LISTEN DON'T HEAR

You can't look at me with your toxic eyes; they burn...
as they enter me by surprise, whispering words I can't discern.
You deceive me with your prolonged stare and disrobe me of my virtue.
I repeat, I repeat, 'this isn't fair,' but you say 'I already heard you.'

Then your fingertips - whose rough texture confirms your manhood -
gently graze my sweaty palm, so that my fear is understood.
Your dark and intense gaze roams freely, reveling in my mercy...
you hear my words through quivering lips; you hear 'you make me thirsty.'
With just your eyes, you drown me, and I'm praying you don't hurt me...
I tell myself you can't control me, but its too late now: you heard me.

>:]

Flower Power

Jafar

A book once notified me of a woman named Emma Bovary who sought after love and its entire splendor to such a degree that all other aspects of the world were left undefined behind her weary eyes. Written by the immaculate author, Gustave Flaubert, he says: “She was gasping for love like a carp on a kitchen table gasping for water.” Now, this book I had read a while ago, but those words pierced the very inner core of my heart. It was her pure honesty which killed me. She was so determined to find love and passion and so entirely honest about her fantastical ideology that it gave me chills! I was not quite as clear and concrete, I was the disturbing split persona – a gust of confusion clouded my ability to see clearly. Not to mention, I was the lethal combination of two incompatible compounds: the longing for love and the inability to love. Like water and oil, they could not coexist and I couldn’t break free of them since they seeped deep within each pore of my skin. They settled there and refused to depart. For, ages ago I’d felt this trauma; this poorly named fantasy called love and I could only blame myself. My unwillingness to accept the love of another human being without question had resulted in its tragic demise.
I had a love which –as many people in love would say – words could not define, and countless serene moments of passion couldn’t dare illustrate. This morbid disillusionment utterly transformed me in every which way. I was certain that love was the most powerful force in the universe. Love was indeed what I had heard – I thought – it was pure and gentle and revolutionary. But, truth be told, it wasn’t much deeper than the puddle which sits immovably upon a jagged street after the rain had passed. I grew up just like Emma and possibly millions of little girls – fantasizing of this love depicted in fairy tales and children’s books. Comprised of unfortunate misconceptions and unachievable goals which plague our minds as early as childhood, it convinces us that indeed we shall find our everlasting love and be rescued by our prince-charmings. I was holding on to that fraction of reality – until I gained the painful knowledge and wisdom that is the truth. At the end of my rainbow there was no pot of gold; there was an empty charcoal kettle with a note which read “I told you so.” Because as much as many will view these ideas as pessimistic, I somehow knew that love cannot exist without hate, and pleasure cannot exist without pain; and ultimately, I was right. I reveled in the validity of my intuitions, and tormented at the destruction of my pride. The flame of passion and love within me burnt so brightly and so fiercely that I had inevitably gotten blinded and burnt, simultaneously.
Happiness and love are but a painful memory for me now. As much as I’d like to frolic about in my façade, I cannot any longer. It’s easy for me to decipher the first and only relationship I’ve ever had as a part of maturity, and even a learning experience which helped me grow – but the lessons that I’ve learned are like the scars on my body. Like the big one on my knee – when I learned that skateboarding is a boy’s sport. That I am but a weak girl unable to obtain the strength of a man whose disregard of physical blunders help him accomplish any goal. No, again, a weak and underminable poor excuse for a human being am I, and that lesson proved it. JUst like the one of love - I again get hurt because I lack the strength to avoid the pain. Lessons are but the constant reminders of painful experiences that I’d love to forget, but cannot. The lessons will never vanish – and the lesson is a difficult one. See, I’ve learned that solitude is safety, and that I was right all along to avoid an experience like love. I’ve learned that after years of the relationship’s failure, I’ve managed to cut off all contact with the monster, and yet my heart pines for him ever so painfully. Like a stomach which growls for food when you are hungry, its always lunchtime in my heart.... As it pines away for the only love I’ve ever known and will ever allow myself to know.
It’s that split persona again – where I am fully aware that he is no good for me, that the countless ways in which he’s hurt me and left lasting scars on me both physically and mentally are unforgivable; and yet I cannot explain the loneliness inside me and my hungry heart which cries for him. I remain so unbreakable on the outside, with an iron shield so impenetrable, yet I’m constantly swallowing my pain. After years, he’s still the only man I had ever loved or desire to love. I cannot fathom it! If I were a broken winged bird when we first met, he literally healed the wing that was broken to only rip apart the other one. I thought I had only benefited from the experience of loving and losing, but I had never actually allowed myself to grieve, I suppose. And now, like a debilitating whirlwind its hit me, and I find myself so utterly torn. So utterly torn I am by the one man who said he loved me, and that same one man I viewed as my prince, my Aladdin, my everything! And just like that I gave him everything and set aside my pride to cater to another human being and accept this thing called love.
No, I must admit, I cannot blame women like Emma who succumb to their fantasies and whims of romance. I actually envy her. She’s the crisp romaine lettuce without the heavy dressing. Pure and honest – she wears her heart on her sleeve. I, on the other hand, am draped in heavy dressings which cover up the real me – the frightened, and the lonely girl who cannot escape this pain she so desperately tries to hide. I lock away my heart in a castle far away – and just like a fairy tale, the castle doesn’t exist. My heart does not exist, you see. It’s been broken and the dull beating that I hear are only the footsteps of the former, happy me – walking away from this mess I’ve become. I feel destroyed and alone. The man who I so carefully tried to please and keep beside me – had transformed from prince to villain. The truth of my fairy tale is this; I was never courted by a prince. Unlike Aladdin, the man who disguised himself as a prince was the evil villain of the story – it was Jafar!

The sky is red like blood that drips from a broken heart. The borders of the clouds are squiggly red branches of an eye thats cried one too many tears. Merciless is the dawn that causes so much pain; as the cruel clouds begin to hide the bright and joyful sun - outcasting it like a society raised on hatred and intolerance. Darkness covers the earth like a cold and heavy blanket. Cold and lonely is the night.

"pure and rare like a gleaming diamond..."

'Gays Too Precious To Risk In Combat,' Says General

LOL what happened to Joaquin Pheonix?

"It gives me thrills to wind you up.."

This crescent shaped hammock below your eye
Would capture each tear every time that you’d cry
As it filled up, it became less pink and more red
Revealing resentment towards words that I said

I’d watch as your brown eyes began to gather
These tiny red branches which appeared to be scattered
Branches belonging to an infuriated tree
Whose purpose in life was to finally be free

Your face appeared flushed as you’d summon the beast
And a tornado of a rush was just what you’d release
From your mouth you’d stir up a poison indeed
And wait for my hunger – I was ready to feed

Like a lion – your voice roared loud as thunder
To solidify the spell that you put my heart under
Of your beautiful sorrow as it poured down your face
From the hurt from my lips which could never erase

The beast would be free then and reign as the king
To punish evil lips that should say not a thing
Succumb to the pain – but of course, ready am I
To endure the loving fist from a man I made cry

Flames would erupt and dispel all around
Sirens would echo without making a sound
Quiet gun shots rippled inside of my brain
Against the walls of my heart, covered in shame –
Invisible blood stains are still all that remains

At night, a blanket of ice covers your heart
The glacier which didn’t belong from the start
Frozen to ice, your tears can no longer fall
The innocent child walks – no need now to crawl

But each time that you cried – the tears poured inside
The soft- pink hammock, where my heart still resides

This immaculate curved pink bed of tears
Cradled your sorrow and eased all your fears
You’d resemble a perfect and delicate white dove
As your beautiful tears would strengthen my love

Pity Party

Every time I pass that window, memories flood my mind like a broken septic tank leaking on to a just-landscaped lawn. It's ruined precious hours of hard work and spotlessness and reeks of putrid shit and all things atrocious. I can even taste the disgusting grime that is your memory. That deep-seated scent of filth within me that countless scrubbing of a hopeless loofah cannot diminish. With the blurred vision of a diagnosed hypochondriac, I follow the tiny speckles of your rancid bacteria with its various forms of shape whose tentacles dance and sway beautifully as they travel from organ to organ infecting it with irreversible defilement. I shudder as they pierce and then enter me, contaminating this mind, this body, and this soul. It's a deliciously grueling feeling; they settle comfortably within me - these parasitical jokes-of-a-monster which must belong since I sent them cordial invitations to join this little party of mine. A transformational, fatal celebration of my catastrophic abduction into that dirty, dirty, dirty life of yours. This party of my physiological anatomy is to commemorate this transgression. Sitting on a filthy bathroom floor half-naked; our legs interlock and you're insides savagely rip apart mine. You see this is no ordinary type of party, it's the type of party where things will be destroyed that can never be fixed and hearts will be broken that can never be mended.

Invitations are limited but expect yours in the mail.

Do you remember...

How you used to draw sketches of the female and male anatomies just out of curiosity?

And hide them deep inside your sock drawer for fear of the monstrosity..

You'd create these vivid stories in the back of a sinful notebook

Where written in script, your fantasies covered every note you took.

Doodles of naked bodies intertwined and the forbidden 'four-letter word'

See these inappropriate words thrilled you more than anything you've ever heard.

This was an early association to the dark and menacing world

Where not everything succumbed to the patterned life that troubled this young girl.

In a world where chaos is the prescription

For life's unappealing restrictions;

And in drawing characters engaged in sex;

Our inner demons is what they reflect.

Narcissism

I close my eyes and listen to you;

Oh, treacherous voice inside my head.

You whisper things, unfaithful; untrue

I snap my fingers and smile instead.




I tell you that everything I lack

Erased once my wings flapped.

But you pierce the wings right to my back,

To let me know that I am trapped.



Its hard to defeat you, that I know,

But I'll try my best every day.

You'll never fade my luminous glow -

No matter what you say.



I'll overcome your vulgar lips

Which spit thorns into my beating muscle.

I'll endure the storms that shake my ships

And win this fight without the scuffle.