So(u)liloquy

You can tell Mr. Prufrock that April is indeed the cruelest month;
Seven years ago, my first love sprouted from the showers.
Seven minutes ago, my second love died from the wasteland.

You can tell Mr. Prufrock that if he reads much of the night,
he shall see: I am The Wasteland.
You cannot dare, no, you cannot dare.

But you shall breathe when forestry loops itself around you
over and
over and

over–

Ghostly abandonment, and –”You must not use adjectives, young writer.”
Shadow your fears,
follow them just enough to see:
Life.
And its lack thereof.

This is an adolescent homage to the lost,
the last, the languid,
those who went lame with thought.

Irrelevancies in sequence,
adorned in all those winding streets of min(e/d).
My candles burned for the sons I lost at war.
They burned me down.
Their light cast more darkness… more.
More of an entropic descent.

If you cannot be human, you must
cease existence.

Contrive and orchestrate
an unforgiving stupor of
not wanting anything but
mastering the use of adjectives

to levy upon

loss.

 

-Influenced by: Eliot, Bukowski, and Hemingway.

Writing Club Project #16: Speak

Hello, can you hear me? Am I clear? Am I understood?

Am I understood?

For too long, I have spent my life rearranging every drop in the ocean to make sense of how I can deliver each and every word in a succession of tidal waves without drowning in them. But my pockets have been filled with stones by none other than diction as it laughs at how I am dragged to the bottom of the sea.

I am hollow on the inside; there is no more expression in this shell of mine. I have exhausted every word in me with this pen, paper vacated any sense of meaning I could have had.

Much like city streets in the dead of night, I am many constructed paths that lead to nowhere in particular.

There are no words left for me.
Each word I have met, became infatuated with and gotten to know.
Each word I introduced to all my friends.
Each word a lover I cannot bear to part.
And when the time comes (and oh, how it comes so quickly), they decide it’s time for a break or that we should see others. I realize that it’s not me, it’s them, because they have left me without as much as articulating anything I had truly meant to say.

Given their departure, my thoughts have waged a cold war against words.
Listener, I need deliverance from every thread of thought of mine that found its way to tie a noose around me. And it is through you; I need to speak of what is within you.
I need to connect, and wade through every stream of thought flowing through you because mine have dried, shriveled, and killed off everything that grew around them.

Words might have deserted me, but they shall adore you. They will sound out your very pulse in light of the solace your soul emits.

It is why I want, have, and need to speak the essence of you, listener. I want to collect every goosebump as my words melt into your skin, trophies of a coveted triumph; knowing that they have met with your heart and it welcomed them. I want to meet you at the most secluded corner of your mind and show you how I’ve made a home of what goes on through it.

I think I need you to want me to speak for you. But I think most of all, I want to be a writer.

And when I have immersed myself in your entire being, I wish to hear from you what would validate the process of losing myself to emulate yours, what would validate my very existence.

“I understand.”

192

He claimed spinning clever fate in the dark.

He taught me how to whisper futures into dead ends.

He asked everyday: “Are you dying to live?”

But

I

am

living

to

die.

Living as if I

lost

you, myself and everyone.

Am I under grace when in feeling,

I have buried myself

alive in everyone I ever loved?

And I have felt so

Alone

before knowing

what “alone” even meant.

I am his train wreck, but there is no song in my head.

Waking, Medicating, Recovering, Relapsing, Composing..

D i s i n t e g r a t i n g.

–Influenced by