it’s all borderline.

i live for people; not the ones close to me, but the ones that open up to me. sometimes it’s all borderline – my strength, perseverance, hope and love. consumed. you come from trauma, i come from trauma – we’re all the same; being trained in healing doesn’t stop you from breaking. i break, build, shine then break again. it feels monotonous at certain points; i’d like to stay broken for a longer while. to effortlessly stay beaten, to give up because all the giving drains me. plants may survive on making their own food while providing, but they need basic elements for it, don’t they? how long can i continue to be my own sunshine? who could i expect a little warmth from? it’s not misery, no – because i have people. beautiful people. it is the lack of understanding, affection and comfort i face. faith is a source of power, it helps you survive, but is surviving without empirical affection enough for a human? it isn’t. after all, we’re mortal beings. it all just seems borderline at times, but somehow i adjust. somehow we all adjust. it’s not fair, and there’s no justice to this misfortune, but we adjust. with our sunshine, we adjust. 

(just a little emotional expression)

did a drummer just lose control
if so, how did they come so close?
what is this state of commotion,
is it a commencement of an explosion?

impaired vision, trembling feet
and a scream that won’t release
these organs aren’t responsive to me
but to the needle pricks i do not see

can i vomit when my throat is clenched?
and can a porch ever lack oxygen?
oh i miss most the blessing of balance
on this everlasting evanescent trip
towards the world’s end.

the battle

when all is wonderful it is i can tell
as the plunge of energy cascades under my skin

and i foresee a win
it’s hurled by a storm,
where i find myself lost, and forlorn,
how does it emerge? i do not know
but the despair which invades later is far worse

sometimes they call it a truce
allow me to survive,
other times i’m a battlefield
‘til the muscles in me are no more,
and my tears give in to my plight

[on self image – being a cactus]

for years i’ve believed; every pretty petal comes with thorns of pain,
that someday all of me will be loved the same,
what if my petals prick instead of strutting silk?
what if i am but a stem in vain?
if the concept of beauty deems this thick skin of mine unworthy of affection
then why, dear God, why was i built with these imperfections?
no, these thoughts are of a man’s infection,
i deny;
for we all know they are an utterly ungrateful creation,

amidst the storm, i smile at an approacher shrieking a cry,
“ouch! stupid thing with its ugly spines”
– a stark reminder to myself, a horrendous deformation.

imageDecided to post the first and only insight to my restricted journal. The central idea of my story is ambiguously depicted through the picture above and in order to preserve the essence of poetry and art, the symbols are left open to perception.

{only three out of four seasons exist in this picture}