I’ve been zoning out from reality
Dreaming of dreams that will never be
Life that time has stolen from me
People who I’ll never meet or meet again…
My soul caught fire when I’ve settled for hell
Disguised as this world
Now no man can save me.
I’ve drank a cup of fire
And I’m vomiting cold blades
I keep losing myself in the gloom of these seven shades
The worst truth is that I have never lived a lie
…and I have never lived
and I can’t wish I never did.
Undrown me so I can breathe!
I can’t wish I never lived
even if Truth be this.
When I’m morose I master my expertise
When I’m a master they think I’m diseased, decreased or deceased.
Where then shall I maintain my honesty
If it has no place in every society?
Forensics of a poet’s tragedy
Physics of the bullets of agony
That missed my brains and bludgeoned my heart without touching it…
Gun ballistics and fluid dynamics
When the scenes are so serene
But the past is a redout.
How many times, without dying, did I really end my Life? Did I?
How many crimes of mediocrity have unmade me?
How many dead stars extracted my wishes from my memories?
How many vultures have been staring at me for all eternity
While I lay petrified watching corpses rise as zombies
How deep, severe, have I been severed,
immersed in the wailing of sunshine..
Why was sunshine wailing?
Though I feel like a dancing skeleton with flappy hollow wings
I’m not the ghost that’s pointing at me.
I keep doing the forensics of my own tragedy
When I dream of dreams that will never be
And ache for the Life that probably eludes me…
Until I can see the people who are still really there.
Like a moon at daytime hiding behind a burst of clouds
I zone back to reality
And see what I can make of me.
Where oh where oh where to take the stars,
My dearest, sweetest whom I must guide away from liars…
Time stretches her arms to extend despondency
Autumn mirrors my melancholy….
Yet the world’s sourly wrought ages,
Wrinkle primitive inclinations…
Beings composed in disintegration…
A contained container with contents somewhere else…
The song of the wind in a planet Mars….
Ridiculous words that deceive the self-proclaimed
Astronauts who have never seen the stars…
We’ve ceased to understand what impediments are
As we merely speak of them from our inner gnomes…
Scattering ourselves without motion,
Feigning malfunctions in our chromosomes..
If tides and currents make good scours
We’ll be mistaking them for scars…
Maxims, Axioms, Dictums of who?
Unbuild my dreams and break my rhymes…
Meridians prime, where I can’t find
The over-stalked lover in Pacific’s crimes
Magnetic Storms cast me frozen
While I hold the burnings stars…
I must stretch Time’s arms even longer
For a diameter’s half that breaks seven bars…
My dearest child, kept in gray
I hope we both don’t ever go astray…
I wanna sing the saddest songs as if I would die…
Pre-death pre-burial requiems…
Lethal notes… Morose words and non-words…
I wanna sing the saddest songs as if I would live forever –
Forever in the dungeons of my benevolence.
And then, I wanna cry my soul out as if I’ve lost God…
But first, wish that I still have a soul for I no longer know…
I wanna run in circles within an untamed wilderness
to feel that I am not lost, in circles, running and wanting untamed…
after my tears have equalled the waves of all the world’s seas
including her… her tsunamis of centuries…
I want to find myself at the edge of a snow-capped mountain and never rest
then scream my frozen lungs out after expelling my guts,
scream until I hear only the sound of my recovered voice –
the one that could read and write sadder than almost the saddest poem…
Distorted and soul-starved,…
What did I say?
Straving for my soul,
I don’t ache to feel a little less alive…
Nor do I merely ache…
My madness does not represent a longing for joy.
Madness sways beyond the barbwires of longings.
Thus, not even a longing for death.
(You don’t need to die to be dead).
My loneliness is not soothed by company.
Loneliness is glory!
My burden blinds with the northern lights best in darnkess.
My passions severe the cosmos with their controlled nonexistence…
There is nothing more worse for me and ill
than the brooding mediocrity when I do not sing when I will.
“Almost the Saddest Poem” is a remake of The Saddest Poem. But herein, the context changes somehow but the end-point remains. How can not being able to sing (no matter how you sound or don’t sound as silence can be music) be so sad? P.S. The titles have nothing to do with the levels of sadness in each of them.
I know no love apart from madness,
no love that can’t fear unspeakably and yet, still dare
I know no love without insurmountable woe,
No love that can’t hold exuberant eternity in a blink so mundane…
I know no love that can’t magically take last breaths for ages
just wanting so enthusiastically to be there…
I know no love not selfless;
No love that can’t meet death unshaken…
I know no love without phenomenal outcomes,
no love that actually ends…
I know no love that merely lasts
but love that creates instances of glorious eternity
I know no love that doesn’t hold Heaven.
I know no love that can’t.
* dedicated to my grandfather Pio Espineda
December 4, 1930 – September 11, 2013
and to all who love *
good intentions without understanding result to worse things.
it’s better to not understand beings and simply respect feelings.
Ripples of thoughts
of wonders and sorrows
severe his mind gracefully
at the wrong time….
All in non-extremes
beg for attention
when the only Freedom starts with Detention…
– A Liberation they know nothing of.
Pink and Green
Images of woe
Images of Joy
-THE DEATH WAS REAL!
It was a nightmare that came before sleep
It was a dream that happened because he awakened…
But now he must awaken again….
There is a pool of woe in the Southeast,
and fish in the cold air up North to the West…
He knows no other waters but woe.
Time stops in this climax of suffering.
The LIFE was real…
he gets swallowed up in a time machine…
and knows just about too many things…
he only thought of time…
He cries to sleep,
wakes up the same,
blood flowing through his veins
and outside of them.
Splashes of blood
on this mundane floor
drown him gently
in sweet Sunday gloom.
There’s no comfort for my chosen solitude
In a crowd where I don’t seem forlorn…
Sunshine’s not my friend in Winter
When my heart and soul breaks torn…
Beyond the noise, although I feel the peace,
I also feel the grimmer breeze…
I’ve tweaked my brains to make myself believe
That I don’t have everything I need…