A nest in her head,
Bags under eyes.
Dreams floating all around,
Eyes open,
Heart lonely.
Scratching her scars,
Reminisce on his smile,
Revive his laughter,
Retain his touch.
The last few months relived
only once the sun rests.
I love that image
love it, not mine
not yours, I love that face
which in the hidden artifacts
of poetry is mine, yours.
What do rhythms say, speak, in that image
is there a visage shattered
contemplative, like a thinking sage?
In that image, what’s yours
mine, breaking distances
that image is a shattering piece of hope.
Time cannot travel,
nor the image, mine yours.
The image speaks poetry besotted with love, it writhes in pain at the smatter of the word, or the pain of blood.
The image is requiescent
and hidden, it stares me
in my face.
The image voices so many
rainbows. I am in love with it.
Not me, you.
I often realize this throughout my 23 years alive, what seems like many other lifetimes, past live’s in the world of people, humankind as a whole seem not to reach out to others they don’t get to know the real person behind what they show others they could be angry at the world or at people or at family or the past.
For example we, human or not, fear our own madness monsters, darkness but some of us still, with people surrounding us, get lost from time to time, forget who those people are, sometimes feel like them or the world is against us all so we, in our own ways, hide, fight them, grow to love what we hate in our selves, see cold hatred stared in the eyes of the people like what is this freak, like you’re not human anymore.
It’s like we’re standing alone on the edge of long high 1000 or a 100,000,000 foot cliff slowly being pushed over while that stuff we hate, our hatred, our madness, that monster inside is not human anymore as it would seem as we age, grow older, either can’t run away from or get away from, either hide or escape it.
We seem to forget as humans or non-humans that we all have something, we need a helping hand to let us know there are people in the existing hell-hole of a world we either see as friend foe or both, we truly can’t decide due to the illogicial method of wanting to exam, observe people’s every nature, mannerism, action, behavior, body language, gesture, humans studied to the fullest.
We unusually remember the face they hide behind, assume it’s fine while deep inside they’re scared, looking for the help they seek, can’t find but often lack the means to save themselves but look strong on the outer but not the inner.
There, screaming SOMEONE, ANY ONE, PLEASE HELP IN BLOODY TEAR-FILLED EYES.
They don’t know who or what will save them; they try everything, just get more lost, can’t find a light close enough to see anymore so we either see a hand, know it’s a hand or madness, hatred grab, slowly gradually pull us over the cliff, edge grasping to take us into itself, make us become it, we think it’s that same madness, hate, smack it away, try to run.
Though if you truly wish to save, help people, reach out to them no matter how they look, think, act, talk, dress, conduct themselves, how wise or dumb they can or could be, how different they might be, the world peace breed fear, hatred that’s the madness that becomes our own darkness that pulls us over the edge; so which are you, are we, is the world, am I; you decide, help, or hinder; keep me in the light finally, save us all, myself, or leave me to wonder when I
‘ll be saved, me as a whole, the whole world.
So, next time ask which you are truly through meditation or self discovery; ask, are you the man or the monster.
More at http://lrueryuzaki.deviantart.com/journal/dark-and-or-lecture-433491254.
i one time ponder why i cant stand on my own two legs all the time i often contemplate why my knee’s are so weak that i speak these words for all to be heard.
i look down at my weak knee’s , i say why are you so weak when i have all this power , strength to keep from falling on you my knee’s.
i hear them say its cause you drag us , pull us thru your life walking on us unaware of the blood you trail , leave behind you we are blood soaked knee’s.
i ask them why do you not stand , drip less blood they reply because we cant stand if you don’t walk i reply but walking thru life is the hardest part.
they tell me we are blood soaked knee’s to stop the blood you must stand tall , carry yourself better , be strong for everyone not just you.
i then reply why must i stand if i cant even walk or even find the courage to speak , talk my words of my own mind .
they reply if you don’t stand you cant turn around , see everyone the blood trails of us blood soaked knee’s we cover them in our blood you must turn around , see the blood so you can stand tall , stop the blood.
i reply i don’t know how to stand they then proceed to tell me grab the hands of those we blood soaked knee’s have behind you soaked in our blood , they well help you stand .
i reply but what if my mind body , heart are weaker then me , wanna drop to tho blood soaked knee’s they reply those people behind , in front of you well strengthen those parts of yourself so you can see them , hear them , have the strength to grab there hands , stand tall.
they then reply that’s how you stand tall just don’t try to do it alone i smile some one what , slowly see my friends lovers , family behind me , reach out my long reaching arms to grasp there’s , pull me up , then i know i’m not walking on bloody knee’s but healing knee’s
More at http://lrueryuzaki.deviantart.com/journal/blood-fellows-behind-me-from-my-knees-L-459678072.
He rhapsodizes, besotted by lust
She beams, rapt by lyrics and rhymes
Of baby, sugar, sweetie and honey
Now cascading at your feet, eager to love
Then without a fuss, you’ve had your fill
Your hunger is quenched before hers stirred
If this was church, she only heard grace
And it was not even chanted in fellowship
If this was love, it’s premature
It’s like that phrase “stillborn babe”
For even the day, step ladders in fours
Morn to noon and even to night
And daily food permits to nourish
At breakfast, lunch and dinner at will
Yet you attacked the appetizer with so much ado
Ditched the main course like a sorry sight
Leaving no care for tidbits of delicious deserts
See now she reeks like “leftover”
Pinioning and pouting in the dark
She sits at her desk, refreshing the page.
Over and over again.
Trying to gather information.
From the empty pages.
The black and empty void,
The terror in her heart,
The anxiety in her stomach,
The fog in her brain.
She knows she is torturing herself.
But she sits at her desk, looking at the flickering pixels.
Who is she.
Why her.
What’s so special.
Her heart skips a beat.
Her brain cringes.
Her stomach churns.
It is all there.
The evidence of the affair.
The evidence of her existence.