A Warmth That Kills

I give this gun to thee.

For fear that when my heart skips a beat to the mention of your name.

I shall kneel to it, because memory seeks to haunt my sleep.

A past I hated, loathed. I past I left behind.

Little did I know, that my feelings followed. Stalked me from behind. That whenever I hear the mention of cigarettes and alcohol, it rushes back to bite me.

I laid soothed under ego. Showing that you and I can be friends, the closest of them. For what do the idiots of the scriptures know? The servants of the solemn? The cummerbund of the conservatives?

And we were. Are. Disregarding imminent futures and yore.

I understood your need for different companies. I just didn't understand why I felt so estranged.

But I never brought it up. I started going to back to circles that I always tried to break free from. Not due to abhorrence, but non-suggestibility to monotony.

Of course it never worked. The company of them didn't seek to appease me, except maybe for a few that gave me something better than shelter. The liberty to be myself.

And I appreciated them. But they have their separate lives too.

Up to this point, in prosody and in context of chronological events, I didn't know what I want anymore.

And then a set of sunsets passed, leaving ways to often routine nights.

Cigarettes and alcohol pierced the night.

Aforementioned, I was with the Dutch. In love with her words, and sometimes even her silence. Laughing about nothing because I'm in tethers to her everything.

But I could never tell her that. In fact I've said I love you to wine more times than I've ever done her.

It struck me anxious. 'Twas the coincidental lightning chasing from cloud to cloud in the open Southern sky.

That is until your name was mentioned.

And suddenly I knew.

That the Dark Ages of the desert yonder was misinterpreted.

I left it alone at first, because I thought it'd be safer to continue with white roses.

Truth was I never forgot how I felt around you.

Although the feelings have sort of presumably dissipated - after all I've fought demons and found solace in others for a considerable period of time - I realised how hard it felt to leave you.

And I wish the hue of the flower were still placid. But I don't think it ever was. I've been lying to myself this whole time.

And when you left, without an embrace. I remembered how I missed the whiff of your cardigan, and the way the verdant iris screams tranquility and contradiction into my soul.

Your hug was my supplementary cigarette, a warmth that eats at me, telling stories of false hopes and anecdotes of antipathy.

So I left without getting that.

Could it be possible that you know?

Because I don't know whether the play is still ensuing or not.

But that night, I had an explanation to why I never could say to her what I felt about her.

That night, I realized my feelings to her was nothing in comparison.

Nothing in comparison to how I fell in love with you.

Argh. I'm such a bad person.

Wither Me Timbers

My many friends have many lives. And in some of those lives, I am not in it.

I only have one. One where no matter whom I am with, I would always feel the absence of the others I love.

VS

Hey you. Yes you. Hi. Yeah. The soul to my usually nameless songs, the 'her' to my childish poetry. Hello. Tomorrow is all we have.


Or maybe they're all one and the same?

Sometimes, I Think

Often times as I imagine myself in the ethereal, or a world besides the one I tread, I'd always a picture a backyard.

A tree.

And picket fences.

"Whatcha drawing?", pranced a little girl with a coon's skin, her hands covered by the smog of industry and toil, 'though she could not have been older than 7.

"Anything that I can see", lazily does the boy whisper, more to himself, than to the new presence.

And this little boy seems to be the sketcher of my dreams. This little boy seems to be the only form of reality I have, conceiving everything he sees and passes it on to me.

It is an awfully mundane thing to contemplate, especially when I've passed my high school years, supposedly already on the track of higher education much more specified to the type of path I would love to speed through (if possible), but I've been trying to go back to the times when I never thought. Never formed ideas and opinions at least, even if I did somehow spoke with my mind.

Can a man who doesn't believe in reality..lie? Is there a fiction if there is no truth? And if there can be many fictions why can't there be many truths?

Silly of me, this was suppose to be a regression to my childhood, but I'm transgressing again.

*rips off a page of the sketch pad*
"Why did you do that?" she questioned.
"I didn't like it"
"But it was raw. Lovely. Not too much shading, the foreground was drafty...but it looked real"
"Exactly. It looked real"

The thing is, I don't think I ever had a childhood. Superficially I had cartoons and toys to entertain me, to instill distractions ere I whisk away into a realm of cold contemplation once again.

Like how I have cigarettes, and pornography, and friends, and lovers, and TV shows, and this sketchpad to carry me somewhere simple and amusing before I naturally fall apart again.

Some people tell me it's all a matter of causality, because I run away from my problems, thus everything from the skedaddle of my brain starts to pervade into ...reality..and I start to get even more and more confused.

"Here"
"This looks silly hahaha. Why is the dragon wearing a top hat?"
"I don't know. Why do you think it's wearing a top hat?"
"Because you put it there"
"Hahaha why did you think I put it there?"
"Is he going to a ball? I've never been to those. Why do dragons have the chance to go to balls and not me?"

A tall lanky figure walked out on the porch with a Chivas in his left hand and a cigarette clamped between his lips asking the little boy to come inside.

"Dammit, Zechariah, I've told you ten fucking times not to talk to them niggas like her"

But always she visited me. Climbing over the picket fence. Or sometimes through the apple tree branches, landing right in front of me.

The tall lanky man chased her out before, with a shot gun.

In my sleep, on my bed, and in my moments of reverie, she was gone. For about two years I thought I was sane. Sane. Sane. Sane.

For all of these adjectives that come to my mind and I don't know what the fuck they mean. What the fuck they mean to me more than they mean to anyone else.

You see my thoughts do not serve society.

They don't. I am not Plato, or Aristotle or a Vinci, obviously not in degree but farther away when it comes to function.

"Pssst. Hey you :) "
"Do you believe in good people?"
"Yes. I believe in good people and I believe that good people exist"
"So..whose side are you on?"
"Me? Georgiana Humphrey? Good side of course"
"I wanna be on your side"
"That's flattering. But why?"
"Because it's either that or I have to make my own side. And that takes a lot of assiduity and hard work. And there's no way I'm going to their side"

But writing these things doesn't mean I care about them.

In fact, indifference is my matron name.

I shall tread past the yard, and back into my bed. But Georgiana Humphrey will always be there.

To guide me. To show me that I am powerful.

That we all are. It's just a matter of whether you want it or not.

"Because one can fabricate what might be perceived truth, but no one can falsify reality."

Simpleton.

There is no good and evil.
There is no good and evil.
There is no good and evil.

Etched on the tree the little boy would normally take refuge under.

And only sometimes, I think.

Other times I live in my thoughts.