You are it!
I implore you—
say you are an artist.
Carve your name
into the surface of reality.
Find your small deaths,
die to them.
Seasons will shape you,
the wolfs will circle,
The thrill of becoming.
You will err,
this too is art.
your greatest masterpiece?
your heart.
The name and pretense of virtue is as serviceable to self-interest as are real vices.
Francois de La Rochefoucauld
The forbidden, no one speaks of it.
Not you, him or them
and neither will I.
We perfected the art of pretense.
If not spoken, then there isn’t life to it
Hence, did it really happen?
Peace of mind so foreign,
can barely remember when you had the luxury of its presence.
Your soul on the cross,
seasons after seasons,
living for your mistakes.
Hey! the Celeste are calling,
if fettered with a troubled soul
come forth and be gifted tranquility.
I presented you this, time after time.
Walk away from your pride, I say.
Love your flaws.
Yet you cling on to the misery you call life.
I have to say, you are fading
from the inside out,
and its almost beautiful to watch if it wasn’t familiar, dead eye.
As we dwell at the teat of the forbidden you forbade.
Written for Moonwashed Weekly Prompt – Forbidden – October 11, 2022
Dancing in a yellow light
Oblivious to world around
It’s just me, myself and the blues
As I should.
Go that way,
I will take the long way down
I will find my way around.
I saw a glimpse and I don’t like what I see,
The dissonance is draining, so
Am going back in, into myself
Basking in my solitude, sublime!
It takes a while to come back out,
So don’t hold your breath.
I can’t believe that I can’t believe it!
Dancing to my tune of rejection
Wrapped up in my internal dissension,
That I somehow ignored my insignificance.
Now, I know am only passing through
Hurts, cause I made in you a mantle.
Had it almost,
Now I do believe am only passing through.
Will I gain courage for the truth?
I pray, cause where my heart is there is never a home.
“This world is a comedy to those that think, a tragedy to those that feel.”
Horace Walpole
In a dark room with surround sound music, playing alternative/indie music. Sitting in your favorite spot, relaxed, eyes closed and a little tipsy.
Peace/Torture
Fragile mind
I don’t want to be described as strong or virtuous or any adjective that more or less describes the subtle art of perfecting suffering.
Hear Hear
I always thought I didn’t have an addictive trait or personality; boy, did I underestimate the incessant need to forget.
Can we?
Can we chase the fire away?
I asked with so much hope in my voice.
I mean, I was asking the gods,
they should have an answer, right?
Crickets, I guess we are on our own.
So, I will keep dancing with the flames
till my time comes.
“I never liked the middle ground-the most boring place in the world.”
Louise Berliawsky Nevelson
I have fallen in love with the middle ground
my soul paid the price,
not by choice, I must say
the pressure of just being.
I reckon, I have heard someone say “the middle is the best.“
right?
What a coward I have become,
twisting the definition of brave to liberate myself.
Thank God for small miracles, and move on.
Some people have it worse, I hear
So, be thankful for the middle ground.
Ahh, damn it
damn it all to hell, am taking that step.
Am holding a banner for me,
its upside down, but the rumors are true
stick and stones.
GallopingCrazy 