Short Poem-Fiction

I’m a ruin.

Every stage is an age, oh no, must be the seasons of the witch, and the wizards of Waverly palace. Driving on the 405, Bartender, holding the sunrise, summertime living easily on a Trailer painted by Norman Rockwell.

The world is a teenage dream, handling loaded guns, and drop-dead dreams, choosing the ones that it deem psychedelic fiends. Oh no, must be the seasons of the witch. The earth is made of rebel-diamond cut out of the sun, but can you read my mind?

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Midnight colors

Beauty echoes through the mountains and beneath the trees,
I will wait, for the sun to shine for me.
My heart is beating fast, I am losing sight.
Maybe it was the drink and it was the fight.
But wait, it was something else.
It was the twinkling eyes,
Her angel voice.
Maybe I was being pushed down,
But holding on to her,
I was alive,
Dreaming of death and dreaming of love.

I saw a canvas in front of my eyes.
I painted it the midnight blue.
It was the color I saw in her eyes,
It was her aurora's hue.
Maybe I was scared,
And maybe I was drowned.
But all I saw then,
Was the masterpiece of God.
He had it speak.
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Confessions of the mirror

I see black and blue; shadows reflecting upon me and my ancient soul have got little to speak but the words of hate and detest, and people’s ramblings of nonacceptance to the perfect answer to their sky-stained navel-gazing. If I look far enough through walls and through doorways and alleys, I can see a traffic policeman trying to control the traffic on a tired Sunday evening, where a gauge of young drunk men are somewhat causing curtains beneath his eyes. But what words has he got? Other than the usual cussing and blabbering that only the twilight is there to hear for you. Almost it is the same with people, who atomize their each and every desire and sin in a gold covered box, which only when they see in the bright light reflecting a ray is filled with an abundance of coal, with a few flowers in between, all of which are completely distorted and damaged.

If he could have spoken through ages, or killed his own inventor, whom I believe could be a troubled old man inspired by the still waters of a lake at sunset-time on a desert plain, maybe he would not have suffered the envy, abandonment, hate, name it, of people who are maybe trying to open their eyes and wet them, for a reason that could be little other than self-impression and the creation of an incarnation, that they speak before going to sleep, and before their children’s examinations, and when their company is flopping or their writing is going from bad to worse. He would have shattered himself into pieces, and acted as a symbol of the nearing of the black could, and laughed as it so that body being carried away to hell.

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Silence

A gloomy day an an unworthy end,
You ask me for my wallet and my hand.
I give you the lights that hide beneath my eyes,
Where I see the world beyond.
I can tell you are up with a smile,
It's own your face, it's in your words.

You jump of a parachute,
And you land in the swamps.
I can beside you,
Every moment passes on.
Silence.
Eternity.
Drowned.
You are fine.
Move on.

I ask for a penny and you hand it to me,
You call it the starriest night in history.
But I'm dumbfounded,
And I wait.
And I ask you what it means.
You say it's a verse that you wrote,
Seventy years ago,
In another birth.
But you're gone,
And you're numb.
You can no longer feel.
Time has begun.

Because you are a part of the world,
And you can't run away.
There are angels watching out,
And there are people coming you way.
Smile.
Heavens awaiting,
Life.
No one is waiting.
You are silent.
You are drowned.
You are still alive.

You are lying in an operation theater,
Your painkiller is running out, you back aches.
You are hungry and you are depressed.
The future awaits.
Can you live?
Be my friend,
And I shall tell you the truth,
Breathe.
You shall be okay.

Silence.
Eternity.
Love and grief,
Mistakes and revenge.
Are you alive?
Silence.
It isn't over yet.
I told you to be my friend,
And I dreamed through the night.
But you're no longer fine.

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Here I go through the frowning ‘middle-game’

Long time, It is not over yet. Until then,free from the hinges which bond together us all in in inorderly disgrace. Thine master is a 'wanting man' Thine mistress is awaiting to-morrow, Let the mistress be my soul, The days of ecstasy are gone. Winter is coming. See me through it, My friend. I'm the night watchman of my grenadine.
The happiness and the bloom,
It is all over now.
I am wishing for so much,
There is nothing left to let be.

I wish I could dance to 'Lana Del Rey' every night and dance until my feat would ache so bad,
That I would lie down on my bed body flat thoughts twirled,
And write a poem that can change the world.

I wish I could stand here,
And watch,
And write whatever I want,
Like a bird's call in the wild,
So lovely but so perforated.

I wish I could just spend,
And live forever,
Between those lines of prose so powerful that they stopped wars and changed winds,
Until I find myself with words of my own,
That I could treasure like the single gold in a poor man's treasury.

I wish I could collide the festivals and kneeling birders to create poetry, Which is warm inside of my colon like a gun.
I'll fire it forever, so you can suffer in shameful scent.
I wish I could eat the rotten world aloof, Like the sausages in my food. I'd pay a penny for a thought to come, That would give me a midnight sunset, An hour wrong after the cold winter noon.
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Turkish Delight

It’s a paranoid sensation that holds you back, like the perforated abyss that you try to stop yourself from falling into all the time, whereas you know it is exactly where you want to be deep aside. Be honest to yourself. Yeah true, but I could not find myself being stared at like the embroidery adorning a prince’s clothes, or being pushed at by the sentimentality of unorthodox celebration, like a wicked Mountain Man of a coastal land. It’s as crunchy as Turkish Delight, though as mysterious as midnight; the way I turned out, and what you turned me into. It’ as unexpectedly insane as it is heartening, you showed a blind man the world who has all other senses perfect, though you take away his logic. Or maybe to show a mathematics student that there are two equations; which yours and one his, and both have the same numbers on both the sides, though the signs are different. And of course, the solution would be different too. But I, driven by an impulse that I could never resist and never would, reap apart the added trouble of consequence and public opinion, and of course with my lack of originality, I went on and on, which seemed to make you happy, until one day you stopped me yourself. And so did many others, without telling it to me but simply knowing it, making my heartbeat faster with every word after. I wanted to change, but once again, deep inside I didn’t.

When I met you, you were like a little child pretending to be grown-up. You were unaware of your own self, and people were only an abomination standing upon you; your soul, whom you lived for but did not care for. It went on like this; six months, when you took a vacation to that beach-sided exotic town, which I believe is exactly where you lost some part of your awkwardness. Having come back, you were a different person; yes, that is exactly when you learnt the art of not being ordinary. You were much better, much more seismic, and that is when I began to get scared. I felt dazed. I felt mistaken. I tried to fix myself, what’s not broken is unfixable. I can only be better. However, I only worsened and worsened, shed blood and tears, which was intensified by the dreary chronicles of winter that repeat itself each year sparkling the same tragedy, (and it only seems to get bad each year). And then there was the Paris trip, where I learnt exactly how to hate. It had always been a hidden part of my soul, but it was then that I tried my best. Winter weakened and died and I began to smile, even if only for a shadowed while. But people aren’t all that mean, you thought, and you know better about how it is. That’s when I realized that I did actually want to be like you. It was February, I guess when I wrote my first piece of writing after a period of 7 months through which I had passed several gates. And it was then that your words came crying, ‘Stop! You really need to fix myself!” I tried a while. I failed. I failed a little better the next time. And that is when I gave up. I continued being the same, getting only more stupid with the guilt of time.

Until I opened a new window for myself. I enjoyed success, but not criticism, and that is when it once again all came crashing over me, people’s words. Yes. But this time I worked hard. And Saturday Nights were always waiting. I learnt to be happy. I learnt to be call myself a terrible person,(which was one of the worst things I ever did in form of my navel-gazing that was evil not only to myself but to you too). I am doing my best. I wrote again. I wrote the best thing I ever wrote. I shall be criticized, but this is one place where I shall take it without ado. And this was one of my incessant trials. I have had too many but life was always, yes it was, sweet like Turkish Delight.

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