on lexical and artistic dissatisfaction

I profoundly despise the way that we remain trapped into old and somewhat predictable clichés of ourselves, patterns identified long ago and that we can never escape from. Mostly hurtful, and always disappointing, such patterns never seem to translate who we essentially are, besides being insecure and mildly depressed walking dilemmata. The pain does not reveal itself as something translatable in any form. Art sometimes manages to express some of it, but still the words, sounds and colors are too vague, sheerly failed attempts.

Useless language.

< 3

My main muse. Then, now and forever.
I hope my words can somehow reflect how much your love and supportiveness have inspired and saved me, when nothing else would.

Live on. For the next 68 years, and into eternity.

Struggles for Balance (Lucy V)

She balances her damaged body,
tremblingly, as she stands on the fine line
between tragedy and stupidity.
If aiming for a fall,
she would choose the shallower side, or what seemed like it.
Knowing whereabouts and consequences
of her violence, self-inflicted,
and well-aware of the damages caused
with the arrival of her explosion.
Knowledge which does not agree
to maintain the equilibrium.

Considering the able leaps of faith,
one of which may do her well,
it becomes hard deciding not to fall.
But the story was told and repeated a thousand times before.
There will be no need for any trial or anything
of such nature,
with causes so sheer and desires so cruelly simple.
Intentions never lie, after all,
and neither hide their perpetrators.
Gallows will always be gallows,
and each crime to its own.

Lucy wondered, and sighed
at the mischief of her own weak will
and distorted sight.

So she began to walk again.

Adrian, pt. II

For so long left in the cupboard,
hidden in between daily moves and routines,
forgotten you tried to be.
My favorite from all the drinks, the stand-out from my hash.
Never ceasing to sweeten my daydreams,
thinking of how I'd ever see the return of such glorious days.

You were took out and placed on
my dining table,
where once guilt meals were once binged,
and crowds in my mind were pleased
with the acid, mischievous outbursts.
Delighted in such position, you seemed,
as I poured, drip by drip, your essence
into my crystal clear glass.
Bubbles and expectations went skywards.
I loved the sounds, that never gave up on bringing back
the memories of your taste.
Tragic and unexpectable, sweet and intense,
unique beverage that worked out the wickedest substance,
when mixed with my flaming blood.
Straight to my conscience, you insisted on heading.

I fear for our past, I long for our future,
but only during these seconds while the tip of my tongue
still holds some liquid.

You will never disappear, from my cupboard or my sight, my dear.
For the crises do not concern your existence,
and your taste subdues every single thing.
Nobody sparkles like you.

Live and rush in,
my bloodstream and my flesh,
the ways you were pushed out
and the ways I'll always let you in,
tasting each time just as sweeter.
From my skin
to all that lies deeper.

Sadstorming

So let me sort through what I still hold,
to what remains.
The sickness, the anguish, the solid
which couldn't be dissolved by the turning tide.
Let me breathe from these survivors,
swim closely to my heartless dangerous shores.
Sand that mourns, sand that weeps.
It never felt this close to the bottom.

I will browse for the pearls, for the sunken treasures,
and the neverending, hungry hope.
Starvation for life and survival.
Let me steal your glory, this single step in time,
swearing it will be enough to fill and to hide.
Let me be here, wanting to be and to see
what is still held close to the core.
A few unburdened jewels, lost from their shine
and their protective chest.
My survivors that insist, restlessly and surprisingly,
to breathe through the rough sand.

Let me join them.
My search must soon begin.

Running Backwards

Running backwards time is, still
And then he realises he remains undeserving
A natural disaster, wreckage of a person,
but born perfect in every visible way.
His cancer is not physical, his ways not healthy at all.
His mind an eternal countdown clock,
until life chooses to expire.
Tumorous ego, his heart swollen and unspoken,
in a socially acceptable and perfectly fitting vessel.
A cryptic design, mind and flesh coming undone.

She sends her love through postcards and leftover notes,
trying to fill in the void.
As if it could ever heal...

When the passionate fascination with death and the overwhelming, crushing fear of people and life itself merge into one colorless, intense and blurred
mirror of selfs.

Doubt, where art thou?

The Boy with the Empty Eyes

He stared in solitude.
With silent ecstasy, drawing me away from my forests,
into a clean wide shore.
It felt like I'd never been to the sea before.
Caressing each thorn, his flower became
the picturesque translation of my confidence,
deeply buried into my mouth.

So I threw down shields and clothing,
loudly sounding when hitting the ground.
He came closer and opened empty eyes
for me to swim in.
I couldn't help feeling both small and entirely accepted
in such sea of deep blankness and meaning,
as we both moaned in delightful communication.
Layed on the water, chest-high,
softened thorns perforating my untouched skin,
I could finally have a rest from myself.
New life and new comfort blossoming, it could be said.

And it was known from the start, up to the raising of this tribute,
the certainty of this phenomenon,
which will not be erased, regardless of its duration.
I may return to my pit in the woods,
but with at least a single thornless, colorful flower,
caressing the withered trees in me.

Swan

From behind the church tower,
covering the evershining sunlight,
nature was defied in sunset.
The swan glided through gilded airspace,
sounding like a clock as girls looked above,
a ticking ankle marking time spent and time lost.
Promises were whispered by the grounded youth,
smiling beneath pale skin
Hearts and fingers crossed.

Swans on the water had lost their watch on time,
caught by the winning tide.
Water always proved to flow harder than seconds away.
Birds were still confused about what their own reasons were,
drowning feathers on troubled streams,
broken clocks that insisted on ticking.
"Look", the infant mumbled distractedly, straightening her socks,
"they are dancing for us."

Summer sunsets were still over before they even began,
when the girls look for their white ribbons,
as fabric melts within white birds.
"I think it glided away."

[listen: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pSzTPGlNa5U]

Coughing In

Run away, sweet child.

Run while you still are free from the heavy chains and
ropes which will skip from his long, deceiving sleeves
and fly straight to your fragile little neck.
Run away while you still can.

And be warned to never come back...

Coughing Out

Emotionally
actually, extremely
emotionally callous
there are eyes outside in
unable to love, not even nearly
healthily
anyone but itself

The creature retreats to the hidden moment
and lives by as just another
stranger in the crowd
No harm to anyone else,
and a shallow grave
on the ground.

Lucy pt. IV: Routine

Step by step, heavy breath by heavy breath
she enters once again the torture field
Already placed, a wooden chair
is ready for her arrival
Smiling at her trembling sight,
naked of any emotion shield.

Silently striding, she reached for it and sat
Silently, in obedience.
Of the things about to happen, she was always ahead
and the feelings she wanted to be rid of

"So don't you know you're playing with fire"
she heard a voice right behind
and thought about the damage done over the years
and felt tired
But still the razor slipped out of the nearest pocket on the sly

Then bruises were made, as so many times before
the grass before her eyes being painted by the drips
as dewdrops turned to a darker red tone and skin became sore
The memories washed away with the biting of lower lips
as if such ammount of pain held, somehow
her key to times of bliss

But yet, it was almost over
and a voice still mumbled from far away
"undone can't be what you keep on doing today"
And she wondered again, after years so much older
if more scars to such enormous collection would still do her harm
But an answer never came

So step by step, bloody hand by bloody hand
it was then the familiar time to leave
The stained sleeves she'd always keep by her side
as mementos of a prison so old but so real
she hopes she'll ever be free of
A blessed time for fresh air to smile upon a face
that will no longer have to hide

Sad news no more on the field,
not until returning time.

Myopia

In a day when all the candles over your cake
will be blown to ashes
and you'll be staring at the soul of the party
beyond the ginger ales and cocktails.
The loved ones will be there over the years,
in your room or in your mind
and the ones missed the most will roll you over, kindly
a carpet of dry tears
Say what you have to say, don't spare your words
at least when preaching to yourself

I'd like it so much better if my hands were untied
if temptation and despair did not keep on blackmailing
My head heavy of darkened thoughts working on the sly
and the vultures keep on self-revealing
Until I get enough of it all

Take out my inspirational shotgun
and blow far away them all,
the trashbags disguised as old threatening ladies
on my way
about to fall.

What is it in the way I feel
that keeps me up at night?

(It's only water. You've spilled only water. Hold on to the last bits of self-protection.)

Lucy Runs

Lucy runs
from the giant boogie monster inside her
still growing, unfolding countless crimes
grotesque in shape, devastating her ego
the creature sending acid up her spine
fire from the inside

To expunge its weight feels more than necessary
like a school night, or the adieu kiss
to kill the sick foetus that is weight, a feeling of bliss
followed by the death of a giant monster

Death alone, she wondered
was a delightful wind in her heels
but before such thought could cross her mind straight down to
a damaged heart
she stopped on her tracks
And looked for the light in her hole
before the giant would swallow her whole

but was it fast enough?
damage done can't be undone
and a second child
will never feel like your first born

Yellow Brick Road

There is but still there isn't
as if the absence in itself remained as a whole truth
waiting to be unfolded.
Still I can taste the incompleteness,
a bitter taste lingering on the tip of my tongue
recalling old misunderstandings, old floods.
As if there was but there wasn't,
as if the truth would still unfold.

The day opens up as a photo from a vintage movie
Brightly golden sunrise printed on a Kansas horizon
and still clicking my heels won't do the trick
While waves of gray distract my weary eyes
can't find the home that I still seek
And the shiny golden roads of guilt bricks
ahead of me
keep pointing the way

Because there won't be any words for us to say
when it comes to our goodbye
except for saying we did try
Surely we did try
on a smokey gray horizon up above
watching our every single move
as we got old
Though a single wire still connects
the way we feel to the way we felt
and as feeble as it was held by weak hands
we will survive the power of the cracks
that torn us apart once more

(i feel you but there's sadness galore)

Bloodwet

Sincerity is biting my lower lip, bleeding it out to the last drop
of hope and patience and fear
as time races by and passion vines grow
all around my head
Thorns piercing through a thick skin
of rough regret
opening doors for the sweetest poison to make its way

Veins lit, and a darkened organism
waiting to be ignited up
then organs working bloodwet
drop by drop
Whole stains are formed
so the whole picture can be seen

"farther from you, farther from me
watch your step girl
you keep it"

Video

All I know is words have left me
for good
as yester years slip into the bedroom
and scatter on the floor
I was but am not anymore
winning battles without realising
that is how you lose the war
while fields burn over and invaders flee too soon
and as the TV is turned on

Still I can hear from you
not on the screen, as it would naturally seem
but in the pictures where you smile naive
drunk from the youth that seeps into your pores
while you remain asleep
The glowing in young eyes
fading like falling stars
while the movie continues to play
and play

play


as if while energy doesn't fail
standing you'll always stay
but watching eyes from your motion picture
eventually look away.

Cardiac

I was born with a clock
buried straight into my heart
and the counting began when I first knew
where to start
But the hands go always backwards
and faster with each time
my fate deceives the routes taken
and it gets more and more tiring to try

I was born with a knife
buried deep into my heart
And it conducts the blood from within to the world
amazingly enough, spreading amusement to some
and trying to fit pieces to the whole incomplete part
of a puzzle still confused
Pleads for delaying the end are heard and guarded
as amulets from the nostalgia of childhood
in ways that I've never even used before

When hearing a pain so intrinsic and medical
(as in related to cientific medicine and all)
I live it to the limit and until the fall
ignoring sacrifices made and privileges thrown away
as the pain remains
but expensive pleasures will stay
as long as they last until realizing
it is already another day

I was born with a heart in my chest
that teases and tries to say
how inherently, it owns
the power to wait

Throat

This scream shall be swallowed
for the time being at the very least
The size of a fully-formed fist punching
down my throat
Every day when I am not asleep
the pressure of lacking a smile as I woke

This painting shall be hung
Up on the highest wall of my memory
With the bright red color of shame
poisoning rivers of dead fish and dirty water
A scenery for which no one's to blame

This chill shall be faced
fully and bravely, still
for as long as it takes for me to know
when I am gonna stand on my own
and not sinking down ships for cheap thrills

not enough time to heal

In Time

Not even the massive tempest could wet
the tiny detail
A single crack in the structure
the fall of it all
I love you like I've never loved before
and I can't match the level you've met and adored
What is it about our past?
What the hell about glories and forgotten lovers?
Is the garden of daisies I've grown the past few weeks
smaller than what you've seen in the forest of your yesterdays?
There is the detail yet, you will want and it will wet
rain remains unforgivable

But still don't you drive like tragic
When it's crystal clear it is only coming at you
The mirror doesn't mix well with the recipe of my eyes yet
Let me be the wreck of your trains
the rainbow connection in your wires
and the data that runs through
would only be singing my sighs

Needs of the flesh will remain needs of the flesh
and our ideals above them all
even while feeble, softly sewn fabric burns softly
to pointless desire
Red as desire will always be
but hollow as it's always been
and still I would be following you

So please forget yourself around
for you will be painted in the brightest frame I've found
so that such beautiful energy gets stuck in the world we live in
And I will stare until my grin
rusts to death
the final smile on a royal chair
happy to know we'll have met then

A mountain of singing birds in a chorus
below our feet

The Tide

A little scar under my fingernail
Tiny, but large enough to be read by the careful eye
the smallest mark of the damage you have become
A sign still undone of this mess we were in

And as the hawk was landing
My Noah's ark is finally at peace
with such dope release
and never before seen footage
of the confidence all over the place
So the lab tells, my blood analysis' back
Saying high on low self esteem
or is it misreading "high on clouds above"?
How could I know
while watching birds dancing along, and me here
grounded

A soft pain underneath my fingernail
some cut keeps bothering me still
but it should be left beneath my trail
of dry leaves put aside
if you look at the letter it's easy to figure for real
between mirrors
a B morphs into an 8
and the result is the same, as my faith
never denied me a ride

Whilst the hawk lands on messy ark
I glide with friendly doves
over the tide

Bouquet

With golden stealth, the spider danced among her webs
an amazingly drawn design
but useless, still
for no painter she becomes
no artist will ever recognize her gift
and therein will lie her grief
until distracted feet step over her work of art

Dancing for the last time,
eight tangled legs slowly drawn together upside down
and the unexpected victory blossoms:
her death a masterpiece,
a design without struggle or sound
so that any careful eye could tell

Body upside down, and a bouquet of legs
with a single message:

"flowers overwhelm"

Truly

Do you still remember, after all this mess we were in
how the absence of good-night wishes made you sad and made you cry
and can you still see from wherever you are
how he is not even nearly willing to try?
It's not that you could ever be replaced
not even nearly
but I miss you the most
forever truly
I still feel the touch of your hand
taking me from my thoughts
because you missed the way we laughed
and you missed the way we talked
and you missed me when I closed the door
and left you as if I didn't care at all
and did I, after all?
I can't tell what happened then
but it's crystal clear to me now

That you could never be replaced
not even nearly
and it's your love I miss the most
always truly

your sweetest piano still tuning in my mind
and the songs you never played...