds steadily for you exclusively?
It seems my emotions, personally, have flooded far past “friendly”.
You enter my world and the rivers run dry immediately.
If so, then please turn my destiny around.
Please turn around and notice me.

Idle Hands

Aborted Thoughts

She finds a sort of temporary comfort in these words she constructs,
But
As she constructs such lines she feels as though she’s been cut.
Wrists slit while clenched fists bleed to death and die.
Aborted.
Aborted like her failed attempts of freedom.
Aborted like her faded dreams forgotten.
She should have aborted the thought of an offspring,
Thus bringing him the gift of nothing.
Aborting nothing.
A child denied of life.
Aborting thoughts of fear
Fighting back these tears
Igniting all that’s here
Thus her mind remaining clear.
As clear as this paper was before I put the pen there.
This pen tears
Holes in her eyes so she may leek tears,
So she may cry for her aborted child.
In the meanwhile she suffers from a syndrome that makes her regret her life.
In this instance it makes her regret her very existence.
The “would-be-mother” speaks in words of insistence
Whose very syllables are separated by vast distance.
While she idly caresses her empty belly,
Her hand forced back by a memory that forced resistance.
“What is the difference,” she asks with interest,
“Between my rage, my shame, my retorted speech and my aborted infant?”

What Previously Was

It's strange how we met
how my heart bled for days
And the hole that was left the moment I went away
still stays
and stains my memories
like black ink foot-prints
on the yellow brick-road of life;
The one of emotion, I wouldn't travel twice,
But I did and I lost;
It seems that I gamble life.
Rattled dice strike the floor
Like the stars that cascade your eyes.
Reiterate the size
of my heart as I reminise on a marveled life.
My heart refused to bleed,
so it started our love
and you were clearly incomplete,
so you gave us up.
Everything we had now reduced to dust,
Thus the scent that lingers like a familiar touch
reminds the two of us of what previously was.