Tense Sense

I did not publish a new post for the past days due to a reassessment of my writing skills.According to my mentor, I was in the fourth stage of the writing process.

I should learn constraint.

Constraint? I had been in my shell for many years, afraid that people will bruise my fragile soul. When I decided to show my works, it was my moment of breaking free from the suffocating cocoon I wove for myself.

I was about to show my worlds to people when my mentor held me back for my good.

Learn to hold back your ideas for a while, he said.

Now I realized it. I had been pushing myself forward too hardly yet blindfolded. I have to look before I leap.

I paused in writing this piece and took a deep breath.

Release the tension, but hold on to yourself.

January 11, 2016

All it took was a slip of the tongue

to bring my brutal empires down.

With a shivering caress of my skin,

the mind returned to its body.

The warmth of another broken soul

woke up my decreasing hope.

The demon hushed itself

to open its mortality to the heavens.

Now I softly remembered

the cursed blessing of being human.

Broken Ones

What would happen

if someone who lost hope

met someone

who was treated as an object?

They might understand each other,

their ideas starting to intertwine,

their feelings discovering a destination.

 

It is the reason why

abandoned places have

this certain peace

dwelling inside them.

They become the sanctuaries

of the broken.

Battles

Don’t you see that

your words are your swords

to face the angels and demons

of your tiny existence?

Don’t you hear that

the beating of your heart

synchronizes with

the war drums that signal

your own empire?

Don’t you feel that

the indirect excitement

rushing in your veins

is the incredible fuel

for your dance of life?

 

Do not turn back now.

At the end of most stories,

triumph flies high.

The Road of Apollyon

On this cold and light-stolen desert,

there will always be a solitary man,

known as a rogue warrior of the past

or the blind prophet of the unwanted,

who will take a dusty track made for him

in memory of an exultant failure.

No one dared to  follow him

or even ask about his destination,

for no one has ever truthfully found

the horizon of shifting conscience.

At the end of that invisible road,

something awaits his recurring return

with the void of his former face

draping on his volatile hands.

The Worn Out Four Letter Word

There are times that I no longer believe to what everyone says about lo-

Never mind, I should not mention that word again. I want to preserve it, nurture it, even though I do not and will not know how.

This is the tricky power of mankind: everything that comes out of their mouths and draws from their hands could either live in eternity…

or be destroyed in a slow fade.

That word. Four letters. They say that it encompasses all. But the truth is that it is still restricted in its own freedom.  We know its existence. We hold it. Now, we try to invade its meaning by our illusions and faulty ideas.

Please, do not kill it. I beg you. Help me…

while there’s still a chance to be itself again.