Wide Awake

Alone…
Alone I sit…
Alone I breathe…
Eat, sleep, seethe, and dream.
Can’t shake this feeling of loneliness
This cold isolation of emptiness.
Step out from this hole i call home
Where society looks estranged.
People everywhere, yet still I feel alone
Cut off from this place.
Alone again I sit in silence and solitude,
Able to breathe once more.
I lie awake with echoes of music in the air.
Thinking about my life and what went wrong,
But I still have yet to find the answer.
Slowly my eyes begin to close..
As I fall into another world
Dreams oh dreams!
How so you comfort me
And torture me all the same…
But in the end I will always find
That I am wide awake.

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A game of chess

Upon a board of black and white,
soldiers shiver in winter snow.
We ready our rifles before the fight,
our silence splintered by stygian crow.

And so, and so, we make our move,
through frozen mud we march.
We trample over a dead white dove,
and then the order. Charge!

We run towards our untimely end,
never pausing for a moment’s breath.
Not sparing a second to defend,
we dash into the jaws of death.

So here I was broken, on the board,
Amid dead, departing at dawn,
Far, far away from a loving God,
an honest innocent pawn.

Poetry and Me

Most of the time, it brought me sheer pleasure. Sometimes, it brought me disquieting, indescribable feelings that only I could very well comprehend. To put these feelings into a deeper perspective, I express them into words that most people could not grasp but clearly illustrate the hindsight of my existence.

“What will I be without it?” is a question I wouldn’t dare entertain. For I know that mainly thinking of it would cause me pain.

A lot of people had appreciated its beauty but I do think that they relished it only superficially. Because behind the beauty of poetry are hidden messages that only the poet could very well empathize with although the readers could put so much meaning to it.

Poetry is like casting a stone on the ocean. It will cause ripples on its first touch, and as it is surrounded by the ocean’s immensity, the stone is bound to go deep. And the more you are entangled by its artistry, the more you are immersed until you get lost in its beauty.

And so I live with it. At times I feel like I cannot do without it. And even though some of my friends say that, “Poetry only makes people harder to understand,” I would like to always be part of it.

Then maybe, I’ll know why Sylvia and Anne had the greatest compulsion to kill themselves and be considered as one of the most sought after poets of all time. Or why E.E. Cummings had to disengage from the conventions of society and be well known for his avant-garde innovations, controlling both the looks and content of his poems.

Or maybe then, I will be able to understand why I keep on reading other people’s poems and not my own!

“…and I wrote the first faint line, faint, without substance, pure nonsense, pure wisdom of someone who knows nothing…”