Saturday, 15 May 2010

Frantic verses (written like an assault, all at once, almost without knowing)

I see the future,

it’s empty.

And I can draw on it

whatever I desire.

I don’t feel my heart beating.

It’s so quiet.

Resting in me

like a baby deeply asleep

I can feel its breath,

warm and almost whispering.

I can hear that it’s dreaming

of the empty future.

I can see it smile.

Like a baby,

my heart dreams with shuteyes

and dreams

and dreams

in absolute silence.

He said

that I am not of this world.

That above the surface

there is no place for my dreams

for all is cluttered in the busy-ness of life.

He said that I should dive in and breathe deeply

deep, below the line.

There, there is no air, there is no water,

just a silent heart.

It’s beckoning me  to go inside.

I sink in quietness as it invites me

to walk and find the path

where I will never  run out of breath,

where I will never crave in thirst for rain

as long as I stay inside and hold to its kindness

as I reach  and touch everything that is transparent

and invisible to my eyes.

So he said.

There is no surface
nor underneath





The mountains and the oceans,

they all live in me.

I can see them rise

and hold storms.

In the midst of chaos,

they make my voice.

And I speak of no fear.

For I am the midst,

the centre of all that surrounds me

from within.

How many times did I not feel the strength of my muscles,
nor felt the posture of my bones?

How many times did I not feel and fell in silence,
forgetting to hear its voice? 

How many times my love for you was shouting, 
screaming to be heard and touched?

[[[[[ This imprisoned silence never felt so bloody LOUD ]]]]]

I screamed, eyes wide open.

The nightmare had just escaped.

And he held me:

Ssshhh  sssshhh ssshhh

“It’s only a bad dream”.  He said.

I believed him.  
But I could not go back to sleep.

He spoke to me every night after.

He said bedtime stories

were the best remedy for bad dreams.

He read for me, he told me white lies.

And I was never cold in my sleep.

Today even the furthest unknown

seems to make sense.

I like the feel of the wet grass

against my bare soles

as I walk

without direction.

They say that if you draw anything,

your heart will bring it to life

So I drew, and drew

and hoped and hoped.

I see shapes I can’t describe

for these words aren't still invented.

They belong to another language

but yet, they don’t speak.

And I hum.

And they bend.

Just like the shape I thought of 

when I was humming.

You see?

Today is not on the calendar.

You could be 100 years, or 1 year-old.

In any case, still a lot to love and live.

What would you do if a child gave you a rock and asked you to tell a story?

The flowers in the vase are fading,

but I can still smell them,

wishing I never had to bin them farewell

Someone once told me

that I was too tragic.

That I should never cry

when beauty abandons life

because something else

will come its in place.

And that I might adore dearly it too

 One of my friend's usual quotes:

“You never know, it might be a blessing in disguise”

And I thought it was SO spiritual to say so.

You want sex.

I want to hug.

Let's see what happens later

when the hug develops.

But you just don't get it.

I like to feel sober.

I like to feel high.

It doesn’t  make much of a difference to me.

My head is always flying.

If I would speak to the shrink just now

he would say that I am “in that state”

because I cannot stop writing poems.

“Many famous artists are just like you, it’s part of your disorder

Thank you and FUCK OFF.

My friend said her 8-year old is a dreamer.

And I said he might be an artist.

She said she doesn’t mind if he just makes it

to the next school year

as long as he’s happy.

Don't forgive me.

I know I go on and on and on

but there must be some sense about it.

Even when you ask me to stop

I will continue and by no means

will take that stupid pill.

He must be asleep.

I promised I would be in bed soon

and that was a while ago.

Now I have to write

my own bed-time story:

“He was angry at the sight of the empty pillow

and she knew that, sooner or later, 

she will have to leave him for good”.

“and they did not live happily ever after”

To her relief.

Now, read this words:

Do I make sense to you?

Now, speak to me FOR REAL.

Forget I am not here

and give me a fucking honest answer.

I am going to pretend

that your words traveled

through a sound wave

unknown to my ears.

But I’ll listen,

and say nothing in return.

Like a ventriloquist

I imagine I speak through someone else.

Let's say, you (yes, you).

And I hear my own voice

coming out of some wooden doll

with jaws always, always smiling.

You laugh, and your nose grows long

but I don’t think it’s funny.

At all.

I wish I were me.

And most of the time

when I wish I were me

I am the nicest person

I’ve ever met.

When I see a dot,

I don’t see a spot.

I see everything around it,


And sometimes I cry hard.

And sometimes I laugh out loud.

And sometimes I want justice.

And sometimes I am ready to die for you.

And sometimes I wish it was just a spot.

And that I could see it just for what it is:

deceptive and self-contained.

Once I wrote:

“I feel too much.”

“I am too much”.

“who wants that much?”

You embrace me

and you say that I am  beautiful.

And I, naively, 

believe you.


You see?

It doesn’t take that much

to be in silence.

And write, and write

and write


(I wonder what the shrink would say)

Am I talented?

According to you what is talent?

And in your version,

Does it mean any courage?

And you, are you talented?

Yes, yes, I will listen.

Someone like you could just reveal

all that I did not know before

which I knew would leave me in awe,
gasping for more.

Only if someone like you ever told me
that I would meet you one day.

You see my love,

sometimes heart and mind

seem to bear no difference.

In those moments,

there are more revelations

than questions

And after all that,  

you are still here.

And I won’t leave 

until I finally find you

in my love, in your truth.

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