I would write about nothing. Nothing would fill a page with something. Something could be meaningful as it is something rather than nothing. Nothing may be meaningful on occasion but today I went with something. So here's my something rather than nothing. Pen, ink and movement, a dash of thought, that's something. Rather than stare at nothing, here's soemthing.
Quilting
Complicated and ugly we are, yet beautifully simple at times,
sewn tightly with treads of being.
A quilting of awkward beings
sharing lifetimes of humanism.
Be glad for we are not the first in this ever expanding quilt.
Two years it has been since we last saw each other, how many more?
Everything grows ever more humid, a sheen on one’s skin.
As all glow under bare sun, expectation almost palpable.
Breath of Daffodils
Breath of daffodils
on the horizon light bounced.
She wail noiselessly
amidst fields of daffodils.
Her soul broke but no other.
Lost and Drowning (2)
After : Time, Some Alcohol, A Day Job
A variation of : https://heartdeapirate.wordpress.com/2016/09/01/lost-and-drowning/
What am I doing here in this foreign place?
How many more days will I be here?
Four days it has been, how many more?
Rain falling and pooling in the small places,
everything reflected everywhere rippling and distorted.
Monolithic buildings obscured by night and rain.
Four days it has been in this familiarly foreign place.
Along the separation of time and memories of the lost,
I walked among memorials of the nameless and wronged.
Pavements lined above debated history.
What am I doing here in this foreign place?
Bleached hair coloured by the kaleidoscope of the city.
Leather jacket barely sheltering my body.
I’m slowly being shaped as I stand here battered and weathered.
Am I crying or is it the rain?
Cigarette smoke rising feebly wet dangling between my lips.
Every vehicle and person muffled by the rain.
A bubble of isolation being swept in time.
Memories like a train of thoughts following me.
A board of arrivals and departures before me.
Every passing platform, every arrival and departure a moment.
Which platform should I go on? Which train should I take?
Four days it has been and how many more?
Just Once
I’ll probably never meet you, at most,
I’ll probably see you from afar.
A sea of humanity in between screaming your name.
All I know of you is what I’ve watched and read.
It may all be a persona, an act,
a beautifully crafted image showing a fraction of your true self.
You may wear it like armpit to protect yourself, your sanity,
and who can blame you?
Or maybe all that you’ve shown is real.
Do you still wear clothes with that unique colour palette?
Do you still sit alone in the night when everyone lay awake in dreams?
Do you still enjoy sweets when you read?
I wonder if we would ever meet,
if we do words may fail us.
Common ground may be found through gestures and broken phrases.
If in the end we exchange goodbyes laced with awkwardness,
I only hope that you would not regret the meet.
If I could, I would ask for more than a chance encounter.
I would like a stroll with you beneath blooming peach blossoms.
A stroll along winter streets after a night of drinking.
I would like to converse like old friends without the presence of personas.
Alas, the possibility is astronomical.
I can only hope, as I may never meet you.
I can only hope with all my being that you’ll be happy.
I hope that you can sleep deeply like when you were a girl on the island.
For all that you’ve endured and lost, please be happy.
No matter what you choose in the days to come I truly hope that you can be happy.
Repetition of the Mundane to Bear
Calando by bohomaz13
https://www.deviantart.com/bohomaz13/art/calando-573087256
https://www.deviantart.com/bohomaz13
Thank you bohomaz13 for letting me use your artwork for my project
Thank you very much
Repetition of the Mundane to Bear
Stale moist earth greeted her nostrils like a gentle pat from an old friend. Comforting darkness grew clearer with flashes of lightning followed by the shuddering roars of thunder that shook the room. Familiarity descended like gravity. Every step unconscious and everyday. She grabbed the watering can by the door, watering every pot as she moved about the room.
Rain crash against the window their dying wails a drumming noise as their bodies splatter against the glass. Almost therapeutic, meditative in its constant irregularities. From uncountable droplets to waves, over and over again. Placing the can back on its spot, fishing out a pack of cigarettes and throwing her purse aside.
Dressed in laced victorian gothic and leather suspenders with silver buckles. Short trimmed hair with a crucifix affix her choker. Grabbing a lighter from the bowl striking the flint down. Sparks shot out, she struck it a few more times, not once did it catch alight. Dropping it, she picked another. The sparks caught the accelerant at the first strike. With the cigarettes between her lips she brought it into the flame and inhaled slightly. Catching the flame, she brought the smoke into her lungs and slowly letting it back out.
She took a seat in front of the window, took another puff, look at the smoke as it slowly rises and dissolved into the ceiling. Eyes lower to stare out as the rain continue their fruitless siege against the impenetrable window. Towers of story giving off their faint aroma reminding her of places she explored and those she has yet to discover.
With her day almost done, having had her coffee, brunch, browse among the bookstores, a quick pass by the grocer, before the initial assault from the heavens she was backed into familiarity. A sanctuary guarded by her creations where her assortment of façade and armours lay safely within. Another day of creative production to follow before routine took back the reins. Following passion and the little pleasures allow routine to be kept at bay and bearable. She took another puff, letting the smoke slowly into her lungs. A fraction of a second she held her breath tasting every molecule of flavour before letting it all out. She looked at the rising smoke dissipating slowly before it dissolved into the ceiling.
Slough
Month Of Fear: Metamorphoses
https://www.deviantart.com/juliedillon/art/Month-Of-Fear-Metamorphoses-642324731
https://www.deviantart.com/juliedillon
Thank you juliedillon for letting me use your artwork in my project
Thank you very much
Slough
Through eyes that believe too much, doubt the same,
with endless inane thoughts behind them.
I remember all those that I have left behind,
by the closing of doors or the passing of floors.
I see their faces passed before my eyes in an endless reel.
After each threshold, I’ve killed myself repeatedly.
From the carcasses and remains I sew myself anew.
Shedding and shaving bits I believe inadequate.
From the slime and goo of past shells I emerge to confront my past.
My ignorant and ill-informed past.
I once viewed the world in ignorance and naivety,
believing in hope and right of all those who live.
Never feeling wronged, always justified in my thinking.
Fortunate I was that some still stand by me.
Her blue eyes, deeper than the oceans and wilder yet.
Raven black hair smooth like an infinite waterfall that curtain and frame her features.
She was loved and protected by all. She has adapted.
In her innocence and beliefs, she adapted to the coming world.
Through postcards we’ve kept in touch.
In her articles I’ve seen her mind.
My pursuit of academia cost my trust in humanity.
Found solace in partial isolation,
satisfaction in a single glass,
knowing in the acquaintance of individuals.
I met her when I was between understanding.
Scars healed over the stiches, raw to faint discolouration.
Skin toughed and thick, I’ve slough off the slime and goo of this swamp we call life,
emerging different.
We may never change the world; we may look upon it with disgust and sadness.
We may just live a little better, if we adjust our perspective.
Maybe just a little.
Transcendent Street
Gift by iVANTAO
https://www.deviantart.com/ivantao/art/Gift-761218652
https://www.deviantart.com/ivantao
Thank you iVANTAO for letting me use your artwork for my project
Thank you very much
Transcendent Street
She’s a contradiction,
a pleasant contradiction.
By Transcendent Street, a side street.
Compact buildings on both sides, a quiet street.
On one side the Baker and the Grocer.
From the other the Pet Shop Vet and the Florists.
Then the Mechanic and the Bartender.
The Café and the Print Shop.
The Locksmith and the Butcher.
The Bookstore and the Post Office.
By the Baker and Grocer, the Stationery Shop and Noodle Shop.
Known her for years, same kindergarten to high school.
Walking to and from school, breakfast by the baker.
A snack on the way back either by the butcher or noodle shop.
Studies in the café or my bookstore, sometime sneakily by the bar.
Daughter of the mechanic, her comings and goings soon came with the roar of an engine,
cigarette smoke, tattoos and the calls of animals that roam our street.
Rumours run amok among the schools, yet she still walks with me.
Rumours outrageous and possible would spread like weeds.
Rumours that would mutate and infect all who listen, even teachers.
Whether it be before dawn or in the middle of the night.
The roar of her engine could be heard only for a moment.
Never once had it gone down our street.
I would hear footsteps and the rolling of wheels.
Followed by the affectionate calls of the animals that roam our street.
Stopping between the Post Office and the Bucher she would spread leftovers.
She would watch the animals feed as she smoked her last cigarette.
Every viewpoint must change,
against the sun rise and set, no one point remains focused.
To not just change but mature.
To adapt, to refocus.
To survive.
Rumours may run amok, but we know.
Even those outside our tiny street, our tiny little bubble.
We would always know who she is, no matter what.
We’ll always be there, always.
Butter rolls to croissants, cheesecakes to tiramisus, a range that change in addition.
Broccoli accompanied by shitake and kombu, variety in discovery.
Variety in selection from fountain pens to pens topped with cartoon characters.
The secret menu that stays faithful to roots far distant.
Classics accompanied by the breakthrough of young experimentation.
A service as old as civilization, manned faithfully for those that require it.
A job stereotypically masculine, manned by rough exterior with soft beings.
Where smells of coffee and tea permeates the very bricks, a stone in the river.
A machine older than its house, still spewing and rumbling like a faithful companion.
Whisperer of machinations, short on words louder in action.
The master and apprentice melding ideologies in dedication.
The doctor that house and care for beings of all kingdoms.
The practitioner of Ikebana who celebrates with arrangements of Bunga Raya.
A simple life, a life fulfilled where we just live.
Helping and giving, a scenery that may be appreciated anywhere.
She may seem a contradiction, but we all know her.
Even in the world that I reside filled with books and letters,
where beauty lies in sentences and prose of worlds aplenty.
I still smile when I hear the tiny knocks on my window.
Looking down, I see her there smoking with animals feeding all around her.
“Hey bookworm, any new recommendation?” she asks with a smile,
“Sure” I replied smiling.
I Will Rage
Witch Wanted by Laslo22
https://www.deviantart.com/laslo22/art/Witch-Wanted-740189994
https://www.deviantart.com/laslo22
Thank you laslo22 for letting me use your artwork for my project
Thank you very much
I Will Rage
Wretched, wrecked and twisted forms of former objects piled high all around them barely yielding them a route to move. Their weapons armed and ready. For months they’ve hunted. All of their focus on that face and the bounty it carried. A bounty capable of satiating all their desires. Their heart as steady as their training. Everything went smooth and precise as planned until everything moved.
Filled with screams and crying were my memories.
Running till my legs could barely hold me and then being dragged and carried.
Fractured and scattered were them and not a single moment of stillness.
All rooted on the image of my parents’ blood splattering on my face.
Then, only the view of my hands being drenched in the blood of my enemies and never clean.
One of the men was crushed by the deformed memories and remnants of all those who were forgotten. His screams stopped as quickly as they begin. It came so suddenly so viciously that before their training could take hold, a giant hand comprising of all those deformed objects came crashing down.
As I look at the men being crushed with the hands of my puppet conjuration, not a single thing stirs.
They have chased me as others have for a reason I barely ever understood.
I as was taught by my people have claimed three more who would do us harm.
The last man was running, ripping and crawling all thoughts on survival. Their foe was not as advertised. Only one thought came running through his mind for but a second. A thought so short and sudden and filled with fear and anger towards his companions’ incompetence. When a shadow covers his entire body, he looks up toward the palm of deformed objects sleek with the blood of his companions and the crushed bits of his companions squashed between the crevices. His screams that came from his soon to be flatten insides was inhumane almost like an animal’s pained wail. Squashed flat just like that. Just like that.
With the death of the final hunter, I slid down the mountain of scraps.
Being careful not to cut myself on my bare feet or my expose skin.
The wound on my hand still stinging from where I cut it, leaving a trail as I descend.
The wound still smoked from the surge of power and the smell of the formula.
Almost being caught, a fleeting thought on my mind.
Moving slowly from the carnage I have wrought.
Being forced to continuously defend myself for crimes I can barely understand.
To be hunted and humiliated for being born what I am.
To be hunted and humiliated for something I could not help being.
To be hunted and humiliated for being born.
I have suffered for my whole life and if the ignorant and the arrogant will not change, I shall rage.
I shall rage until the seeds of all those that have wronged us is gone.
Until all is gone, I shall rage.
I will rage.
Heart Of A Pirate 