Almost The Saddest Poem
I wanna sing the saddest songs as if I would die…
Pre-death pre-burial requiems…
Lethal notes… Morose words and non-words…
I wanna sing the saddest songs as if I would live forever –
Forever in the dungeons of my benevolence.
And then, I wanna cry my soul out as if I’ve lost God…
But first, wish that I still have a soul for I no longer know…
I wanna run in circles within an untamed wilderness
to feel that I am not lost, in circles, running and wanting untamed…
after my tears have equalled the waves of all the world’s seas
including her… her tsunamis of centuries…
I want to find myself at the edge of a snow-capped mountain and never rest
then scream my frozen lungs out after expelling my guts,
scream until I hear only the sound of my recovered voice –
the one that could read and write sadder than almost the saddest poem…
Distorted and soul-starved,…
What did I say?
Straving for my soul,
I don’t ache to feel a little less alive…
Nor do I merely ache…
My madness does not represent a longing for joy.
Madness sways beyond the barbwires of longings.
Thus, not even a longing for death.
(You don’t need to die to be dead).
My loneliness is not soothed by company.
Loneliness is glory!
My burden blinds with the northern lights best in darnkess.
My passions severe the cosmos with their controlled nonexistence…
There is nothing more worse for me and ill
than the brooding mediocrity when I do not sing when I will.
—–
NOTES:
“Almost the Saddest Poem” is a remake of The Saddest Poem. But herein, the context changes somehow but the end-point remains. How can not being able to sing (no matter how you sound or don’t sound as silence can be music) be so sad? P.S. The titles have nothing to do with the levels of sadness in each of them.
Of Time…
Sometimes,
good intentions without understanding result to worse things.
Sometimes,
it’s better to not understand beings and simply respect feelings.
Ripples of thoughts
of wonders and sorrows
severe his mind gracefully
at the wrong time….
All in non-extremes
beg for attention
when the only Freedom starts with Detention…
Isolation
Seemingly Zombiefication
– A Liberation they know nothing of.
Pink and Green
Images of woe
Images of Joy
Disprove Slumber
-THE DEATH WAS REAL!
It was a nightmare that came before sleep
It was a dream that happened because he awakened…
But now he must awaken again….
There is a pool of woe in the Southeast,
and fish in the cold air up North to the West…
He knows no other waters but woe.
Time stops in this climax of suffering.
The LIFE was real…
Sometimes,
he gets swallowed up in a time machine…
and knows just about too many things…
Sometimes…
he only thought of time…
He cries to sleep,
wakes up the same,
blood flowing through his veins
and outside of them.
Splashes of blood
on this mundane floor
drown him gently
in sweet Sunday gloom.
Foul Way Of Love
(something written some years ago)
Wake up in breathless mourning glory
Cheat and blame the skies
Turn your back on the stunning light before you
Drift off and die.
The devil shows you a tease
So you go on and pry
Pretending it won’t hurt more to stain more
So you build up the gallows of your head with lies
Take the gray off the ashes
And let them burn again-
This is your foul way of love
Will anyone get it right?
Back Off. Back Up. Back Out.
(Image inspired by the song “Wild Child” by Lonesome Minstrel.)
Where you so alienated with too much familiarity?
It’s too easy to choose to stay away and be safe,
Kill the flame
Live the dream you have mastered
Void yourself…
Back off.
Where you so merely overwhelmed with too much serendipity?
It’s the hardest to decide not to spare a chance,
Burst the flame
Emblazon in the perfect hell where you’ve made yourself at home…
Unbuild yourself…
Back up.
Where you so right with all you knew?
It’s too impossible to go on happily and feel clean,
Water the fire
Perfect the self-righteous freedom entrapment
Deprive yourself…
Back out.
Masochistic Mystery
There’s nothing more to me
Than this masochistic mystery
That begs to not end your story
Of just who are we?
Schizophrenic Conference on Masochism
Pray be decrypted by no asylum mortal
Not everyone likes stars and twinkling objects savored by heavens
There are those alienated by reverie
And there are those who associate
Alienation with destruction –
Only their own.
Danced in the surfaces of the Sun.
It did not suffice.
Sickled folly and Cronian disguise;
Cold rock and hard ice;
All you wanted was Saturn’s rings
To have a path to render shadows for your wings
Or to make you stand out a little more
So you wrong yourself in circles; come and go.
Don’t go…
You’ve falsely been Venus in someone’s eyes and
Jaundiced one, yours opened sore.
What’s not to like when all suffering makes you strive
Strive to be alive?
Oh why transform into the cold-cloaked Pluto?
You’re more hollow than that.
Your message never even reached bankrupted Mercury
Who lost his celestial bindings when you changed the context.
Yes, you can bring a demi-god down.
Bring them all down.
There must be another way to make dear Mercury care
And not let your solitude cast his end.
Yes, you can raise up the fallen.
Feather the fallen.
Carry yourself and your hammered wings.
You feel Jovian yet you’re shrunk.
You felt Jovian and have sunk.
Didn’t you know that Jupiter’s just a button on his shirt?
Which he only touches to be bare and not?
So go swallow your heart,
Ego can sometimes be good to revive.
At least retrieve your livid mind from dead Mars.
And resign your threads on the oceans of Neptune.
You were allowed your own seas to brave and dread.
You were deprived your own seas but not allowed any other.
Go reside in newly-furnished nebula then,
Or garnish it and eat it like you’ve been starving for ethereal home.
Ignore his coming like some husband to our Mother Earth.
Immunize the consciousness to such plague.
You do have color, Earth.
Pastel skies surround you on an angels’ spree.
If only this fellow can watch it from your grounds…
Poor creature’s still left in outer space…
Gravity is not for me.
Don’t say that! Shut up!
Forget the milky way!
Unbecome the black hole…
Believe that your beloved sunshine’s infernal.
It’s really not so hard…
It’s really not too hard!
Damn wraith nametagged Gloom!
Pollux’s alpha twin crowned itself a constellation on its own
With big dreams to shatter the Great Bear with
While the little humble one remains more massive than the sun.
Time… Prelude.
Time. Time. Time!
Some myth for a scarce stallion mourns
An arrow that may never set off and soar…
And then there was
Sweet November.
Mercy. That’s the planet sent to exile
In a universe gone awry named…
What’s your name again?
Exist first to surrender.
Xonnette*Soul 