Dark side of the world

A dark and a light, a good and a bad,
Are they the same or a different dyad?
It’s the first thing you thought, isn’t it?
That it’s the bad, the evil, the odd and misfit.
But think about the dark side of the moon.
Once it’s far, about that unrelated balloon
We know it means just the mystery, hidden,
With no judgment attached to make it forbidden.
What if we turned other things around too,
Changed the perspective to give us a clue?
Maybe the things we so often despise
Look quite a bit different seen through the eyes
That are used to darkness and all of its shades,
And we may finally stop our crusades.
Don’t mistake one contrast for the next,
It just gives ignorance an easy pretext.

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No past

It’s always past, present and future.
We insist on this delimitation,
And get caught up in its tangles.
Do we realize, I wonder,
That this is not its natural state?
There are no true records of the past.
Our brains themselves can’t do it,
Can’t bring forth a snapshot of a memory.
Time is information, in a fluid state,
And what has happened before influences
What we know and let happen next.
And the more we know, the more different
We will perceive what has once been.
Once something is done, you can’t undo it,
Can’t return, or understand anymore
The state you had before it all.
Like time travel. If it works,
It will only ever be in one way.
And yet we get so hung up on the past,
Do so many things for the glory of it,
Sacrifice so much to recapture it.
Do so few of us understand it is gone,
The stepping stones turning to water
Once they have delivered you to the next?

Anything or everything you want

You will never get to know me.

There is something unique about me –

Some people can be anything they want,

But I have gone a step further,

And I became a strange everything.

The me-s that you have met in your life

Are not quite the rings of a tree,

But the changing layers of an agate,

Shredding chameleonic colours every year.

My selves bear little resemblance

To each other at a first glance.

They might be something like cousins,

Obviously raised from the same core,

Similar enough that those close to me

Know they stand in the same family’s house,

Despite the colours and the decorations

Changing with the seasons of life.

But, save the skeletion, so little is alike.

They are cousins who sometimes borrow

Clothes from one another, but in such a way

That one’s skirt is another’s dress,

And one’s casual is another’s fancy,

Their personalities so strong that

They distort reality just a little bit.

My years are like reading a good book

Throughout the stages of your life

And seeing something else every time,

Because the person reading is someone else.

You can’t know me, not because I am hidden,

But because I am still being discovered,

And I refuse to believe it has to do with age.

I hope I’ll be the same at 12 and 92 alike.

There is always something new to discover,

And finding the world always changes you.

You should always strive to be something new.

It’s the only way to try all anythings

Until you become everything you ever want.

But I can wish

The sound of the rail. Mind the gap.

Faces coming and going on the tube map.

We travel that road so many times,

My laughter so loud to cover the signs.

I wish I would find the courage in me

To make you notice when I bump your knee,

To let my fingers linger in your hair,

And not make up reasons to seem I don’t care.

I want to put my palm on your cheek,

Turn you so you hold my gaze when we speak,

And dare lean forward, licking my lips,

Just in case you’ll let me leave our scripts.

You won’t. I know that. Makes me terrified.

So I stay a coward and I hide.

I can’t do it, put myself on that line

But I can wish, only wish, that you were mine.

Should bes

Should bes, could bes, would have beens,
Big jumps from perceived virtues to actual sins,
More inertia gathering each passing day
Until you forget you should always have a say.
Mountains change, let alone people,
What has once been may not always be equal,
And nobody ever guarantees on timelines,
The only thing you really have is present signs.
Vague promises kept nobody warm at night,
There’s no right time to start putting things right,
Circumstances don’t make valid excuses
When people, instead of prevention, learn their uses.
The more you gave, the more you’ll feel like giving,
Surely you can’t throw it away on one misgiving,
And the gain should be coming any minute now,
That’s how things are supposed to work, anyhow.
But sometimes, sadly, the gain is the lesson
And not an act of some great concession.
Poor little thing, you should know no promises hold
When life is involved and lets fate unfold.

Organic growth

Storytelling is an integral part of nature.
Writing is an organic kind of growth,
Nurtured by bits and pieces of surroundings,
Its water and sun and fertile soil.
It repurposes experiences to be made,
And lets itself enter the cycle,
Be consumed and provide nourishment
To other minds for further writing.
It’s a tree that forgets to run out of fruit,
The same seeds planted again and again,
Each time bearing slightly different shoots,
And making beautiful natural hybrids.
The inspiration may ebb and flow,
Another cycle to mirror moon phases perhaps,
But it’s never quite gone. Maybe repurposed,
A type of water’s circuit through nature –
A writer’s writing, a writer’s reading,
And a writer’s simply living his life.
There are times when one takes over others
But it just shapes the original crystals
And pours back into one’s expression of art
When it returns to its fluid, nurturing state.
Writing is growth, and always will be.
Perhaps that’s why nature makes its way
Quite so often into bits of poetry.
Maybe they match, two sides of the same coin
Growing together and from one another.

Rite of passage

There’s no bigger loneliness
Than being alone in your inner circle.
The people you grew up together with,
Who knew everything about you,
Who understood you before you spoke…
Will not always be able to do so.
You think it could never happen,
To others maybe, but not you.
And yet, suddenly, it breaks down.
Your ‘friends’ can’t even see
The things you can’t look past,
And you couldn’t care less
About the centers of their universes.
It is a horrible feeling indeed,
But there’s some good news to it too.
All rites of passage require
That you detach yourself first
From wherever, whoever you were before.
So the loneliness, it’s just a mark
Of your liminal, transient position,
On your way to bigger, better things.
You will belong somewhere again,
Sooner than you might realize,
With people that deserve you this time.
So just bear through it a little.
It’s nothing more than a rite of passage.