Greyzilched.

Relief.

to fall, to flutter, to fly;
to acknowledge we were born to die.
life, fleeting, like feeble flowers;
frail is the fashion of our generation.
fight or flight,
freedom is the better option.
in the face of fire,
fragile we become;
engulfed in flames, we soon find ourselves.
finally, we feel the earth’s fur,
buried in its fine flesh,
fondled by its fiery focus.
relief.

*

- by zilchedgrey

Second best.

Their tears are filling up their glasses;
no expression, no expression.

Mourning for the loss of something you’ve never owned;
foolish men and women, in bereavement, clamouring for consolation.
Does any athlete go to the Olympics hoping for second place?
Yes, first is best. Is second still second best?

Does it matter at all, one’s placing when he fails to get first place?
Losers are but losers, aren’t they?
No matter how much they appear or try to appear different, they’ve lost.

If the person you love doesn’t love you back,
does it matter if you were the first person to love,
or whether you’d be the first people they look for when they’ve fallen out of love?

The old me would’ve said it didn’t matter; I was a loser then.
But one must recognize the difference, no matter how trivial it might be,
because it means that you mattered to the person and regardless of the feeble consolation;
a silver medal is better than not having stood on the podium at all.

I may never be anyone tremendously important, but at least I’ve tried and am, perhaps, remembered.

Hello teacher tell me what’s my lesson?
Look right through me, look right through me.

*

- by zilchedgrey

Skin; bones.

Have you ever thought about what protects our hearts?
Just a cage of rib bones and other various parts.

Skin and bones,
we all are,
all we ever will be.
In death, we are but skin and bones.

No wings, no gills, no exoskeleton.
Nothing special, unless disadvantaged.
Everyone likes to be special.
Not everyone can handle being special.

Some of us, highly intuitive, remarkably clairvoyant,
impeccably wise; some of us don’t appreciate the gifts.
The understanding feeds on the individual,
leaving it an empty shell.

Wake up and smell the coffee.
You have nothing to be afraid of.
The spirit triumphs the skin; the mind prevails over bones.
I wish you could see what I see.

So it’s fairly simple to cut right through the mess
and to stop the muscle that makes us confess.

*

- by zilchedgrey

Burst.

The comfort my father offers,
watching over me as I sit at the bus stop
in the wee hours on a rainy morning,
is quite tremendous considering the paradoxical
emotional and physical distance we share.
It is out of shame, perhaps, that
I may not burst into water while he is beside me.
I may not weep at a public bus stop.
I may not find some form of release away from home
where some things are kept unknown.
While you sleep soundly in your sheets till the sun rises,
I’m heading to camp to perform my duties, they say,
in this cold, unfeeling weather.
It reminds me of you.
I never learnt my lesson;
was there any to begin with?
In retrospect, I’ve, perhaps, done everything a man in my position could.
Yes, curiosity does kill the cat, doesn’t it?
Have you forgotten that I’m human?
I have never used your secrets against you,
forcefully invaded your inner recesses,
held you against your will.
Why do I, in your eyes, see how you have perceived me as a monster?
You are no angel yourself, Hyde.
I kept the promises I made, sworn myself to secrecy and to your bizarre terms of selective celibacy.
I bleed apologies and I retreat, yet you remain unmoved.
I’m running out of time and ideas here.
Now I bear your uncertainty upon my shoulders.
Are you happy?
‘It is better to be loved than to be the one who loves.’
Maybe you haven’t seen it yet.
Maybe in my death you would realize how much I cared, the things I’ve done to accommodate you and the things I don’t say when I try to keep my cool, like heartburn and I’m holding in the vomit that burns my throat as I try to suppress it.
It never was and never will be your fault,
for I was the brave fool who ventured beyond the door;
now I cannot pretend to have missed the monster I saw.
Yes, we are all monsters,
but we don’t have to fight to death to prove who’s superior.
You are always superior.
I concede.
You win.

*

- by zilchedgrey

Sugar.

Sugar;
heart feels better,
blood flows faster,
body gets a breather.

If only sugar was the infinite cure -
I could be remedied by
bags of gummy bears and french eclairs;
not a care in the world. Nothing would compare.

But diabetic reapers lurk -
silent waiting for a moment
to reach in for what matters most;
to leave what was living, bleeding. Dead, almost. 

Sugar;
unsuspecting killer,
untrustworthy partner,
unfathomable predator.

*

- by zilchedgrey

Dark side.

everybody’s got a dark side; do you love me? can you love mine?

I’m a mess.
I’m a wreck
when it comes to dealing with what’s all the way in,
filling buckets with pathetic apologies,
feeling like a miserable pile of trash.

Some psychotic
monster, perhaps,
takes over and I become a different person;
more genuine or more superficial
is the mystery that I will never unravel.

Attention-seeking,
pain-inflicting,
and yet tremendously devoid of self-esteem on the inside
as I fall, most ungracefully, and succumb to
what takes over in my times of need.

Maybe this is how karma works in many ways.
For all the times I get by in life, safe and mostly sound,
I will never find or fall in love with the right person,
no matter how far I look or how hard I try -
an exchange I never once agreed to or endorsed. 

will you love me, even with my dark side?

I think I already know the answer.

*

- by zilchedgrey

Granted.

Little things,
we take for granted,
like public transport and the
autonomic nervous system.

Like breathing,
blinking, heart-beating,
we often neglect the significance
until we find ourselves drowning.

The actions,
they keep us alive,
healthy, free to take flight,
to seek our hearts’ desire.

Every function
has its own condition.
Surely, the seemingly unconditional service
must not be left unnoticed.

Disregard,
or inattention, would
breed discomfort. The same must be said
for hearty, some happy, humans.

Some day
the functions fail us
and we find ourselves gasping,
forsaken by them we forgot.

That day,
we may blame ourselves
because we only have ourselves
to blame. Nothing’s the same. 

*

- by zilchedgrey

120512

DailyHoroscope for Virgo
May 12 2012 
… You have gotten used to being under-appreciated. Perhaps no one has really “gotten” you recently. Maybe no one you have dealt with lately has seen your true spirit and goodness shine through or, if they have, they haven’t praised you for it. But you are about to meet someone who will truly appreciate you for all that you are, and that person won’t be shy about saying so.

DailyHoroscope for Libra
May 12 2012 
You may have the urge now to confide in someone, Libra. And while it’s fine to allow yourself to be vulnerable, you are probably giving in more to the need for a confidante than to a specific person. That’s why you need to be extra cautious about who you confide in. Don’t allow your desire for a deep and meaningful conversation lead you to the wrong person. There is someone in your world who would be delighted to offer you support and encouragement now, even if this is someone you might otherwise overlook. Seek out someone who understands you, and who has already earned your trust.

Copyright (c) DailyHoroscope.

Aural conversation.

As a child,
I would sit and listen
to silence
and the awkward beating of my heart
as it struggles
to find a rhythm.

The subtle interplay of baroque,
techno-electro,
and maybe some bossa nova,
or heavy metal
that stirs the blood waters
in its chambers,
yearning for some form of
desperate release,
so that one may verify its own existence above others.

The wriggly letters and their foreign language
I do not comprehend,
but when I hear them and I hear them speak
it is sort of like magic -
how they know how I feel, these people I know not;
how our feelings resonate
and waltz like we’ve always known each other.

When one stops talking,
the other starts speaking, in silence.

Candy House.

*

Books;
cover - the door;
pages - the rooms;
words - the furniture.

Like
Hansel and Gretel
at the candy house;
a convenient distraction.

Escape;
are we hiding,
are we running,
or merely resting?

Once upon a time /
inserts an adventure /
overcomes an adversity /
moral - a happily ever after.

What happens when
you’ve reached the last page?
The abode disappears and reality returns.
Not for long; you just have to get another book.

This refuge we seek is hidden between the lines:
- forged from the complexity of relationship
- fear of undesirable responses
- foolish mind games.

In some distant age or time /
the villain makes his rise /
inserts a twist of fate /
moral - a tragedy.

Are we optimistic,
are we damned,
or resigned?
Futility.

An inevitable conclusion;
blind or deaf or dumb
Romeo and Juliet -
apart.

Words - the chain and weight,
pages - the cells,
cover - the gate;
prison.

*

- by zilchedgrey

Somebody that I used to know.

You can get addicted to a certain kind of sadness.

Of pins, needles,
artisan slashes;
a railway track of time and
misery.

A stroke for every moment when
the mind breaks and
the heart takes over,
albeit briefly.

The burst of emotions,
brimming with anger and
a bloody repulse,
drenches.

The mirror shatters beyond recognition. 

Now you’re just somebody that I used to know. 

*

- by zilchedgrey