Saturday Morning Thoughts

Not a bad angle in thinking of writing and arts this way =)

mvitrano

Is it egotistical for the writer to believe they can create something worthy of someone’s time and attention? (as if that’s even the point) To create little or vast pocket universes, alternate realities, that capture the imagination and transports the reader to ideas and places undiscovered. Perhaps it’s more accurate to say, “rediscovered”; because there really is nothing new in creation, just newness not yet perceived. It’s all out there in the circular filing cabinet of time waiting to be found. So to even say that the writer creates perhaps is sheer egotism itself; what we really do is find and bring forth ideas, in distinctly unique ways, that already exist, have always existed in an infinite well spring of possibilities conceived and not yet realized. How conceited are we to think we ever held an original thought? How full of shit am I for even thinking this?

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palm of a blue giant

a blue giant branched out in my palm
feeling me the force of love
pulsating in the corners of my smile
universalising my cure to frailty

each page then resounded a letter
that was me in the finest form
filled with peccadilloes but also purities
and the horse did not come to bring apocalypse
of a degeneration but a prince who was I
fighting with my sword and scimitar

an oasis branched out in my iris
a solar system of planets and stars
in the constellations of my all my deeds done
and all deeds to come
finding that I was bracketed as the moon
with the definition of suns

I glow because my luminosity
is the only one who I can proudly state was me.—

chasm diegesis

there was a chasm of loneliness
and it bore my name
and I decided to fill it with tears
hoping to reach the surface

only sorrow did not quench that thirst
and my tears had to be hope bound
for what is sorrow if not a testament
to hope? We will meet unfairness and injustice
that is how human systems work
but the meta of you was designed not
to follow that rule. Believe in God or believe in greater dimensions
that supersede what holds the matter and makes you closer
to the holy

I managed to make my chasm a ocean
I made it into something fertile
for only I lived this life
and I know it held meaning
slings and bows now serve my soldiers.—

classical antagonism

nothing seems to be more caustic
than the ignorance of being ignored
and the indifference to the genuine
the practice of selective empathy
that has the negative zeal of selfishness
the mistaken selves on the shelves
of some codified, communal and coefficient categorisations
that a human moulds to serve themselves

was I never good enough for you?
was I never a good friend for you?
did I not talk to you when no one would?
did I not give you time and also befriended
your sorrows as my own?
and took your phantoms seriously?

why did you whisper sweet nothings in my ear?

it is hard to gain the respect of someone
who didn’t know what was the denotation of love
and the connotations of the affection
that lay between my chest

I palpitate
but grief should not be my second sun

for the indifference in you
highlights my love
and the nth power of my being
knows that what I did was infinite.—

precipice paintbrush

there is a precipice of who I am
and the narrative turns like the yellowing
of yellow pages; the archaic science
of me; proverbial and primordial in the wake

what can I say I am beastial, having to act polite
it is in my nature to be typhoon and tycoon
but I butter my obscenities so they can melt in your mouth
as I spoon feed you innocence know that my spoon was
an iron coded telos that knew what it felt
to have a poverty of being even if there was
the necessities to live; yet there was a refrain of self

a piano polished and not played is going to be eaten by insects
and not the kind that grow wings and molt off carnage
these blemishes are the still growing patterns
even if my seeds are blue and black
know that I have the chroma heart of a karma exodus
torching my veins and entering my alphabet
like the Aleph of the soul paintbrushed by
the slowness and sureness of the time spent
walking to this precipice
of who I am.—

telemetry of a fighter

rustling in the hands of my fate
as they wash themselves
I am tethered to the soap and I cling to the skin

never letting myself be washed away
the cells of me intermixing with the cells
of destiny; a bath of serene calmness
each ridge of bone, map coordinates to fixate on
as I embellish and write the x and y axis
thinking of the m slopes on the way

the vertigo of finding some new integers
as my skin manifests the glow
I am naked with muscle
and my fists ball up
forcing me to sway into battle

I only go down when I know the end means me
charting off to a new chapter
for fighting for me
is the telemetry of my bones
lining up to receive the blood and flesh
of my organ sounding triumph.—