Anna

Death knows not my solemn dream,
Dying in her’s all that seems
To light the fire in mine eye,
Touched with the flame of hers to die.

Music runneth from her lips,
Rests in the harmony of her soul,
And I will drink a thousand sips,
Sweet poison settled in her bowl.

And in my heart of hearts I’ve vowed,
Unknowingly but yet I did,
To die an amorous victim, 
Unknowingly but yet I will.

Muttered I an’ ever spoke?
To what occasion must I speak?
For hearts that wander, life that broke,
Will not mend a world so bleak.

Did not her eyes beset a fire?
Enchantment did not last a day,
But took a day and stretched it high’r,
Lit infernos in my everyday.

My Anna will not speak of love,
For time that’s longer than her own,
She’ll speak of men that travel free,
To hold on hours on the phone.

And in my heart of hearts I’ve vowed,
Unknowingly but yet I did,
To die an amorous victim, 
Unknowingly, my Anna’s will.

Why We Hurt the People We Love

There is this wonder about relationships, be they platonic or romantic, how they bring out the demons inside us, and how they self-destruct from self-inflicted disaster.

I’m not discussing any particular case: abuse, trauma, or just your average brother and sister, or husband and wife, just how normal people hurt each other most when they love each other most.

And I’ve come to realize that inside us is something so dark, so ugly, that we always seem to reject, to hide. I don’t know where it comes from, whether we’re all cursed with a bad side or just cursed with bad lives that bring them out. Still though, I know that the more you know someone, the more comfortable you are with them, the more naked you can be around them.

There’s a thing about being spiritually and emotionally naked around someone, something that both comforts and threatens us, it is that with being so raw, comes being so vulnerable, with all our scars exposed, and all our blemishes there in plain sight. Such nakedness is an acquired mode of being, and it demands above all, trust. And with trust comes secrets, and stories, and laughter, and pain, but also more than anything, the pain of self-discovery.

And so it is, that we hurt the people we love, not because we want to, but because we trust them with a deep, dark part of ourselves, that we deem only right to show them, however we’ve tried to repress.

And in trying to save them, we kill part of ourselves, or try to at least, for it is never easy to break our loyalty to what above all defines us, hamartia.

And it is never fully honest, to conceal or hide away, that part of ourselves which we find most unpleasant, to the people which we trust most with ourselves.

Still, in the back of our minds remains this inner guilt, this disgust towards the reality of our bitter ugliness, and we must live, half-forgiving our mistakes, half-accepting our most tragic flaws, all-regretful of the souls we broke, while failing to fix our own.

“Don’t get too close. It’s dark inside; it’s where my demons hide.”
-Imagine Dragons

To Love

It has been months,
My mouth has uttered no poetry,
My pen has written no rhyme.

It has been months,
That I can’t grab a hold of me,
Driven and led, only I by time.

And no, the rhyme does not come easy,
It does not flow like honeycombs,
There is no welcome at its doors,
And it will not dwell in homes.

Only I here, a man without word,
To speak or write of she,
Recount the torment of her prison,
She’s locked us there now, her and me.

And I cannot write without a pain,
And I cannot speak without an ache,
I cannot think with less this mem’ry,
Sweet word-blossoms, my fields won’t make.

And I am overdosed on time,
The time that was my medicine,
And I am dying still of rhyme,
The rhyme that was my only sin.

To love and not know words to speak,
That is how my love remains.
Hid, not weakened, ever bleak,
Love knows not its own love’s pains.

To love, I shed a mourner’s tear,
To days again we’ll meet not here.
To love, I write with will so small,
For love has broken all of me.

“Universe”

I often find myself pondering at the meaning of words, their origins. I enjoy those philosophical/contemplative novel words, the things you won’t exactly find in a dictionary, words like wonderwall, sonder, pluviophile, nyctophile, philophobia, etc.

Still other words, literary or archaic, that also would not be so much used in everyday life, tend to my thought and attention, words like hamartia, pseudo-intellectual (yes, Woody Allen!), pedantic, etc.

And there is also a third category of words that I like. It is that which encompasses the words that mean one thing, but also a whole other, deeper, thing. And of those words to me, stems the “universe”.

I like to believe the word universe describes, aside from the mystery of our vast, complex, changing but constant world, the context of a single verse, that summarizes the world-universe. A uni-verse for the universe.

But then again, what words of wisdom so short as to not exceed a single verse, could wholly satisfy the cataclysm that is our world?

I do not know, and I do not pretend to.

But the thought of a uni-verse still drives my thoughts, knowing still, that though the truth is not found, it must exist.

The existense of truth is in itself, a truth. That will be my truth, that will be my justice, my solace until I find a fuller answer.

“For each age is a dream that is dying,
Or one that is coming to birth.”
-Arthur O’Shaughnessy, excerpt “from Ode”

Happiness: The Serotonin Shot Anecdote

An old man sits on the front porch of an old, weary house. As the people pass by, he tries to subdue his loneliness with memories of his past, reading newspapers and rereading old news again and again.

All of a sudden, and every so often, a noise or movement shakes this state of delusion, and he sees himself, old and wrinkled, desolate and waiting for a calm destruction. The memories come back as he wonders how truly, the happiness has gone from his life.

A relation perhaps visits the man every week or so, to check on his health, or rather put bluntly, the persistence of his now lowly existence. The man speaks of loneliness, of impending death, and of now bitter-sweet memories, going on and on, up and down the timeline of life, finishing in exhaustion, pleading and gesturing helplessly for an escape.

With the persistence of a man who has lost all, and has not more to hope for than a grain of happiness, his few distant relations decide to fulfill his pleadings.

Thus on a bleak autumn night, when the winds blew heavier, and the rain fell thicker than it would most days of October, the old man, fallen asleep by a windowpane, is rushed awake, yet calmly, by his distant relative.

He’d come with the cure; in his right hand clasping, measured precisely, a shot of Serotonin, the happiness hormone.

Without restraint and expecting approval, the younger, middle-aged, man rolls the elder’s sleeve, feels around his frail forearm for a vein, sets the needle in, firmly, the old man holding his breath, a tear going down his pale face. Pressing down, the shot is injected, and suddenly, no magically, the tear dried and the breath exhaled, his eyes fix for a moment, his pupils dilate, and in an abrupt twitch, the old man bursts into a loud laughter.

His happiness was restored.

“What have I become, my sweetest friend? Everyone I know, goes away in the end.” -Johnny Cash

Photo credit: PhotoAtelier / Foter / CC BY