must the start matches the end?
this piece will surely defy that pattern.

'she's merely overwrought'

melodramatic much?

says you.

but they remark, not observe. they don't know how to look far inside, deeper than what's surfaced. but i don't blame them. how could they?

excuses do not justifications make. perhaps.

i think those two are inextricably linked, similarly sourced. from reason.

miracles are not what i sought, the want for those now have faded as stars on fairies heads had.

i pen this and my thoughts leave in ribbons, weaving themselves into a fabric of indeterminate colour nor shape.

' leave her be, she'll show her sun tomorrow'

as always.

que sera sera.

but that would have destiny written all over it, non?

if sighs are songs, i believe i'm Bach's best friend by now, i have composed symphonies of forlorn groans and longing whimpers.

transient would not describe it, i think. my current state of mind. nor is mercurial.

it's like this squash ball, keep bouncing from point to point, just that it's self-sustaining, the motions are powered not by any apparent blip on the periphery, simply as if it is borne out of chaos of cosmos's early days, it just materialise into being.

the existence of the surrounding clouds are by no means controllable, shifting forms and nuances, gloomy and brooding, onyx and lush but silvery and glinting, light and floaty, despondent and dismal goes jaded and blasé, transmogrify themselves into cotton candy pink and childish innocence, and still they do not stop altering.

the thing is, i do not particularly want them to.

I'd much rather have them moving than to see them still as the surface of a lake on noonday.

swirling means they're active, sounds of volcano's hisses warning lest ennui or complency sets in.

but the clouds hid thorns, and they scrap and tore at my delicate constitution. my fragile self is tattered and serrated, so soon after it undergoes another re-piercing.

how is it that seasoned i've been of ugly scenes involving annoyed out of sheer bewilderment people and their logical and subsequent reaction of said annoyance, and the fact that i've foreseen something quite parallel to it, hell, anticipated it even, that i still manages to be hurt?

is it annoyance?

i don't want to have to ask my self that question again.

fuck, its too exhaustive. the road is long and the circuit too winding. i keep finding myself arriving on the same spot with the same outfits and hands clutching worn out baggages.

and damn but it's too much to handle if i went on with the inquiry and the attempt to get all the acceptable answers. there aren't any. they all makes too much frigging sense.

so i'm skipping okay?

i'm skimming the froth and overlooking the mocha, because i've decided the ensuing headache post-consumption is not worth the bittersweet agony of the moment, at all.

so, yeah, i consciously chose denial.

and i think my mind's pretty made up over this.

the yell-spelling did it.

that's new.

and i thought i'm being juvenille by acting out and everything.

i do not know how much longer can this go on.
why must the wheel of life be so tireless, i wonder.
and i am so sick of everyone now.
myself included of course.
i'm beginning to envision various ways in which to end me
for once and all.

weariness is not in my bones.
it's under my eyes.
and on the orbs whose shine were dulled.

because choicelessness is not an excuse now.
the claustrophobia i've found and nourished in that cramped space
with the mannequins masquerading as machines
is closing on my windpipe
cutting off my vitals supplies
of air and breath.

my growls and yells are trapped
manifesting instead as physical ailments.
och, they hurt, they pained.

but then there's nothing new with this now.
that's it.
the sense of deja vu
so strong
that it permeated on the very clothes that i wear
the expressions i pasted on.

pride, my crutch and my downfall.
my backbone and my nerves.
it alone won't let me scream
'i'm done!'.

are sufferings my broth?
torments my brandy?

then i forsake them now
i would forbear.

slip after slip, after slip
that i've lost count
almost completely.

the anticipated days seem so far ahead of me
and their grins so sickening
so revolting are their platitudes.

damn you bitches, shut your holes!

and bless thee, strength.
perseverance i hold on to
but my palms are so sweaty
my grip so lacking in conviction.

how then?
you sleep and you wake up
everything stays the same
and you're horrified
but you feet are cast in plaster
they weighed you down so heavily.

there i was
there i am

same porch
same breeze

red cars
and green ones

portals that opens
and slides shuts

repetition is here
etched on my fingernails.

i erased the markings
to see them again upon the morning's waking

the sun is cruel
the moon is mean

shrivelled leaves
and smoking fields

testaments to nightmares
all along the restless hours

the pillows beckons
and the bed bowed

to welcome the goddess
the cheer the offering

upon the altar i lay again
and wait for the executioner's sweet kiss.

and they whirled
the silver bullets
racketing

morte they should bring
vanquished foes
bodies of paralyzed enemies
lay scattered

the bride's veil
her rose and her blush
gone too

all here
the centre of my being
the eye of the storm.

why do thee weep still
all is over
all is done

and tomorrow we shall take our our leave
from this plane and find others to destroy

why cry child?
wipe your tears
and find your teeth

for i know the will is there still
i see them
as clearly as diamond's shine.

a laugh
a reckless smile
a chuckle

how hollow
how empty
how harrowing

eyes clicked shut
ears jammed close
limbs weighted

and air turns liquid
corrossive and thick as
fumes of consuming embers

the hunt
turns frenetic
goes frantic

still the screen remains shuttered
the space under the door
letting little monsters to trickle in

but no light comes with them
plugging close whatever's left
of illuminated space

and they shrieked their attendance
announcing their presence with
the aplomb of a fairy queen's coronation

i asked them
one simple question
'what? what made you come here?'

their gazes devoid of empathy
they looked at each other
and their still arriving mates

and voiced one answer

'because you are you'.

and i feel my lips tugging at the corners
and my tears building
in the dammed lake behind my retinas

and my feet grow roots
to seep and spread
beneath the barren ground.

DEAR GOD, SORRY TO DISTURB YOU, BUT… I FEEL THAT I SHOULD BE HEAR LOUD AND CLEAR. WE ALL NEED A BIG REDUCTION IN AMOUNT OF TEARS AND ALL THE PEOPLE THAT YOU MADE IN YOUR IMAGE, YOU SEE THEM FIGHTING IN THE STREET CAUSE THEY CAN’T MAKE OPINIONS MEET ABOUT GOD. I CAN’T BELIEVE IN YOU. DID YOU MAKE DISEASE, AND THE DIAMOND BLUE? DID YOU MAKE MANKIND AFTER WE MADE YOU? I WON’T BELIEVE IN HEAVEN AND HELL. NO SAINTS, NO SINNERS, NO DEVIL AS WELL. NO PEARLY GATES, NO THORNY CROWN. YOU’RE ALWAYS LETTING US HUMANS DOWN. THE WARS YOU BRING, THE BABES YOU DROWN. THOSE LOST AT SEA AND NEVER FOUND, AND IT’S THE SAME THE WHOLE WORLD ROUND. THE HURT I SEE HELPS TO COMPOUND THAT FATHER, SON AND HOLY GHOST IS JUST SOMEBODY’S UNHOLY HOAX AND IF YOU’RE UP THERE, YOU’D PERCEIVE THAT MY HEART’S HERE UPON MY SLEEVE. IF THERE’S ONE THING I DON’T BELIEVE IN, IT’S YOU.

filled too soon
the once emptied-out space
is now screeching out
in indignations
in righteous fury with the wrath of Hera
cunningness of Artemis
and deceptiveness of the gentle polished surface of mirrors upon hitting Medusa

the turmoil of waves in a pond
rocking the lily leaves and shocking the slumbering frogs
showing the floorbed to be
devoid of reflections
that is rumoured to be there.

and the eyes of a nightingale
flickers between opaque and clarity
the in-between moment blessedly silent
only murmurings of fluttering wings alerted the forest of it's presence.

the mother leopard mourns for her lost son
she kneels and bargains and trades and threatens
but Zeus is deaf to her plaintive pleas
her franticness is of no concern to him
he turns his back and put his pajamas on

for Mount Olympus sleeps tonight.

and mortals cries remain anguished and grieving
their souls denied of absolutions and grace they seek
with the thoroughness of Clotho with her thread

but why do they still direct themselves heavenward
when they are certain
as a child is certain that her doll is broken forever
that the gates to paradise are closed tonight?

when Hades is issuing his siren's call
Tartarus door thrown wide open
to welcome in sinners from Earth
whose wails mingles with the tides of Rivers Styxx and Acheron?

would Ares rests
and let Themis presides?

the lost son
his white-spotted furs
mottled with blood
knows and would voice the answer
because he knew too the others would not.

no.

because he had seen the pedastals upon which offerings are littered
all asking for Thanatos to descend and carry on
for they both never cease
never

and Poseidon
he would always heed the braying of foolish men
whose thirst for vengeance and blood will forever be on their tongues
satiation will not be theirs.

the hail and storm will split open the sky
but the gods will sleep on.

because Mount Olympus sleeps tonight.

Everybody's got layers. Some are just thicker than others. They intrigued you to unearth them. The layers all vary in sizes, some translucent, one gnarled with age because it woven with thinned threads of memory, others obscured and worn-out, the top always spanking with an extra shine to it. Most people never get past those glitters. Those are the ones not really worth the patient vigils for the phone to just ring or the 'ping' that indicates a new message just came in. I would say try to wait for the people that actually went to the trouble to get the bottom of you, with every layer in their pocket, along with pebbles of childhood and their first ticket to the theatre, tucked in safely with the exhilaration of pony rides and wet bathing suits of summers, not so much effort out of curiosity though. Just plainly because they care enough to.

If only I could say that with any genuine conviction. But no, I hate 'what-ifs'.