You’re a lover of beauty, but I absolutely love it when you draw ugly things. It’s like dissecting through me and tantalizing on the hideousness,
unevenness, asymmetries, quirks, faults and mistakes.
It’s gutting my pain, and somehow finding a hidden rainbow
From splatters of chaotic colors.
I love it when you see it; these bursts of fire red and seeping black blue. I love it when your brush strokes frantically because life just isn’t more. It’s a silly dance that you dance, of anguish and frustrations, but it’s so grand. I know you’re a lover of beauty, but I just love it when your hand’s stained in ink. When the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen rests on a dirty sheet of paper,
when you destroy its face into pieces and see me.
I’m sitting here on the empty Jacuzzi staring at the ceiling with water droplets spritzing near my face, as I try to feel fulfilled. In my room, I spray all types of scents to calm my senses but it just numbs me down. I have every material thing that I want and I make a lot of money for a chick who claims to not need a lot. I turn on the bright blue therapy light that mimics sunlight to feel like I’m sitting under the sun. I meet a lot of people every day whom I don’t call my own. I have the love of my two parents but I want a big family that’s fifty times bigger and will have my back. I have the guy that adores me but I also want one who doesn’t. I’m climbing the capitalist ladder but I believe in socialist type stuff. I’m maintaining my status as a whatever, but it’s just killing me inch by inch. I don’t take pills, smoke, or drink to cope but that doesn’t mean I’m happier. I can’t follow spiritual leaders and luminaries who say pretty things because in the end they’re just humans like me. I can’t support any religions with an open heart because they talk too much of discipline, but I’m fueled by instinct and desire. I have realistic aspirations now and still want to do significant things for the future, but I don’t if I don’t have to. I can have kids if I want to but I may just let my body shut down. There are twelve months in a year and eight of them are already over and I can’t get the past three or four years back.
Unconscious minds, robotic lives, synthetic food,
Industrialization, expedited technological progression, automation
The labor force driven by coffee and lack of sleep
Careless destruction of nature…
Children nurtured by media
Animals, our puppets
They’re always on a mission, hanging out with each other, having a purpose and all.
Sometimes everything becomes so difficult, and you feel weak and lonely. But the sun has a marvelous way of shining on you, smiling zenfully at you,
holding your hand,
and picking you up.
On the green grass, breathing in nature, during the sunny daytime, with you
On the courtyard, hearing the insects, under the moonlit starry nighttime, with you
In the news yesterday, a girl accidentally killed her sister carelessly while drunk driving. She sounded apathetic when she talked. I felt sharp anger towards her. I thought she didn’t deserve this world nor this life anymore. She was a disgrace to society; a murderer of her own innocent sister. She seemed to sound crazy when she talked. She looked emotionless; it was as if she was possessed. She’s the type that no one will ever understand. She’s probably hurt. This world is full of hurt. Full of walking souls; miserable, in pain. In the end, I wanted to give her a hug. I imagined the faraway and numb look on her face.
I wanted to go home and hug my little sister. I’d give up a limb for her.
I got confronted at the bus stop several weeks back. It wasn’t a big deal but I still recall how I chose to remain silent and composed while the bus driver laughed.
I got yelled by the same guy for a mistake he made while he was inattentive. I’m sure he realized his mistake and felt bad afterwards, but I still got hurt.
When my mom yells at me due to frustrations in her own life, I know she’s not the perpetrator and nor am I the victim. I just know that sometimes we get treated as people’s punching bags. Sometimes it hurts being passive; people really may not know how sensitive I really am inside. It hurts me, and my eyes moisten in the silence amid darkness. But the sounds of crickets at night whisper to me that they really do know. My sensitivity is as clear as daylight; it really isn’t something that I could ever hide very well. Yet I understand why we get treated as punching bags. The perpetrators are hurting as much as the victims themselves. Everybody’s swimming in a sea of hurt. A dead man killed on the cross is a hurtful sight that’s inspired an entire religion. We’re all just walking around carrying our own stories and burdens. It’s a quiet world if we just let our minds hush. It’s a loving world if we just look into each other’s teary eyes.