Monday, December 15, 2014

Dream Catcher

She wove me a web - of thread, and colour captured in patterns of pain and passion.
She laboured her love for me for hours and hours,
As she looped each dream around a bare steel wire that is being forced into a path
That must meet the following vein leading to the outer circle.
No, it's not her fault, she labours in love.

She doesn't know that I slept with spiders in my bed last night.
No they weren't there because I didn't clean my room.
They were there weaving my old memories into a web of their own,
And hanging by the sticky, grey threads waiting to meet me halfway
Between my dreams and nightmares.

No, there's nothing wrong with me.
My dreams are just a tad bit darker than hers,
And his', and theirs and yours

I dream of dark places sometimes
I dream of decay, of death, of autumn, of winter.
I dream of things that can't be spoken of and people who can't be named.
I dream of times when I've been left aghast under the weight of my own desires.
I dream of being held captive by the misery of resounding silence of solitude.
I dream of being allowed to mourn.

Time and again I will go back to the places where it smells of his fresh cigarette ash,
To the sound of his walking stick hitting the ground in his rhythmic motion of
Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick.
I look for that pattern of eight constantly in the beats of a drum,
in the time signature of a song.
I'll even count my steps sometime to match that pattern
Or hold onto the second arm of the clock and break into ticks of his walking stick.

I'll await a cold winter's spell to seep into my open pores
And the fog to cloud my senses numb,
Just to feel that wrinkle of old, drying, scabby skin on my arm.
The way the middle of my arm would feel when they wouldn't stop poking his bony limb
To find his veins to inject him with the venom to kill the cancer that had been eating away at his flesh.

See I have tried to feel his pain, I wouldn't lie.
I have wished for that disease to eat away at my living being, just so I could feel closer to him.

I told you this wasn't a dream you'd want for me.
This is the dying wish of a living soul.
Just so I wouldn't forget what he looked like,
What he wore,
How he spoke,
How he smelled,
What he imbibed for me.

This is somewhere between a nightmare and a dream.
This is just where I want to be.

Will she catch this dream for me?

Wednesday, May 21, 2014

What Light?

He doesn’t reside within
It’s a lie
The spear-tailed demon
and the luminous angel
The ambiguous creature
We all must fear, must hate, must love, must emulates
There is no divinity
There is no eternity
There is no freedom
He picks at your flesh, like your vapid carcass
Who’s already given up
in this summer-fed heat

What hope do you seek within?

This world is a product of humanity 

Thursday, January 02, 2014


I resolve to dream bigger this year.
Oh no, maybe I shouldn't say such things anymore.
A better poet… heck no a better writer,
Yes a better writer.
A better singer…of many a bathroom serenades
Made to the shower head while breaking the crescendo.
As that sputtering water cascades down on my face, my skin
Clearing away the blurred lines made by the fuzzy memories
of the year gone by.

A whole year went by and I am supposed to have grown
stronger, sadder, simpler because that is less complicated,
But you know what if I am complicated?

Does it matter that the water couldn’t blur away the stretch marks
the sun burn crevices, the wrinkles and the worry lines, the stray grey
that’s hidden in the black of my hair with its sullen wisdom?

The bones and muscles that are
that more likely to break and break down now than they were the year before?

Does it matter really if I laugh that less louder, or if I sometimes try to yell
welled up with emotion - but the sound just doesn’t come?
'Tis not the teenage angst, but the vocal chords doth do protest much. 

Does it matter that this body and this mind are ageing?
Is it a bad thing? But am I not a wiser this year?

They tell me I am ageing like it’s an irreparable damage.
They tell me I am not young because
I can’t stay up all night, pass out due a shot induced comma at dawn
And wake up instead with pouches under my eyes and dark circles narrating
tales of an era that’s gone by in the darkness of just one night.

They tell me I will never be as I was a year ago, because my body
is that less desirable, my hair is that less smoother and my eyes that less brighter.
You wouldn’t want to lie with me under a starry-skied night anymore
Because my inter-planetary, space travel stories don’t charm,
Don’t ooze with magic and sparkle with the burning joy of my fast expiring youth


I am growing older, I make better resolutions, I am not less magical
I still dream of blazing comet trails brightening up the night sky with great light and wonder
My eyes still shine and my skin still trembles with the idea of a world that is beyond the horizon.
I don’t want answers anymore to the what ifs, but instead I ask now what else?

Why don’t you see me the same way I do? 
Am I suddenly not a dreamer because my body is now becoming an eye patch
that you’d shut your one eye behind, while the left strays idly in boredom.

Age is a number and a growing sign of my mortality
Age is grace and a chance to break free from "dignified morality."

I resolve to be a bigger dreamer this year. I am a weaver and a catcher
The night sky shines bright even during the day, but you’re blinded by its sun-lit beauty.
Look beyond the blinding white light, hear beyond the shrieking white noise
I’m going to lie down and drift to another universe with eyes open wide,
do you think you could dare to dream too?