Fakeful Eyes

Fakeful Eyes
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Men see my summer legs.
These legs I don’t work hard for.
They are just simply fit.
For they are walking sticks.
Their eyes want my look.
But I will not give.
They don’t see my light,
Since what sparkles, blinds.
My gaze is their dog food.
A plate for their ego to eat from.
They crave but cannot really chew.
They want attention so they can go on… About their lives, feeling full of it,
To then release in their wives.
.
. . Do not fall for the looks. They don’t cherish your true self. They can’t see it. Some don’t want to see it. They stop at skin level.
And the realisation I have is: when someone looks at you, it is not about you (how attractive you are, your body, clothes, demeanour), but about theirselves. They just want to see if you will look back, so as to reaffirm themselves as the “I” that they want to be – ah, that pretty girl looked at me. I must be… Once again. We are walking projectors. We are what the other sees (in “I” terms but not in real true terms). Someone will want it, others will spit on it. And none of it makes who you are. When you identify with it, you pain yourself, you fit the label and you fall for it. And a note to self, what one may view as desire could as well be devoted aversion.

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Friday Plans

Tense

The back and forth of days.

So much tension. Early raised.

Inside the head and buried in heart.

Caterpillar that will not fly.

Problem solving becomes harsh.

The machine keeps functioning with broken parts.

It is time for a restart.

But as soon as you try, the battery dies.

You’ve lost balance one more time.

Caked

Caked
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I am having a bad day. So I am making sure to compensate with a high sugar intake.
Cast a blindfold,
Adjust your vision to a bat’s one

Don’t allow your body to feel.
Thus you cannot heal.

anesthetize it with sugar, go numb.
Hoping your heart turns dumb

And sleeps a coma dream,

Where you don’t sense the squeaks.
Your bones creak,

You need company.
Though you are tired of this sound.
Therefore, in syrup you choose to drown. .
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I use sugar to curb desires, frustration, loneliness, anxiety, stress. What do you use sugar for?

Hamelin

Hamelin
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Hamelin, the pied piper.

The care-less outsider,

He came and scared the crowd,

With his show loud and proud.

He played his song of dread.

He called the rats to his legs

They venerated his hands,

He walked away, they followed his steps.

The river welcomed them to their death.

He lured all these conniving rats.

These parasites that suck you flat.

The pipe has ended its magic quest.

Hamelin can now be put to rest.
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*based on the Pied Piper of Hamelin by The Brothers Grimm

The tortuous road to Paradise

These thoughts came to me as I reached the start of my morning cycle to work. I start off on a main road, full of cars. Once I see this path (see pictures), which means a shift (I cycle on my own, in nature). My initial thoughts are: I’ve reached my favourite place. And then, I remember I have to cross through nettles and rose thorns which are growing. The stings and scratches hurt but I don’t suffer. I don’t complain. I know the plant has no ill intent and it is a consequence of life, to get stung by plants’ defense mechanisms. Then, I thought of the pains of life. The words that hurt. The rejection we suffer. And what makes it hurt? The meaning we put onto the pain, as Buddhism has thought me. So, being hurt and rejected, it’s part of this game we play. It means I am alive. I am human. What I cannot do is allow a hurtful situation define me. To identify. We are more than hurt and words.

What if someone told you that the path that leads to paradise, is narrow and dark and it will burn and itch your shell. It will mark you. Would you chance in?
If the way looks uninviting, we most likely choose the other route. Yet, how many times, might have we missed the chance to encounter Paradise at the end of this road? What have we not found, in all these roads we decided to back off from and turn back?
If you keep pushing through the tight nothingness of life, you might end up in a Secret Garden, your exclusive playground.
I will remind myself of that. In all the times my throat and my heart feels tight. I’ll remember. That means, I am closer to home. Closer to Paradise.

The Flagellator

The Flagellator
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Today, there is nothing.
Visits me, Empty.
Only hurt.
Hence, the skin’s ripping off,
This rock is being prodded up.
In order to discover,
Why do you chase pain, when love has blown your cover?
If pain knows not to belong.
You must allow. Do not respond.
For the hiatus…is the response.
Why do you choose to associate with pain? Why today does it affect your ways?
Make you raise hairs. Your gut turns into a centrifugal fun fair.
You go to pain for you are aware, it has been acquainted with love’s lair.

Why do you gaze at symbols that do not change?
And if they did, you cannot read what it states. For the answer lies on an external mental landscape.

Why is rejection the choice, the hated voice, your ears will hear?
That is the only recognisable sound in the vacuum of what you peer.
And in this visible terrain, there is no domain, no recollection that would steer.
Blind and mute, must still walk on.
I carry that label, stamped upon, grossly stapled, forever along.
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I wrote this a few days back, when I was unwell but it still stands. It is the flow of life. But I am learning. I went for a walk today. I found this nature-made scarecrow.
I audioed a few words. I am going to write a sort of epic poem using this walk as reference. What I learned is that I choose the hardest, steepest, not suitable, way. I got lost. I found my way. I lost my phone, I didn’t notice. A human brought it back to me. I was going to need it later on to trace my way home. I reached scots pine paradise. We don’t need to seek. What is meant to cross our way, finds us. So I got to collect stones and branches from my pines, for my druid dream catcher.
Ps: this poem doesn’t end there but the last lines which prompted the poem are only mine to have.

A being in a tree, smiling for the cameras.