Woke up as I had slept late yesterday
Tired from asinine schooling
Not yet enrolled but attending classes
But today, happens to be my rest day.
Freud, Lacan, and
I don’t know— I must do something for her birthdayThe will permits— but is unable
Deterred by the feeble mind
Subdued by procrastination
I want to do something.
Conflict is what we loathe and longed for
On leisure, cause, and purpose
Mao affirmed it inherent
on the nature of man:
On the verge of vying
there is one certainly dying
On screens we search for it
On boring days we avoid it
we find conflicts on our boring stories
as we avoid them on our boring lives.
You say they are drags;
they are useless as trash
you don’t care—
because it doesn’t affect you.
Your perception is supreme—
yes, they have nothing but their voices,
their feet to coalesce,
and their hands to loosen
the chains which hinder them—
but it was not but a chain;
it comes with a handcuff.
You, where do you use your hands?
for working hard on your new job.
May I know what that job is?
O, in the factory, yes—
making more chains and handcuffs.
She conceals herself with a mask,
and you, in your bona fide decorum
you condemn her with words
dripped in sweat and blood—
you try to strip her only property
unaware of what is yours
and what is theirs—
—but all is a slut for the right person.
“Is obscurity – the very trick that makes them beyond reach, almost mystical – merely a game laid-out to trap you? Is this fair?”
It is not the altitude which made it unreachable
or its depth which made it never unearthable
It is the hubris which ascends poets in pretense
and preempts their craft from being reached
It is a hollow receptacle filled with illusions
guided by their awe to mysteries
and their insatiable curiosities
“Yup, poets are calculating merchants trading on sentiments. Once you read a sad poem just think: A ghost is pulling your legs. It’s not real.”
real. not real. unreal. never real.
poets but exist within contexts and symbols.
without – never real.
they are those who seek life in lifeless letters
and warmth in cold phrases
in the most idealistic way.
Inspired by Edel Garcellano’s
This Mortal Coil by Donna McGee
Perhaps to kill the self is baleful
Indeed— it casts the infliction
unto others: a displacement of pain
so first we must forget each other:
I shall depart from your precognition
and dwell within the unconscious
so farewell till the next hypnosis.
Mountain Ranges by Jomer Bongalos, Digital Art
I stand between two distinct yet similar boondocks
One was borne of peace; the other borne of war
Beholding but their tall vanguard ideals
What lies beyond I cannot fathom more
are you to blame me for not being able to delve more
if the risks remain uncertain
and to choose where to start could kill?
are you to blame me for being indecisive
if these mountains serve themselves as walls?
are you to blame me for abstaining
if all I could see is their best,
concealing all the rest?
I am so sorry
For being so much small.