Thoughtful Brain, Troubled Mind

Tag: Poem

I must not sink

My fingers are ready to write, my mind is now ready to spill. My feet are thrown outwards, now my pencil will fill. I am far from the sea and you are the sky – all of you are. The suturing of them both is an idea copied and repeated. We believe in individualism but are drugged by the poets and the artists who marry us in harmony and make us believe we are one when we insist we are two.

We have become quieter, our lapses into madness lesser, and periods of an expected decency greater. Value does not exist without limit. So limit has been manifested under the short sunlit period today. We stood peaceful, like rocks beside a creek, listening to a busker singing “Stand by Me” by Florence and the Machine. Everything felt like a grand theatre and I was part of a performance that would never end. I now see why Virginia Woolf would prefer the violent jolt of London to the silent anaesthetic of Richmond. London is one with many voices, each apportioned an identity interlinked. It is a must for Charles Dickens to be born, for Jane Austen to be born, for Christina Rossetti to be born, for poets and artists to exist and immortalise the upset proportions of the world. Will I write a book? Why are we embarrassed by what we read? I must let the soul suspend and not always push it back to the body. I must write more and read plenty. I must not sink.

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?

Mayday

This emotion will be unintelligibly, improperly and unjustifiably transcribed. Oh why do I even try! I can no longer figure my way through words; I am undeniably handicapped. These are growing dissatisfactions of which there are no ailments, no solutions! It is a biological disorder; a tumour growing and hurting the insides of my gut, my lungs, my valves, my skull and possibly culminating in the glorious penetration out of my skin—screaming in absolute liberty! Oh why do the bones want more? Is skin not enough?

Vagaries!

My brain is now of twisted nerves; I can’t concentrate on the fleeting nor the whims, nor the insufferable smells of cigarettes burning up, they will combust! I feel I am two: splitting into forms of which I know not, my desires are undergoing mutation, my fears are undergoing change like the unpropitious morning weather—rain or shine! what brine!

I want to breathe life into the undying constants and the great contentment that most possess. But this is a desire, a duty perhaps, which is socially obnoxious. A different happiness does not mean a lesser one. I must remember! Perhaps I need to apply this theory to myself, to just lie back, to relax and breathe in regulated fours. I am a brick about to shatter into rubble; I am a lark—indecisive and sickening and brazen! You told me umpteenth times and I am learning not to be. There are times when I value that passionate pursuit yet times when I seek other more joyous activities. The indulgence of which obliterates my propensity for writing and my marking of growth, my dying youth, my moulting self.

I am going mad! My words are disjunct!

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

Alive, alive!

I am losing the flavours I breathe and the sights I taste. I don’t feel tethered by any human connection, by any conscience, by any emotion I want to dispose of so willingly, but, with a metastasising futility. This liberty brings me breeze.

I am reading, reading and reading! ticking texts off literary canons and ingesting delectable syntaxes, intellectual debates about structuralism and humanists’ views! nursery rhymes are made tragedy; tragedy is made simple and independent. Pages that are only less than 300 seem so deathlessly delightful. They make me alive, make me come to terms with the scarcities and plenties I feel within myself. The writing comes alive; I come alive.

I feel insane no more. There is no intensity in emotion, but I am writing. There is no sick obsession with melancholy, but I am writing. I am creating new rules for myself to follow, but break them for evolution.

Golly! I have found a great musician just yesterday and everything falls to place, like snow back to lakes.

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