Subliminal Patterns
Stream of consciousness X Poetry
Exile of life | Stains of my universe
Darkness:
It guide me through hell,
Without it,
The light of the path,
wouldn’t stand out so well.
You can have - have it.
You can have my best,
For I like my worst.
Hands - call me filth;
It’s a lifestyle, not a habit.
Go on, girl - grab—
Thanks for the contribution.
Independent stains of my universe
A black-hole—intern.
Messiah of the rust - rusting still.
Blow the candle out
Then we’ll see who will.
My stinger, a lustful twister,
In the pitch black dark.
What ever happens, happens: it’s a THRILL.
Even when I was young I liked the fear,
I liked to feel ill.
It got me feeling something.
I played on it.
Met some demons.
And guess what?
They loved me
Because I disliked what’s REAL…
I fought,
and I thought I had you.
It was just the wind whispering,
Throwing punches at my back.
I threw the dirty needle in the bin
Red running from where you would be.
Your kiss made the wound gentle.
I was certainly searing.
Touching each other’s eyes; soul gazing.
The girl once asked me if I wanted to see a meadow. She brought me to her house and pointed at her duvet; grass and flowers. That’s the first time I was glad to be mislead. though she’s not a girl, she’s a woman. I’m still young enough for it not to be seen as creepy to some. I know some woman who like to be referred to that way - bad girls. What’s better than adding in your own little twist. A squeeze of lemon. ‘Girla’ is like the Italian version, but not. It’s actually ragazza. I’m sure we can agree on it sounding right as a crossbreed.
I have an irregular heart beat. That’s what the doctor told me. Asked me if I have stress. I countered with: I knew her personally.
And Fuck off the man said when I asked him if he ever had heart palpitations when thinking of the girl you love, distracted during a game of chess with a mouth full of chocolate porridge that had sesame seeds. It wasn’t my idea of fun. The pawns moved me. The towers are no longer watching the way I pretend that the water i drink is whisky. Fuck off. Here’s a glass to the rocks thrown at me - immune to it. I must have known you’d meet me. It’s not a big deal, and I’m ready to move forward. Love can be found in goodb(e)yes. It’s not that complicated and I’m not as sentimental. I’m only crying from a child’s hat being left behind. I picked it up and took a picture of it. Posted it on the local lost and found page and somebody sent me a message asking if it’s for sale. I might have been baffled. I don’t know what it meant. It couldn’t have more senses than the five thousand tobacco papers (that are an even number, possible to be divided by two) that were deliberately stuck to you that evening at the art exhibition at that museum where I was happy to be with you - or was it that they provided music and alcoholic beverages that might have contributed to me vomiting into my shoes instead of on that painting that made me feel like I was stuck in it. I was framed by everybody watching me throw up in my loafers that you made me wear.
This is so interesting. Thanks for sharing this piece.