Misjudged

His dormancy was a judgement call

That they made but

It doesn’t account for, at all,

The light in his eyes when he starts playing.

The flourishes, the unnecessary twirls, the eloquent style.

The music surging and spilling,

Filling up the ether.

Soaking the barriers between the dream-world

and this.

While I watched, transfixed,

By the irresistibility of it all.

The gorgeousness of his time,

Like flickering embers, overwhelmingly riveting.

Reeling itself, reeling in me,

Until it reached the end of the reel.

The end of it,

When the music and movement ceased.

Subtly, everything shifted

Just a little bit,

And that light at the end of his tunnelled vision

That I am so sure was a blazing bonfire

Is already smuggled away

Invisible to all, including him.

Like desert snowstorms, disconcerting,

But existing.

Brought forth again,

The next time he starts playing.


(A/N: I find it hard to write without feeling something – I haven’t written in months. A song I resonate with is Pink Floyd’s Comfortably Numb.)

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Where’s Home?

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Home is the house you’ve grown up in.

Home is the bed your loved ones sleep in.

Home is ruined jeans and black, cotton tees.

Home is the arms of your lover.

Home is where you wake up thinking the light’s all wrong, but you slowly realize it’s all right.

Home is where you tiptoe at midnight to sneakily cook something unhealthy and find two people standing in the kitchen, teetering between pasta and potato chips.

Home is someone who understands all you mean by looking into your eyes, and saying everything in return with a squeeze of the hand.

Home is being stayed by silence, mind whirling in wonder at the way the world works.

Home is where you say you’ll push yourself to do what you’ve always wanted, and you do.

Home is where you can sleep the livelong day.

Home is a smell you can almost taste, but can never place.

 

Dissociation

It does not do to dwell on dreams

And forget to live.

To lay drowned in imagined passions;

Waking up to reality, miffed. 

Uttering absentminded perfunctory replies;

While in a perpetual fantasy, adrift. 

Considering yourself unfortunately stuck

In places unworthy of your bucket-list.

                    
It does not do to say that you’ve listened,

When all you’ve caught is the vague gist.

Petulantly craving necklaces of rubies,

When you can’t afford earrings of amethyst.

Looking for signs of wear on the teeth

Of the horses that you’ve received as gifts.

Feeling tragically misunderstood when someone suggests

That you could use an opinion shift.

                            
It does not do to try and feign indifference;

Whilst regretting all the chances you missed.

Losing heart in the opportunity of now,

To muse about that pestilent ‘what if-?’

Some times, moving on feels laughably easy;

Others, feels like a dagger’s in your chest buried to the hilt.

You have to remind yourself that you’ve come too far now. 

Yet not far enough considering that it’s your heart you risked. 


(A/N: the credits for the first two lines of this poem go to Joanne Kathleen Rowling, who made Albus Dumbledore say them in Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone.)

Some people

Some people

Don’t make you look twice;

Don’t say the funny punchline;

Don’t soothe your crying. 

They blow across your lives

Like a storm of dispersed seeds,

And one cotton ball

Lands at your feet. 


Some people 

Don’t have that “one thing”,

That’s oh-so-unique;

Or a song written for them

That you can’t stop humming;

Or a dazzling smile

That blinds your eyes;

Or arms that sweep you

Off your feet. 


Some people 

Simply arrive in your life

In the right place 

At the right time. 

When you’re ready to love,

And they’re ready to be loved.

You can’t pinpoint

What it is about them,

But there’s definitely something.



Those people 

Leave. 

Actually, all people leave. 

But the absence of some

Feels like greater than the sum of

All the rest of them. 

They manifest themselves in you;

Away, but a part of you. 

They transcend their tangibility,

They become what they never were,

And what you see around you

Is a catalogue of all the things

You never did with them.



Those people

Are the archetypes of your brain;

They are the microcosm

For your vast universe.

It’s impossible to escape

How aesthetically trapped

You are in this whole wide world. 

Caught in the sound of drums;

Salty air and seagulls;

A metallic taste on your tongue. 


(A/N: apologies for being MIA for the past two months; I’m back for good now.)

Weak

I had an iron heart and nerves of steel; but you forged me into something weak. 


(A/N: 

[1] Yes, I paraphrased myself from an earlier post titled ‘The Blacksmith’, to check that out click here.

[2] I could do with a bottle of Merlot just about now. *sigh* It’s too bad I don’t drink.)

I Thought I Knew?

Days and dreams and in between

The dwams and nightly fantasies

A thought occurred to me.

That seems quite unlike 

All of these;

You and me

Leagues apart, never to meet.

I thought I knew

That a day will come

When this would be true.

Do none of our promises

Remain of any use?

I stand accused

Of wanting more than what is real;

Of seeing more in smoke and mirrors;

Of thinking of you as healing;

When you said it yourself –

You aren’t good for me. 

Dissever

“And neither the angels in heaven above,

Nor the demons down under the Sea,

Can ever dissever my soul from the soul 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.”

-Annabel Lee, Edgar Allan Poe


It’s your silence that just keeps

Screaming back at me.

You didn’t realise 

That my mind capsized,

From the visions in my sleep;

From the voices of the deep. 

What they whisper I cannot say.

Is that why you won’t believe me?

One day I’ll find, I promise, a way 

To show you exactly what it is I dream.

Although I can’t swear on what you’ll see,

Just like you can’t swear that you won’t leave.


Denial