by aemelia

#1

Trypophobia’s toy?

Alone again with my hole-riddled riddled diaries

I stare into shattered glass

Faint lines show some strange shadow

That seem to mouth

“who are you?”

I wish I knew

But now is not the time

Sweeping the glass below my bed

I make the perfect mask with powdered wings

Time to put asleep these beautiful illusions

and dance to the tune of the world

Yet however much i try and fit

the shadowy figurine seems bound to me

the others praise me

Yet i can never seem to get to the perfect ideal

I always feel uncomfy among the flashy hallways

Day by day, the same boring shows

Endless small talk and flaunting wittiness

Water seeps up the floors

and grave flowers grow

Yet the others don’t seem to notice

Pull the strange line

O, how i wish to escape this mess!

Yet i never meant to hurt…

My mask flew from my face

 burst into flames

Before becoming drowned into the drains

As if the wings upon it

Still knew how to fly…

As the flashy palace disintegrate

And the others scatter, their glittering chains gone

I search in my room for my lofty dreams

From before this strange circus

Hoping to have some rainbow to cling to

To find scraps of sanity

Yet the only things not yet garishly colored

Are the pieces of glass, glittering

Their icy light forever unchanged

I grasp them

Allow their slight curve to cull my blood once again

Looking at the sliver

I repeat the question “who are you”

but a feeling pervades me

One of emptiness

Lost, I discover my mask

Lying in the wrecks of the crystalline substances

Touching it, I cringe at the familiar touch

Of butterfly wings

What happened?

My holed diary answers not

It must have been the pupetteer

That troubles me alone with grave flowers!

Yet further strange little scraps of paper

Torches, powder, screwing tools

And dark red streaks in my room

Desperate rituals for opening the waterways

It dawns upon me:

I was the one who wanted nirvana

And secretly wished to be unborn

I had constructed the mask from my torn dreams

And when the masquerade is drowned

By my very own doing

I was freed from it

but what really had these wounded hands done

for they felt empty…

I get it.

Boarding my room shut

I set alight my diary

and dousing my clothes with gasoline

I bury my mask.

Laughing at the joke that is this unfair world

I wear fire to my unbirth ritual

and my bones are encrusted

Among the unchanging glass

After all, why not get out

of our meaningless delusions of life

#2

Drifting apart

Sometimes, going with the flow can be tiring on its own

Going with the flow

try and fit in

painful averageness threaten to overwhelm

as one burries

in the art of media res

the occasional sliver of positivity

wafer into life

Case them in the lilac sheen 

what was left of utopic romance

Dancing awkwardly to the childish songs

yet not able to sing any better

I follow

yet am without company

Daily I seek a way out;

is there a way to be appreciated?

Is there not a place

where all can finally be at ease?

Once a promise appeared

a pearly paradise

with velvet tread and

rays bursting forth

the color of dreams

They bring hope to

the world of grey undertones

a future

of equality assured

by some paternal figurine-

though doubtful, I hope for it

….

This brave new world

So close to peace

Interrupted by

sudden greenish growth

Out of its former caretaker

harmony has been torn

by emotionless plants

agents of eternal entropy

As I turn my back in horror

Towards the Old World

I see that it too is plagued by mold;

what remained color drained

 kitschy art reduced to dystopias

 I stare in incomprehension

The mold overwhelms the water

my room crumbles and falls;

So falls i.

Hand outstreched, i can only gape

as all i knew became dust again

and it is revealed to me, albeit too late:

our cherishments are just dice rolls

in this uncaring universe

#3

Puppeteered?

Haunting empty hallways

I hide from reality

As I try and put to speech

Things that are sensed and yet hide

From my cognition

O, if only I was left alone

Be able to act like everyone else

Instead of troubled by visions

Of unaccountable acts!

Day after day slowly pass

The old cycle of gliding on carved paths

As I swim easily in these syllabi

And yet fail to excel

Again and again, the only impeding thing

Is my curse that supposedly

Came with the sudden connections

What others call glimpses of creation

As I had learnt of a strange outside world

Filled with ill intentions yet sparkled with the good

Where people only fly on sacks of sparkly metal

And unfortunates must endure bitterness

I began to see the world burning

From the exhaust fumes of this unfairness

Peoples drowned by melting ices

Carved itself into my sight

Sad melodies dance in my ears

As I mourn them

And fear for myself.

Yet as my heart is pained

I seem not capable of action

As something behind my strings

Pin me down

Sheer immobility had stopped my passion

From seeking my ideal

The boredom had cached up with me;

It was almost as if

My body is wont only to fall.

I can’t act anymore.

Finally it was understood, my illness;

And my reins have been handed back to me

As my mind slowly tries to mature

O, how I wish to hurry

Complete my plans

And defy this unfair game

Where I have been handicapped

I wait, for this world to burn;

Perhaps this will bring me release?

….

If only we can mend these broken rags

That formerly were the canvas

At the borders of this contrived world

If only we can take my poor mind,

Torn apart as it is, and put it back together!

Yet this is not to be..

O, maybe I could be unwinded

A made-up puppet, doomed

One that shouldn’t have been stitched together

I fear not to fall apart

If it should grant release

…

This body cries for salvation….

O puppeteer, leave it alone!

Yet the inability continues.

Sunk in temporary comforts

I have forgotten

To get myself together

Thoughts of hedonism had come

An endless desire to stop work

To let it degenerate

And in the treadmill of life

The body fell apart

Just as my dark visions have told

…..

Have I wanted this?

Or is it my visions that prompted these strange thoughts?

O, how I crave my own decomposion!

For I know not the flow of memory

That claims to be me

…

I cannot complain now

Can I?

As the dark waters of unbirth holds me

In a cold womb

I wonder

Before I lose my delusions

And surrender my actions

To the currents

#4

Alethophobia

Words became some strange palliative

Long outdated, no longer effective

Sugar pills, sacramental wafer of medical authorities

Indeed there is nought a thing more pretty than fake flowers

for they are all artificial, designed to be perfect

In this contrived world, worship-thing of consumption

Do flawed, messy flowers get attention?

The truth i long sought had dawned upon me

But how am i to accept?

I must let my gastral juices carry the burden out

unborn my former self in the final communion

become a cute little thing with a strangling collar

and lose myself in the tracings of this glossy fake world

created by untold of endeavors

doomed to oblivion

Enough! Forget about it all

Let’s just laugh it all off

Create more smokes and mirrors

Have fun and say words resembling goodbye

before we’re all alone

after all

in a world devoid of meaning, what could truth mean?

#6 Anti-theme:fresh chances

How many times have i

Sought to redo it?

I can’t count

A feather, my life seems doomed

To float for a little

Then fall in exacerbating drift

No matter how i try

Rebirth never occurs clean

Some oldness never goes

As i sacrifice my good qualities for nothing

Voices whisper.

They tell you that it isn’t worth it

That one should just stop playing

This game of life

After all

If you can’t afford to lose

Don’t play

Escape from this cycle of undeath!

Yet

Shocks of joy and hope

Took me back to reality

Again and again

There came the times of purity

Of outsider carelessness

the things no longer define

Yet when I failed spectacularly

In an everyday task

It hit

Dread is back to haunt

And responsibilities weigh

Ah, I could never escape from the stage

On which I have somehow stepped

No redemption for me

I must perform to keep the show up

This is my only identity

One that loses itself from time to time

And leaves me seeking for one

As if it were my essence……

What’s wrong with the themes

Of this story of life?

Chances are always tainted

And one seems pinned

Into dreary inaction

……

O, to pity oneself!

For none other will

Care the stage;

Even if ‘twere to succeed!

#7

De-generation

Is this life or decay I see?

As the doors click shut

And I walk aimlessly

Abandoned mannequins

Almost soggy in their misuse

Some green growth emanating

As if they were wearing green grave-flowers…

If only I may know them!

Their arms set into some dance

Despair flows out from their ossified eyes

Realer than my living story….

Reach out

As the music sink

And let degeneration

Drive us to dance further

In this delusion

I’m a harmful person…

Perhaps they had left me here

For a reason.

Turn into the wind!

This is the only light

I deserve……

Flowers bloom on my face

Like a cute smile

As I lie upon barren ground;

But I am not I.

#9

Anti-theme: Innocence Never Was

Placed into a self-embrace

One feels the bitter waves flood

The gates

Brine seeps in

Cold comfort

That excites wounds

Yet slowly revives frozen flesh

The pain subsides

And one looks at their black palms

To cry out

Syllable of dolor.

 Huddle into a corner!

If only my silly musing of a song

Can somehow bear

Me

Who is this blank faced figure

That stares back

As if it had its tears depleted

An endless ossified pool

Of sadness at some broken thing;

What is it excactly?

A reflection upon the water-pane of existence

It fleets when one trys to pry

Ope the misty sense of

Some inattainable peak

The supposed start of our ever-descending arc

Into decay, into the messy depths..

Was it even there?!

Were we ever in that idyllic state

That we are trying to find again?

Not a trace of it remains:

The history books seem to suggest

A world run upon senile ideas;

Round and round some strange cycle goes

Until one realizes

‘Tis a bootless inquiry!

Yet…

It always seems as if

Something was missing…

Maybe redemption

Never was;

For no Eden had been found

In the boundless depths of the heavens;

No, even earthly Atlantis

Is now lost to us.

#10

The forsaken.

As we make our way towards dreary life

Faces of unfamiliar people flash by

Carved by ages of labor

One hopes to reach out to them

In friendly camaraderie

Yet they serve us with

A seperating tremor

And soon retreats into the dark

As we move on.

Daily our screens spurt out

Glowing fragments of information

Freshly toasted

To be munched on

As we scurry to our task

Yet never are we told about

The unfortunate;

They live between the lines

To be looked upon with pity

Yet few know

How to end it

This continual suffering

Is seen as a mere necessity;

What little care there still is

Pales in comparison

With its magnitude

As we are paralysed

by how difficult it seems

To end this misery.

Its almost as if

Society had given up upon them

As the little shards

Of past attempts at breaking this cycle

Find their way into the vendors

Or, safely sanitized

Gets stitched into

Our feed

#11

Marionette

A little doll with a empty face

is all i see in the mirror

The watery silver lines

floating upwards from me

I felt them took up

almost human warmth comes through the strings

as I slide into movement

supported by entangled emotion

ancient vine

struggling for life

Yet vibrating still

with colorful liquors

an imperfect performer

buttered by dulling opioid

slices of spiced-up entertainment

A mere palliative

to keep the defect from hurting

Stuck in the umbrage

too human to fade away

from the deriding spectators.

The lost marionette

Finds comfort

in the puppeteer;

Eternal guidance is offered

to walk on without more hurt.

The shelter-seeker

finally resting in peaceful bay

is blissfully removed

from the pain of original sin;

Oh, to be free again

of unhappy judging

and endless conflicts!

In the hearts of the successful

there stands a grave

burying the ancient desire

A strange nostalgia

for everlasting care

#12

indigestible

the dark corners

none loiter in

hides their own beauty;

growths, though not proper vegetation,

bring life to this forsaken place.

Discarded by society

the unfortunate find solace

where others find

dreary exile

to the realm of disowned acts.

In this world stripped of color

a poor remainder

the waste from the machine

of e’er self-depleting art;

all remains is what people see as abhorrent

the desperate welcome its coming forth

allows it to stirr their forbidden heartstrings.

for their ancient roots in the flesh

call out for nourishment

#13

stagnation

Ashen water

bury me

upon the charred ground

Ruins of forgotten reality-

I cannot move anymore

as I helplessly am pinioned

and cannot reach out

as others are suffering

Time slows in its eternal flow

as if spectating

upon our aimless struggle

As a strange pain

works itself into my limbs

yet just small enough

to not justify

Calling upon help.

Soon, concrete walls fall between us

As some strange audience

observes us with the interest

a scientist has for a living specimen

trapped in amber-

Its too late now.

I fall apart

into pretty pieces

#14

Alien

Glossy walls descend upon me

 I sing in trepidation

 In this glittering cage

yet none seems to hear me

 The beautous ribbons

Floating from my heart

decay before my eyes

as they attempt to press themselves upon a surface moths who fly themselves into fire

 their charred remains

to be sterilized by some membrane –

when they are seen

 they will become

some insignificant dust

stripped of meaning ……

Yet i know i am nought alone

as I look out and see other spectators

whose words, though decaying

becomes fuel for light

 But must it be so?

Masked spectators trying to

Preserve their beautous dreams

in a drift bottle

 Too sunk into

The comfort of lonely entertainment

To reach out?

#15

Decaying Idol

A scepter is placed

upon the seat of honor

Its gleaming glory

attracting faith

–

The cloudy visage

of a kingdom

Comes into shape

 libations pour

Before the scepter

as it claims the blessing

of some strange philosophers’ stone

and its servants serve it

with e’er-increasing intensity

Yet to perterrified eyes

’tis a bloody ceremony-

the libations are made

from the blood of the suffering

who, in their desperation

had offered their life-force to the priests

Just so they can get

Their daily bread;

As it is poured before the scepter

Its lackluster iron

Regains its golden mask

And when its appetite is not sated

It cannot help but fall into rust

And devour its servants

a crowd of tulmotous teenagers

Who seen the scepter behind its mask

Came forth just before the libations

And as the light shone though

The glittering cage

They raised the scepter

and showed its rusted flaws

To the attendants

O, that this cage

May soon be shattered!

#16

Time capsule dreams

I turn on the dusty radio

placing the galvanized time-capsule

we had planted here

in hopes of the fruit of memory

when the time comes

The silver seed returns

Into its little pod

watching the fountainhead-like box

sputter into life

colorful streams emerge from its agape mouth

tasting like lemon soda

from a cool yet unlabeled can.

It slowly drowns the room

with savory dreams

that, in their sweet reminiscence

Enamored in bright-gold hope

yet mixed deep-blue waters

that seem to pour from its eyes

And one is tempted

to dispense of their sadness

In the welcoming bays

of nostalgia

where they know none other than

the lukewarm waters caressing their hair

will ever know of

How one wishes to ride the homeward ripples

Upon this temperate sea

and nestle themselves

In the comfort of the little pod of time

Forever in a dreamy place

where they can find again

their high hope!

Yet this cannot be…

The radio halts to a stop

as the colorful liquids flow back to their home-

o, how we envy them!

for us, there is nowhere

to return to……

And now, we too

Must place the seal

Back onto our barely thawing heart

putting on its mask

To catch up with the silly tunes

that the world mechanically dances to

for they must not see

MUST IT BE SO?

I reach out

and place warm, teary liquor

into a bubbly casing

Waiting fot it to break forth

and emerge to greet someone

just so they know

they are not alone.

#17

Delusion?

Figurines dance before my eyes

wearing just the right masks for the show

To some familiar ascending tune

They smoothly traverse the stage

following the guidance of their strings

Perfection oozes from their eyes

some reflective water

that seems to immerse them

–

yet soon, this happy scene dissipates

As i float into the very same waters

a drowning elephant

in an quiet aquarium

to be gaped at

by hostile eye

yet never spoken of-

i do not belong.

The dark streams

of silvery liquor

Caress me in its cold lap

as i see the lilac casings

that confine me from their sight.

O, to reach out to the world

even when one knows

that the move is antiquated;

Burning passion sacrifices oneself as fuel

as one packets it in bubbly packages

In nostalgic expectation

of some dreamy warmth

yet must see it burst open

its contents lost.

The silvery liquid

pours into me

as i slowly lose my temperature

I see puppet lines emerge

Flowing away from me;

I close my eyes,

for i can speak no more