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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Dissuaded

I feel betrayed; how the world is turning back slowly and giving me back what I gave to it, or perhaps I wanted to give it, only in the opposite direction. It’s like I”m living a half lived life; a doubtful, somewhat dead life that seems so colorful to everyone, forgetting the dark side it hides compressed within it’s backyard. Should we be like the mineral deposits carried by a river, travelling through ages and ourselves as it starts from the mountains and then goes through beautiful valleys and dirty plains, until it lasts it deposits it’s load to form what they want of themselves?

Maybe it was all my mistake. My agony, my fiends, my acts of untrue friendship and escaping reality that sent me here; a prisoner at the gates, not knowing whether I stand out or I stand in. It’s like I am stuck up, knowing, living a virtual life that is unlovable, weak, ugly, maybe all the cusses high school boys use these days, and all the plastic that is said to be killing the environment, establishing what I call myself today. It’s the single speck of doing wrong, the single fear of people, of judgement, and as I would rather say, of myself, that haunts me through my dreams and on every step I take. Maybe if we would promise ourselves everyday that we would go without hurting asingle person, including ourselves, we would not be a lost jewel of the glimmering world anymore. Yet, I’m not so sure.

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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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