Maybe the way we see stars when we open our eyes after itching them is how our brains prepare us for the magic we're yet to see when getting a clearer glance at our lives. 

27/05/2015

I've grown to wonder how I could ever make my words become margins to my emotions. You see, my words have always been aligned to justify passions that I, myself, doubt to truly have existed. The issue of which concerns me most is the fact that for the past few years, I fear, all the spilt ink has been nothing at all. All I have between my ribs are feelings I can not trust until I spill ink instead of blood. Sadly, at times I cannot even trust my very own ink, as heartfelt as it might be, and I believe that is the greatest tragedy a writer could ever be bewildered by.

20/05/2015

I am the leader of this masquerade. I am the leader of this opposition. I am the leader of this rebellion–a rebellion of hearts. Attention, solute, march. Heads up, noses to the ground, hopes high. Morality is our code-name, and there’s no killing this revolution of ours. There’s no mass genocide of gas nor brainwashing in these quarters of our hearts; we are unbreakable. I am the leader of this masquerade, so go ahead, comrades; off with your masks, rattle your smashed mirrors, and on with your indiscreet parade. Go ahead, my brothers, my sisters, my fellow warlords; bring on this war of peace upon those blasted cheats, and speak none other than truth. Bring on our revolution of hears, your revolution of hearts, and damn their applauded blasphemy. This war will have a casualty number of (nil) in the enemy’s favor, but change is acoming. Join me, brothers, sisters, family, friends, strangers, all alike, and bring on the merry and jovial festivities with the pureness of once doomed hearts. This revolution of hearts will know not defeat, and only praise and prosperity. Bring on the merry and jazz as we spring to the fruitful fortune. Bring on our revolution of hearts with our properly conducted code of conduct. Bring on the honor, the freedom, the comfort. Bring on the beauty of this banquet, I preach, for this revolution of hearts will last on beneath our eyes only. Bring on the lemonade and summer heat with the revolution of silenced hope and pretense. Bring on the confetti bombs with grins wide and teeth white. Bring on the revolution and the charade of fresh gunpowder. I am the leader of this adequate masquerade, and so are you, comrades. We are all the generals and comrades of our revolution to justice: The Revolution of Triumphant Hearts. 

12/05/2015

You told me I could go anywhere, be anyone, do anything, yet all I am is a mix tape randomly set and brought together under some sort of sad theme. You told me ambitions are alright as long as they make sense, then why am I not a radio station with some sort of upbeat funk or some weekend music? Why can I hear pianos and violins rather than trumpets, flutes, accordions, or even electrically generated techno club music? Where’s the groove in my soul, when all I can sing are these navy blues? Where’s it gone to? Where’d it disappear to, since you said that having hope is valid and reasonable? I thought I deserved the best, but why’s my symphony so cheap? Why do I sound like a broken record? Why isn’t anyone listening to my station in their cars on the way back home? Why’s this what my future’s come to? You told me I was worth a bloody damned fortune, then where’s all the filthy cash? Where’d it waltz away to? Why can I only make people weep and not dance? Why? Why can’t anyone bear the sound of my notes? I thought hope was what I am, but it turns out I’m just another forgotten harmony after all, so no need to rewind; just pause me.

29/04/2015

Your absence is murdering the very little inspiration I have left in my soul, thus, obliged I am to beg and plead for your blessed and divine presence once more, before I consider placing chains on these heavy-hearted doors, before the raven starts to crow its “nevermore”, before the silence presents itself in quantum galore, before another my passions are conned to adore; return and watch what my damned black ink has in store, be it sinister or sore, be it of interest or of bore, be it whatever it may be, it is you who I have written it for.

27/04/2015

Anxiety. Fear. Panic. Horror. Shock.

5 stages we often go through. For some, it ends with tears and dreaded hallucinations. For others, it ends with manic laughter. 5 stages not all are aware occur in the fiddle human psyche. The kettle sounds, the clatter rebounds, the clutter of mind astounds, and the batter of heart is unsound. The 5 stages those paranoid are most familiar with. The 5 stages those titled "mental" recognize with ease. The 5 stages the proud are too dignified to confess are acquainted with. The 5 stages the bravest of hearts overcome. The 5 stages we all battle in some way or another.

25/04/2015

To me, your love was

water

satisfying my thirst

but

little did I know

that the water was 

murky

with filth. 

24/04/2015

Critique

Frankly, I’m not sure if the scene being played atop this mahogany stage is meant to be a soliloquy presenting a parody or some sort of satirical caricature. Frankly, I’m sure that by the end of this act, I’ll hear a squeaking epigram of ridicule being presented in the most degrading manner. Frankly, I’d have rathered to attend some sort of Elizabethan production over this polluted Italian comedy of rage and heart. Pause. The actor has fallen. The props are dropping. The light sets pop with deafening crackles. The navy blue curtains collapse cooly and carelessly instead of casually cascading. The director shrieks. The audience in muffling amusement. The pen continues to scritch on its way on the notepad. 

22/04/2015

Green. Envy green. Paper pieces falling from the sky, hitting at our sides as the breeze gushes from above. Green bank notes dance alongside us as we waltz our way through the metal vaults. Gold. Bronze gold. Mountains and hills loop around us as we make our ways through in beat with the jumping jazz of our hearts. Metal bars of gold drop like anvils onto the black and white checked floor. Crystal. Crystal clear. Cut pieces of mysterious origin rain into our palms. Diamonds cascade their way through like gentle bullets on our sparkling skin. I've been searching around for a lover, and I thought I'd find her in a dollar in these vaults. I've been searching around for a lover, and I thought I'd find her in my arms as we galloped the night through to a place behind bars. I’ve been searching around for a lover, but it seems I’ve only found love at the bottom of a rusty flask.

17/04/2015

Today, my dad's friend asked me what I wanted to become when I grew up. I said I wanted to become a burglar. The man exclaimed about why I'd say that. He said I should become a doctor or an engineer because I seemed like a smart kid, but he just didn't understand. He didn't know that I just wanted to grow up and become someone that can steal away all the reasons why you'd ever cry and be sad. I feel so sorry for the man, because he can never comprehend that Robin Hood was never really a thief. 

04/04/2015

The key to stop caring is to stop feeling. Achieve that, and your life will become smooth pavement of spectacular color.

26/03/2015

Photography is a delicate art. Writing is a delicate art. Painting is a delicate art. Drawing is a delicate art. Cooking is a delicate art. Yoga is a delicate art. Art is therefore and foremost, a set of delicacies combined into a single form, called art. To the hearts of many, the mess of art is a privilege that the majority tends to misunderstand cruelly. To many, art is none other than an act of ignorance, but approached in speech are all the artists on these grounds: allow not their rambling bring your artistic efforts to cease. Have faith; you are a miracle at the making. Do not allow the mere words and notations of the foolish have effect on your passion. Heed the speech here addressed to you, and live on with a grin to all oppositions; you are an artists. You will succeed and thrive, regardless their complaints.

18/03/2015 – 25/03/2015

I am not faded eye shadow and illy-wiped mascara. I am not tearful kohl and broken-winged eye liner. I am not cheap blusher and heavily applied concealer. I am not their sketch paper, patted with their dashing rainbows of color, later creating light masks. I am not the mannequin in front of thousand-dollar designer display windows, posed to sheer perfection. I am not their dress, tightly fit, uncomfortably cradled unto unnatural waists and curves. I am not the wig, unblemished and untouched, worn on their stages and platforms. I am a face, an identity, a person, a human being; I am not a doll, a plaything, an item, a product. I am a face, a fingerprint, an influence, an individual; I am not a toy, a figure of wax, a chunk of modeled plastic, a suitcase carried from door to door. I am a face. I am not to be sold for currency, or anything else, for the matter.

18/03/2015

What Is Damage?

There seems to be a questioning matter and scratching at my mind for my attention; that matter is damaged people, as of myself. Damaged people, it seems, are the most dangerous people to walk with us on the crust of this planet. They infect this planet with all the destruction their hearts hold, and that makes them utterly dangerous. People might ponder on why I call them dangerous; most people might be under the impression that damaged people are vulnerable, pathetic, weak, yet their expectations are fashionably incorrect and untrue. The reason is very simple: damaged people are dangerous because they believe that regardless of how damaged and diminished life might make them, they survived and are still surviving. Damaged people know for a fact that they will always survive anything and everything, because they have tasted the bitter hand of sorrow and agony; they know that they will be alive through anything, nevertheless. Damaged people are dangerous and always will be, because they have immense amounts of control over their personal survival mechanisms. Damaged people, contrary and adversed to popular belief, are actually of mighty and tenacious grips to endurance and survival of the countless predators amongst them. Damaged people are possibly the strongest hell-bound humans alive, yet receive no recognition whatsoever, only looks of pity and disgust. Such an afflicted reality we must also learn to accept, above all.

15/03/2015

I have dreams that often 

are not taken seriously; 

dreams that people shrug off. 

I have dreams of telling people 

of the beauties and wonders of the 

world. I have dreams of 

showing the true capacity of human 

emotion. I have dreams of illustration, 

of loyalty, of galore, of rhyme and rhythm, 

be it with or not with them. 

I have dreams that people often 

shrug off, but only those with the sight and 

vision will understand my dreams. 

– my dreams are not fantasies; 

I am a realist.

16/03/2015

Bakeries Are Home.

There's a goodness in bakeries that I can't quiet describe. The smell reminds me of my long past childhood, and going into a bakery brings back so much to my mind. Bakeries are beautiful. To me, they’re a place of welcoming warmth and dedication. Bakeries are loyal businesses that serve the people for the best to come. Bakeries are not money-oriented; they give out love and satisfaction. Bakeries are a mental connection family to me. So many memories. Breads of various shapes, sizes, tastes. Deserts, cakes, biscuits. Festivities and funerals all depend on the good hearted baker’s hands; he provides life to all who ask for it. There is a goodness in bakeries that I can’t quiet describe, but all I can say is that it feels good to be home.

12/03/2015 – 13/03/2015

The Death Of Butterflies Is Hopeful.

The butterflies faded into blue on my skin. It’s been over a year now, and I’ve kept up the black marker butterfly trick as a habit. I can’t kill innocent butterflies.

The butterflies faded into blue. They’re nearly disappearing, and maybe that’s a good sign; it’s a possible sign of belated recovery. Recovery is good, belated or not.

The butterflies faded into blue. Maybe that’s how they lay eggs and bring on caterpillars. Funny how life is blue.

The butterflies faded into blue. It’s never too late to keep them immortal. But then again, some habits are simply meant to die out. Let them.

11/03/2015 – 13/03/2015

Challenge

Dip me in gasoline and set me ablaze, bet me on a game of Russian Roulette and make me lose, spray my eyes with toxic fertilizers, shoot my head with a gun barrel empty or full, kill me with your words and your violence, but I’ll only be announced “passed” on official records, not truly; my soul will always live on in the hearts of those with spirits indestructible as mine. I am recognized, and I say this not out of arrogance, but out of self-appreciation and respect. I will not allow the memory of me to die with my body; I will live on and on for decades and centuries to come, because I might be damaged, but damage is a critical element to make one unforgettable. I will be a memory people look up to someday, and I do not await your approval or permission any longer. I am a free spirit; I won’t allow myself imprisonment. I am free.

22/12/2014 – 11/03/2015

--Untitled--

Dew's the envelope of newly sprung leaves and the sky's a pathway to a heaven intertwined with fallacies and denial. It's a long ride with the warmth of the summer sun in the morning on one side, and the chill of the shivering winter late at night with a white luminous moon on the other side. It matters not the destination, but the beauties in which we please our sights with on this sempiternal road. There are daises and lilies rising below our tires, and through we step on them, the vines grow out to protect them and show them mercy. Beyond the windows the sky is light and dark, and we are in the midsection of the transition; we are the change, we are the hope, we are the future which lives inside our marrows, unplanned. The winds blow on either side on our faces as we drive on midst the fog, and we smile endlessly as we continue being enveloped in the many wonders this world offers us. We smile as we get closer to the end of the cracked yellow brick road. We smile as we make our way to being content, because somehow, even though we’re still on the road, we’ve already reached our destination. 

30/12/2014 – 11/03/2015

Adventurous To The Marrow Is The Mask Of Cowardice

Velvet drops of blood on the white carpeted floors, splattered like a painting gone horribly wrong and attempted to being demolished for a reason unknown to its ignorant audience. Velvet drops of blood on the white painted walls, blotted like a shrink’s twisted tests to figure out the state of mind of an absent minded patient. Velvet drops of blood on the white stoned roof dripping onto the scar wrapped around my neck and tucked into the collar of my snug navvy sweater. Velvet drops of blood giving color to the unturned stones of the setting, one I am unfamiliar with; a place with yanked chandeliers and broken wooden flooring, apparently of a 60 year old yew tree from glance of an eye of expertise. Velvet drops of blood on every inch go this indecent castle plated with forgotten fortunes of gold and memories. It’s a slaughterhouse, and that thought is affirmed as I walk further to find wallpapered hallways and checked floors guiding me through into several rooms, the first being of a child, a girl. Baby pink duvets and lace curtains make up the main design go the space. Aside from the faded pink, there are broken dolls, a broken mirror, carpets torn by claws of what seems to be a wolf’s; the blood is everywhere, dry and of revolting stench. Petrified, I considered the option of looking away and forgetting of the very existence of this house, but something pulled me into staying: a force I never understood to this day. The next room was of simple tapestry and a silk covered king size bed. The master bedroom. It smelled of dead rats and a week old’s rotten meal, aside from the smell of blood of course. This is a site of genocide, it seems, but how was this not reported before? I walk deeper into the room, approaching the balcony. The glass had layers of dust, which I wiped off with the hem of my sleeve. Beyond the barrier, I saw light, radiant and intense, and in that light was a family of transparent physiques, but they had no heads, only bloody chopped necks. They’re happy, the married couple embracing, the children playing “Hide and Seek” blindly, and the nanny caring for the infant crawling on the yellow grass. They’re happy, but how? My skin shivers. A mass suicide? But why? I shut the curtain and fumble to the stairs, almost tripped as I haste towards the exit doors. I push the double hinged doors, only to  find the horse lying hoarse lying corpse of a man in a well-fitted suit of black, butcher’s knife in hand, throat slit and still soaking wet. Fresh blood. This is recent. I cross over it and rush off to the pavement in my minivan. Lesson learnt. 

30/11/2014 – 10/03/2015