Skip to main content

By Your Definition

These are my shadows I regard;
I joined the game—unprepared.
I run.
I crawled.
I obeyed everything, your criteria.
And as soon as I got tired looking for my reward,
I panted. I sighed.
"I could not live by your desired utopia," my pleading.
You told me it would pass.
Tapped me on my shoulders while wearing my gray shirt,
You scolded me by my shade of choice
Humiliated—I still showed my garments:
They were nothing but dark,
As my every day,
As my every day.

Felt sorry for the trembles;
I knelt down and unhesitatingly apologized—still shaking.

"I had no control," I emphasized.
"You're bluffing," it echoed a hundred times;
Came down to me like raining knives, mercilessly.

Into this trench where both of my feet were tested;
I breathed in. I breathed out.
With glasses on, you asked me if I was okay.
I begged for mercy.
You held my hand, said it was okay.
You laughingly smiled afterwards;
Asked me to pray, instead.
I prayed, dear. I prayed.
I put my hands up while I was bleeding.
Streaming down my arms.

"Free me,
Free me,"
Those were tears;
But then again, you asked me to pray.

Amen, I shall not say.
Your positivity was tormenting.
Affliction, t'is a temporary death.

Always, I will owe you my elaboration,
and I shall live by your definition.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

IHY

 The hatred is piled up, enough to orchestrate a crime  and to hide it in nightmarish metaphors. I have imagined you getting piercing through the fragility of the roof of your mouth, until you beg for forgiveness with your really untamed spirit. Perhaps, flaying would be much better, but crying will be reverberated through every corner of your long shattered room, as your annoyingly pleading voice will still be heard. An unforgivable, hell-bent serpentine, you always are, caressing the man’s ego extracting his exhaustion, and me against a fiend in your presence. Such a soft way to demonstrate hell to you— as it was not even a flinch, or a poke. You deserve heaven appearing reverse, so the gods you have known will forbid your salvation.
Post a Comment
Read more

24?

"Twenty-four seems scary," I tell myself. Sometimes, I tell jokes, or mostly, it was conveniently told, like how a laugh returns and  introduces itself as villainous friend, but an enemy is the positivity that takes. It is so much scarier when it visits me: a quicksand brought by faux geniuses, a peeking sock-made puppet,  I am a whole drama— a ventriloquist of his own dreams. Delighted by my father's cake: "Happy birthday, son!"  I still know how to stay still  when everybody sings me one.  My Mom gave me bills: Money is an angel.  Indeed, for it lets me fly out of the reality— out of reality that everything  is still made of infinite loops,  as in manmade experiments, and how they can be destroyed by one gentle blow.
Post a Comment
Read more

Conveyor Belt

For like a conveyor belt I lay before you my present: prosthetically decapitated head; well decorated with crystals; synthetic beads; a barbed wire pierced through the iris.   Hungry men before me: I examine, I hear the borborygmus, tingling sensation when my plastic bones crack and break the ceilings. A mirror on the wall   where mother used to lean her idealism against. Now rest the rusts, webs of a Black Widow, which is not native to this house: as her now demeanor,   as her now demeanor, repeating, reeling and reeling as I sit trying to weave, for my soft dreams have now become plagued long before I dared to sleep my heavy. As a belt: I lay my body as they try to fit the loose holes to fit my thinness. My insides as they churn   from a deafening machine audibly discernible so my father could hear, yet faint as his late regrets.
Post a Comment
Read more