Burning Stories: a Series of Letters

01.
Ego.
As it often does,
creating an entire dimension
where the presence
of a conscious basing perceptions
to embrace for the world ahead,
and sometimes we hurt each other in the process.

02.
You bleed with rain forests
crying crimson along branches
dripping from a mist lingering
for any visitor walking through �"
you taste your poison, but never drink it.
You should cleanse your wounds
in salt water kissing the shore,
and sing with the sting that comes
from licking your wound. 
I promise you this will soon be over with,
and if you happen to survive �" you will find yourself
beside budding flowers, and they will teach you
the art that is opening up.

03. 
You gave me a balloon hanging by a red string.
When I tied it to my porch, I watched you
cut the string off, but you never noticed me.
Point of the story is
the balloon didn’t float away �"
kind of like what happened
to my heart when you dropped it.
It didn’t leave, but never quite stayed either.

It’s funny how time changes everything.

Now I realize
you never dropped anything;
instead, simply placing it
softly on the ground �"
thank you.

04. 
I always saw myself in you.
Mirrors were never my best friend,
but you were. I still wonder
whether or not we could go back,
but if we were given the chance 
I know we wouldn’t. 

You have showed me that the past
is simply the past, and we are here.
You are the first cigarette ever shared,
and the last true friend that I now
transcribe tombstones for. 

They sit with our group, in a graveyard
of kush scented smog serenading cement lodges
inside this poisoned soil �" I never expected
a ghost to appear, but sometimes, I see them. 

05.

We used to call ourselves birds �"
you were a robin, I was a sparrow. 
I thought that we could catch a sunset,
and you simply followed me,
but I wish you told me about your burns. 

I would’ve left a petunia of feathers
if I had known you needed me.

 

06. 
If needing is yearning,
and loving was reckless,
why did a cool glaze 
frost our intuition from believing
in each other so fondly?

You placed me among
a throne for kings �" winter castles
has always been a romantic scene,
but when we burn, we suffocate,
we tread fallen currents, and 
we drown, to only practice
the dead man’s float while
staring at what created this.

Out of all the constellations,
I thought this telescope could show all �"
I was wrong. 

I should of never burned a winter’s ending.

07. 
I only had ten seconds to learn your name,
didn’t bother to tell you mine; pairing fire with desire 
all while brushing the tips of a lion’s mane,
I only had ten syllables to sign with a quick fleeting
of meeting and leaving; your wine tastes of a liar.
I escaped knowing this heart is still beating,

but you have always been a symphony,
and I am just a sinking shipwreck’s final prelude.

08. 

You’ve always been a full moon;
slowly revealing yourself to my naked eye.

The dreams in which you haunt me
are nothing more than wings spreading to fly.

I don’t love you anymore.
So why am I still not accustomed to saying goodbye?

09.
I know you have all wanted me in parts:
legs spread, mouth closed �"
Beautifully blinded, empty minded �"
wet heads, curled toes �"
as a human being I refuse to wear this silence.
Lovers who only love you in parts
are vicious; do not love their lips
if they loath your voice, for the fear
of your tongue being stolen 
is much more worse than a broken heart.

10. 
You have crafted the art of making mirrors;
mirages of mysticism magically
immense madness of morbid minds.
We are punctured. Imperfect.
Insanely sane and beautifully ugly. 

Peel layers of this soul,
glue them with the cracked walls,
and lets pick our favorite colour �"

this is anybody’s perspective,
your eyes, your sighs,
your lies, your constant tries:

I promise you,
no matter what anybody tell you,
you’re doing it right.  

11.
Egotism is never an easy tide,
but I’ve never heard of a shark to be selfless.
To witness wounded souls is to
gather the shards of glass too sharp
to put back together �" from a distance
the catastrophe is bewildering;
fragments of glittered glass glistens
underneath false silhouettes of a sunrise 
disguised as a sunset. Yet if standing,
too close, the pieces will picturesquely paint pools
of blood falling from your face.

Satisfaction;
lovely contradictions.
Simple yet beautifully under inspection.
A chained constriction,
except, here we are,

close to one another, yet still so far.

12. 
I dreamed of you last night
swimming in my veins, just like
the last time he and I made love,
he left me drenched in dripping
question marks; I woke up,
embraced my fingers intertwined
within your ghost, and whispered,

“how could you?”

13. 
My God, my God; forgive me. 
I am just a silly stupid prayer that
should show my love for you
when all I hear are people defiling your name. 
My God, my God; I can’t read very well
from the prayer book, but I try 
to always pray real. To pray strong.
My God, my God, the emptiness inside
has swallowed the pits of my stomach �"
my demons have burned my eye lids, and
peeled back my skin, but I still search for you.
My God, my God, I need to still forgive
myself for the absence of my own strength;
My God, help me try to forgive myself.
I have been my own God for too long; forgive me.

14. 
The last hour of sitting between
nostalgic and melancholy. 
I was young before I was old,
and all these shades of grey
have left dead leaves to give birth to poems.

Except, what do you do
if poetry hates you? 
Poetry does not hate me
because I abuse her �"
I am always gentle,
but there is a certain
solace behind the keyboard’s
click, click, click �"
a certain darkness I can never
seem to climb over.
I have traced so many haikus believing
they would stay, but now I am a journal
of a lonely widow, a collection of photos
kissing the dust from time, and as I place
these letters with dissipated memories,
I can’t help but wonder if this is
how love and friendships always end: 
two dimensional? 

Poetry hates me 
because if I were to
share such shameful words,
share such confessional verses,
sing siren songs sorrowfully sizzling
shameless silence; secrets soon shake, suddenly �"
sacrariums shutter, stutter, scaturiently scepsis �"
aflame, burned, cacaesthsia.

If I cannot even explain complexity 
to a once forever shared heartbeat without my voice,
I am a hypocrite, for poetry is the only form
to express thoughts �" the pen,
the only grasp of hope inside
heartless starless skies.
I understand stone hearts 
hang on a burning abele always 
abraid an ominous abodement: 
ask all aborning angels,
ask any accentor
absorbing altruistic Amore;
answer: agnostic.