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.

Constrast

To sit and watch the falling snow,
Hitting ground and spinning low,
While holding hand and arm,
Keeping warmth and chanting charm,
Two hearts beating side by side,
Warmth from cold that helps to hide.

And under sun’s radiant heat,
Glory flowers eyes do greet,
You can feel the chill of night,
Holding still and keeping tight,
Lost and lonely on the fields,
Trembling slight under your shields.

Why to judge the nature’s beauty
When we pass the soul’s duty?
We can feel despite the looks,
Words beneath the covered books.
Constrast will forever hold;
Silver spring to heart of gold.

Mattress of two dragons

The limit of a body against the odds of life,
The cry of loneliness that echoes in the dark.
Writhe against the mattress of place and time alike.
A fire burns within, till its latest ash.

Hands of mist that loom, bead of pearly sweats.
A serpent lies within, silent and dorment,
Growling from its pit, filling with desire
A beast that grows in wake, it stretches and it fires.

Inside, the deepest red, the pitiful poor hell,
In dream of only clouds, and air, and of wind,
As bodies crush the limit, discover hidden wings,
In pairs rise and drift; against the sun, them stars.

A strangled cry of pain, that distance can’t subside,
Has risen from the space, that stretches and compress.
It aches in all its power, all air burns a mark
That only flesh and heat could help so to supress.

And after beastful fight, yet higher and yet far,
When rush has broken limits and it has turned to haste,
Lay slain two bonded dragons, one real and one dream,
One black that reaches stars, one white that burns of red.

The tails silent brush, and it all finds its worth;
The black one found its day, the white its darkened mist,
And yet, as world exists, they stay a solid twist.
If it was to vanish, they’d be a heaven’s dream.

Zero o’clock

The ancient pendulum strikes zero o’clock,
A flurry of loud silences sound,
The air is filled with nil numbers of questions
And so many answers, maybe twice,
Thrice, but slightly less than nought times.
It’s the time of the old witching hour,
The original one, when the sun dipped shadow
Humans passed through ghosts, breathing fire
And gods hide in corners, afraid.
What are you doing between time and existence,
Speaking in sharp, difficult shades?
You look through your ears, so stumbled,
Like nobody taught you how rude is to breathe.
Close your skin when you talk to your youngers,
Don’t you know how your lungs should behave?
You should have learnt butter from your future,
Has nobody told you to die low and wait?
Oh, go now, you know nothing at all.
Souls shouldn’t be out past zero o’clock.

Why something?

Why is there something when it could be nothing?
Why is there air when it could be void?
Why is there flesh when it could be aether?

Why light instead of darkness,
Sound instead of silence,
Touch instead of numbness?

I don’t know. It might be that
There’s no reason at all
And it’s all a happy accident,
A cosmic dice cast so many times
That even the smallest probability
Becomes certainty instead.
Or it might be even foolish
To try to consider mathematics
As the reasoning for reason.
There’s just no way to answer those whys.

But I’m happy that is, without, despite a reason.
Becomes the ‘something’ allows you to exist,
And all the other senses let me feel you.
And oh, something even better than this –
It allows me to exist, allows me to feel,
And gives me a choice whether it will be
You, or someone else, or nothing at all.
For I, at least, am here.

Virtues of desperation

There are such virtuous people,
Far more than the rest of us,
Yet their light so easily hidden
Under a layer of perceived sin.
But who are we to judge when we don’t know
The touch and taste of their circumstances?
They may be showing the world
Something different than we think we see.

They may be showing the prudence of anxiety,
And be planning ahead for a future
They see so dark and stormy,
It might as well not exist at all.

They may be showing the justice of impulsivity,
For there’s a good and a bad way
In which justice should be blind,
And for them, all the things they can weigh
Are the judgments of seconds instead of years.

They may be showing the fortitude of apathy.
Let’s not forget there are people for whom
Merely lifting themselves up would mean
Travelling a far greater distance
Than others go to encircle a globe.

They may be showing the temperance of obsession,
When a single second of separation
Claws blood from the skin of their soul,
And limits cut into them like barbed wire,
Yet they still force steps through the thorns.

They may be showing the faith of depression,
For we all agree proof cancels the need for faith,
Yet we all trust in the existence of light
While being surrounded by glorious flames,
And judge them for struggling to see it
With their eyes closed against darkness.

They may be showing the hope of insecurity,
After being conditioned a lifetime
To the idea that they are undeserving,
And hope itself is overstepping their bounds.

They may be showing the charity of compulsion,
And the things they give freely are not,
Like for the rest of us, mere triffles,
But bloody chunks of their own beings.

They may be showing the world
Things that can only be understood
When you know both halves of the story,
Virtues of hardship and desperation.
People forget that qualities
Are not things to judge others on,
But things to mould themselves by,
For our stories are the only ones
Any of us have any right to.
So let’s judge ourselves for a change
And assume everyone else is virtuous.

Unfortunately rephrased

People have a morbid kind of passion
For all the negativity in the world.
They especially seem to adore putting
An ‘unfortunate’ label to everything.
But how often is it really the correct one?

I may have quite a few quirks.
Unfortunately, this makes friends hard to come by.
But maybe it is fortunate instead,
Because every one of my friends
Are people who I can truly count on,
Not having to worry that I should seed out
Those who would disappear when the going gets tough.

I am quite shy and quiet.
Unfortunately, this makes my ideas hard to hear.
But maybe it is fortunate instead,
Because all those who listen
Are genuinely interested
In what I have to say.

I’ve been called childish and naive.
Unfortunately, this makes me easy to take advantage of.
But maybe it is fortunate instead,
Because with every person
Who steps over me for their success
I get a little wiser, a little tougher,
A little less likely to fall for the same trap.

Unfortunately, I didn’t always get the things I wanted.
Fortunately, this lead me to the things I needed.
Unfortunately, I often lost my way.
Fortunately, this made me keep rediscovering myself.
Unfortunately, I was not too good at the things I did.
Fortunately, this allowed me to commit to them,
And know that I truly deserved it when I succeeded.

‘Unfortunately’ and ‘fortunately’
Are just two sides of the same coin,
A coin so small it can flip over
With a single harder exhale from you.
It’s just a little bit of rephrasing
That all writers should be
Intimately familiar with.
So how about, every once in a while,
We all choose to listen instead
To the fortune withing the ‘unfortunately’,
And the possibilities of an ‘impossible’?

Obsession

It’s said that all creative minds
Entertain multiple representations of all things –
That’s the only way to give birth to unique perspectives,
Having random things bubble and mix and blow up
In an array of colours and metaphors.
The minds of artists have voices recounting truths, realities,
That their imagination then compounds on, shoots out from,
In ever more complicated fantasies.
There are also voices whose sole purpose is to keep track
Of which voice does what, of inner workings, and make sure that
Fantasies land on paper, in stories, paintings, sculptures,
And they don’t interfere with function in the real world.
There are times, however, when the real world is ugly,
So you tighten the fantasies around you,
Breathe them in, burrow in their warmth and security,
And shut down the voices telling you it’s wrong.
It might be surprising, that something as slippery as obsession
Starts with a conscious decision. But it does.
Like going down a slide, you need an impulse to get it started.
You need to choose to shut down the realities,
And you ignore that aching awareness sounding an alarm.
You pick and choose. You only hear the nice fantasies.
And, with no other raw material, your mind doubles them up,
Compounds on them instead of tempering them down.
It becomes a self-fulfilling spiral of quicksand,
Creating just enough satisfaction by its mere existence
To keep itself going. It’s overwhelmingly much,
Yet it’s achingly little, making you throw yourself desperately
Over unrealistic things, trying to soothe the growing need.
It’s painful, yet when the world delivers, my…
There’s no bliss quite as strong as feeling the worlds collide,
Sending the shock waves of the contact down your soul.
So you throw yourself harder down the next spiral.
It’s just a mistake, you see. A coping mechanism gone wrong
Though can you even claim it is wrong if it does its job?
Because it does tie you over the rough patch,
Your mind so full with your fantasies it’s numb to pain.
Sometimes, when you’re paying enough attention to the process
You can even trick it into becoming an absurd motivation
That walks you up the hill you so happily slid down before.
And when you’re strong enough, you can always disengage,
Get to your feet, breathe out the quicksand,
Shake the clingy bits of obsessions off you
And convince yourself you’ve got everything handled.
This, of course, until the next long stairway
To the bottom of the ravine we call life…
When you are more than happy to push yourself down the next slide.

Naked

She’s not a person you’d look at twice,
Were you to glimpse her going down the street.
It’s only her eyes that are dangerous,
And what happens when you strip her naked,
Letting the wild soul underneath breathe.
She’s fearless in only her skin,
The clothes a role too small for her to fit.
Her skin fits her not like a tailored suit,
Not something beautiful you’re afraid to spoil,
But like the things that grow with you
Until they become soft and comfortable,
That stretch to contain your curves
And toughen around your sharp edges.
She’s the kind of creature for whom
The clothes, the rules, the world,
Are an unwelcome constraint she can do without.
Anybody would, when they are so unnecessary.
She needs nothing other than herself –
She needs no weapons. She is a weapon,
Forged in the fire of a thousand suns.
She needs no cover. The universe is her cover,
Human eyes too feeble to perceive her.
She’s the kind of woman in whose arms you go
Looking for the meaning of God,
But remain for having found a goddess instead.
Don’t be fooled. Her hips are a beautiful lure,
The arms around you springing a hidden trap,
The lips honeyed only to hide the poison.
You can bleed to death cut on her sharp tongue,
And even worse on her sharper mind.
It’s a relief she’s this mythical creature
Only when her skin and soul are bare.
You’re safe if only you don’t look then
In the beautiful abyss of her hypnotic eyes.
So what are you waiting for? We both know
You can’t wait to see her naked soul.

Makeup

There are so many people out there telling girls
That they should wipe the makeup off and be ‘natural’.
Almost as many as those who look me in the eye
And ask me why I don’t wear makeup more often.
But the thing is, you form impressions about people
Within seconds of first meeting them,
And I’ve seen people focus way too often
On the colour of the lip gloss when you wear it;
On the shade of the eyeshadow when you put it on –
They only realize there’s a smile underneath,
They only notice if the eyes crinkle at the corners
When you leave everything else bare
And don’t give their gaze any other hold.
I want to be that sincere, imperfect smile,
Rather than a gorgeous, ravishing mask.
I want to be a pretty… amazing person,
I want to be a beautiful…ly written story,
I want the alluring part about me to be my personality,
The delightful part, my conversations,
The dazzling part, my intelligence.
I would rather have people look at me in surprise
When I do take the time to put makeup on,
Than have them baffled when I take it off.
It’s a choice, and I’m aware mine is the odd one,
But if you don’t care to see the beauty of who I am,
It’s a waste of both of our times to get caught up
In painting an illusion on my face only.
So go and find your wide-eyed blushing maiden
While I leave my cheeks naked and make up my soul.