Thoughtful Brain, Troubled Mind

Category: Poetry

A vacant motel

I adjust my sorrows
To gears perfect
I listen to its beat
My lungs retract

My temper never prone
To overt enthusiasm
From your excess, thus I loan—

The lack thereof—
I don’t feel I ever scorn
To affect

We talk of nudity
Of character, I mean
Your tolerance of mine
Is slowly turning fine
This weight, I bore in you
A trait, I detest too—

Reading and poetry
Breed crevices beyond honesty
To these doubts, no answers fill
Rises a plaintive woe, immortalised by quill

In dreams, in memory

I dreamt of war quick and fast
Of sanguine faces
And whirlwinds of dust

I pray to thee
Imploring whence does humanity
Gain its infinite glee

To a sickening dismay
As with all other prayers
On that bed I lay

Without an answer I slept
Ruminating in the limpid air
There in the far distance a lady wept

To whose horror! To whose gain!
Are flesh and blood harbingers of pain?

Brevity of it all

for the nights that I close
Dickens or Woolf,
sacrifice knowledge
for supposed fatigue,
I think, for an hour or so,
about the disagreed

for the mornings that I watch
the birth of the Sun,
forgo affections,
for supposed functionality
I think, for the rest of the day,
about that ability

Litanies of plague

some days the sky
is a little
bluer than most

deadens feelings
brings light foretold

clouds are prancing
delightfully
and so we share

maudlin moments

on days when this
sky is but blue

we seem to let
internecine
tear both our
  ligaments

o I observe
more than I should

litany in
a time of plague

whence does morality
get its power—
from religion—
is it natural?
are we guided
or are we pluming mindlessly?

so long as eyes can see and we can breathe
so long lives this, we’re nothing but carefree

I saw, I am not

green towel dances in the wind
the windows are slated with dust—
 abhorrently!

iron & wine is my company tonight
my love for indie folk grows again
 out of the sick contemporary
a love for meaning, not for rhythms in disarray

I write like I bleed
keeping thoughts private
but end up keeping them one after another
who are they for anyway;
who gives a damn for bloody literature!

I see it in the mirror and in contemplations
seeking from those who observe
more than I do
a womb of cynicism
I see growth: a different man

a different man I, I
perhaps
so desperately wish
to be

Here lies a scar

of a decree unswervingly slit
as thin as grandma’s white hair

pain is literally the
only thing that grounds my whimsicality

had a talk with my Dad in the car the other night
listening to Carpenters had him smile most reminiscently
asked for a memory
and he said nothing, absolutely

he is powerful that way I guess
for memories affect him only briefly

I need to learn
techniques of dissociation and not look back

years later
where Quiet Inside is redolent
of those moments that are decadent

The night wind coos

the night wind coos so very flirtatiously
I like it
my parents are watching a Hong Kong drama downstairs
I was reading
the words of Dostoyevsky painted human nature greatly unflattering
I feared him

then again
everything seemed to fall so seamlessly in place
like feeling warmth from newly ironed clothes
like watching blobs of water slide cheerfully off feathers of a duck
like listening to Jay Wadley’s pieces

  My heart falls quietly on my bed
I watch it beat silently
feeding it with fresh words each day, a newly learnt social skill

I hope it is happy
I hope it is content
I hope I’ve quelled the mayhem

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