visionary loser

an alternative to ennui

Tag Archives: poetry

am i happy now i am now happy.

I’m not good at writing when I’m happy. Maybe it’s because I use it as an emotional release for all the tension and anger I feel. But doesn’t that give such emotions more power and control? Why don’t I write when things are good and blissful and I feel so full and content? Will it dispel these beautiful feelings I feel?

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The times we are apart is when I love you.

The times we are together,

you exhaust

my love.

 

It hurts to be with you.

 

Is this what women warn each other about?

Why the feminine is associated with weakness?

Am I weak to want to be comforted and caressed by my abuser?

By the boy I love,

the cause of my cower.

 

You’ve pushed me to the edge.

Please don’t push my off again –

I barely survived

the first time.

 

Because if you do,

I will shatter.

 

Forever.

Filling me up

Do you ever just want to cry to release it all?

To make the pain of loving someone stop.

So you can be left at peace.

Cause I do every day.

And it never works.

 

At Peace

One day –

you will cease these false promises.

One day –

I will stop believing.

One day –

we will make it.

One day –

you will let me grow.

One day –

I will learn to.

One day –

we will be happy in our quiet tranquility.

Creative Integrity

Creatively jacking each other off,

I saw them demonize the intellectual –

the rational, the sane.

All that matters is Art,

and with that comes suffering

Only from darkness can creativity reign supreme.

 

The paintbrush caresses the canvas,

The pen strokes the paper,

all trying to get each other off.

These phallic instruments clutched tightly in clenched fists,

Vigorously pumping away

and what comes is —

 

What fucked up / sad / insecure place does this stem from?

To speak on things which you don’t understand.

 

Creative merit isn’t doled out by those with rough hands,

Nor by those with degrees,

it comes from people who want to do it.

Almost anything can be Art,

but it all boils down to intent –

 

why have you the right to express your contemptuousness

on what an individual finds valid and valuable

to tell a story about.

 

Nobody Cares

But the thing is, someone does.

No matter how shitty you’re feeling,

How down-trodden and defeated,

Someone cares.

Everyone is appreciated by someone –

Absolutely everyone.

I guess it’s February

I want to write about cigarettes. I want to make some profound allusion to my love for him. I want to talk about ashy kisses and yellowed fingertips. Metaphors of fire and smoke. Comparisons to books. Passion and the patriarchy.

But I find myself writing this: “Why do people romanticize cigarettes? They’re cancerous and smelly.”

Is it distasteful to state the obvious?

Irony.

Do you think of me (as I think of you)?

What do you think about at 4AM?

Do you think of me?

Of us?

I just want you to open up to me.

Open your heart, not just your arms.

I feel warm and content in your embrace,

but distance makes my body cold –

that’s when I think of you

and it makes me sad.

I think sadness is what chokes and extinguishes life

and I become a shadow of the person I perform.

Antidote to Bereavement

we the underbelly –

cowering in the dark amongst the filthy,

our pockets filled with mud and shit

pissing away at the manicured suits

cocaine nightmares

dusted and busted

there’s no other choice.

slitting our throats,

we hang ourselves amongst the living

spilling blood in the streets

as hollowed eyes watch,

in sick sad amusement

fucked by millions of tiny cocks

spitting threats and dreams in our mouths

that dissipate and butcher.

manipulative usurping cunts

casting us in fiery disarray

longing for that sliver of beauty

our innards spill in a pool

of sunken lullabies.

We set ourselves on fire

A brazen, blazing passion

igniting such codependency

that they burned all the same.

By stoking this love

it had become as volatile as an inferno

threatening too much, they ended it.

Naughty little rendezvous

in the embers of what was

but ultimately, it needed to be tamed.

Put out before it devoured too much

for it had

it consumed his heart.

Fiery tempers and hot words

a jealousy that bloomed

and turned to ash.

They built a pyre

to sacrifice such sweet nostalgia

leaving behind an echo of incandescence.

Now he’s drowning his sorrows at the bottom of a bottle

swimming through salt and gasoline

such fervent ill-thoughts.

He lights a cigarette

and watches the smoke twist and dance –

There’s no extinguishing this bond.