Thursday, June 29, 2006

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So they said modern poetry had too much free verse, no sense of structure and a total lack of discipline. I do think it's a style of it's own right.

Title: Something More.

i want something more
something more
than empty conversations
and sweet delicacy of
feeling feelings decaying
and the mind of another person
in caged corners of my head
fearlessly proud in leaking
thoughts weaving interloping
my heart willingly pulsating
but don’t they know
they don’t know
they have no place inside
the way they are pushing
pushing for more
the way I am pushing
frustrations ripping
through bones shaking
screaming and shattering
until everything becomes
becomes what it is-
a melted bloody mess-
what it was always.

“I’ll change,
I promise to change.
I’ll make it right.
Everything will be alright.”

i want something more
something more than words
gestures signs sighs promises
glassy eyes helplessly watching
limps and spirits breaking
taking cuts bruises flinching
illusions and veils that fits
so well we stumble to see
traces and fears suggesting
every direction leading
nowhere near the ending

“You are perfect.
You are perfect,
don’t you see.
You are perfect,
only in my mind.
I can fix you and change you,
Make you say things
Make you do things
You would never have done.
Strangers will kiss you.
Strangers will hurt you.
We can’t leave this place
for something more that lies outside.”

4.27 am. That burst of music. It brings me back to life. I am yanked by my hair into the thrust of giddy noise. The twinkling of the piano keys. That rhythm you sink so willingly in. Such soft and sweet decadence. You have to wake up early tomorrow. You have work yet to be done, but there's something more... more than what is pressing against you now. Does that make sense? Stress. Fatigue. I've lost my passion. You. You. You. You. And You. Beautiful. Beautiful. A beautiful death. It's just the night, and me, and the music, as always, as always, and a thousand faces that lurks around in the deepest corner of my throbbing mind silently. A thousand same faces, and a thousand different ones.

I'm tired. Nothing seems to matter anymore. It's been months and I find myself still as unable to move on or let go as before. I still recoil from the sting of your burning words, that look of utter contempt and disappointment. I have played the entire scene in my head many many times over, every intricate and meticulous detail, hoping to make sense of this whole thing and yet wanting to tear it apart and forget all about it. There are questions and new questions and hopes and dashed hopes in a blind flash of blurriness. What wrong did I do? And why did you do what you did? Do you think of me, even fleetingly? Do you remember?

Sometimes I am striked by an irresistible impulse to ask you how you are, how you have been. Your name brings me bliss and fear. Look at what you, what I, have reduced myself into. I am absolutely pathetic and desperate. It disgusts me. I do not know where to go from here. It hurts. It really hurts, astonishingly. It's a pain I would not admit to in any other circumstances.

Your silence is punishment enough. Your silence is a knife that stabs bloodlessly, that leaves a wound which cannot seem to heal. Your coldness, your formality, all in excruciating excesses. I think you have left an indelible mark in me. I think you have left a scar, somewhere, which I cannot find because if I did I would have it removed from my body immediately.

My pride forces me to bite my lips and to bite back the words I want to say to you. I want to save myself from what can no longer be saved. I want to save what little scraps of pride and dignity I have left. I want to save you from me, and me from you.

I can keep silent as well. I can play the game just as well. This will all cease. It must. I know there will come a time when I will look back and laugh, "Silly girl. Silly stupid infatuation. How awfully and foolishly romantic and sentimental you sound. Dumb. Idiotic. Absurd. What more can I say?"

But surely, no matter how unworthy a person might be, he or she has some decent right to love and to want to be loved in return, whatever love might be.

We have to be careful of our thoughts and our feelings. Because once we let our guard slip, once we look away even for a little while, they pounce upon us like vultures to meat and seize us with such bloodthirsty desire that we become unable to breathe; we gasp and become paralysed, victims of our own imagination.

I take comfort in the fact that nothing lasts forever.


estelwen said...

be happy while it last!
am i making sense? lolx

take care baby!

Damon said...

You should collect your poetry. It's quite a pain sometimes to read it like this.

Faith said...

Haha... I do!

Phoenix said...

ur blog is really is ur writing:)

Faith said...

thank you! who are you, by the way?

Miao said...

I take comfort in the fact that nothing lasts forever.


siti* said...

gosh. sounds like u have some great inner turmoil while at the same time trying to reassure yourself.

aiyah. wad do i know anyway? it's ur blog. after all, you could have been writing abt candy floss for all i know.


Faith said...

HAHAHA... oh dear, so siti, you found out after all. yes, yes i admit it openly and shamelessly. it was *drum rolls and huge gasps all around* candy floss!!! tehehe... ;D