imagination
Building Windmills
I wish that I could build windmills
In the vast and empty space between my ears
Maybe they would power my imagination
And feed my hopes and fears
I wish that I could plow the fields of my mind
And raise a bountiful crop
With lands and lands of growing ideas
Over hills and valleys until they drop
Into ravines and torrents of inspiration
Flowing through my very veins
Gushing, splashing onto paper
Roaring like oncoming trains
And blasting speedily through my write-block
Then coming steadily through my head
So I can be happy with my efforts
AND FINALLY, I CAN GO TO BED!
The Elephant in My Cell
You came at a bad time.
A terribly, terribly bad time.
You showed up the moment I couldn’t stand to touch you.
I was afraid you were never going to come.
I should have been glad you came, but why am I not relieved?
Is it that crippling fear that the moment I touch you, you fade away like a ghost?
Is it that you might be a whistleblower looking for an insecurity to use against me later?
Or is it that you are trying to distract me from tending to my garden before it dies of thirst?
I want to shout, “Why didn’t you come sooner?!”
I want to shout, “Where were you when I needed you most?!”
I want to yell at the top of my lungs, “Would it kill you to tell me what’s driving you away from me?!!”
But I am too nice. Too kind and gentle to scream and point to the elephant in the room.
The very elephant that a sorcerer pulled out of his hat and crippled both of my limbs.
I never wanted to call for help because it reinforces the notion that I should still be in high school.
I’ve crawled around all year avoiding the other teenage drama queens that worship dragons.
Seems like they forgot that dragons like to steal our fortunes and our hearts. Before they eat them.
Spending time with my open-minded little brother has planted a seed of doubt in my head.
A seed that gets me thinking that all love does to me is waste my time experimenting with false hope.
My imaginary nights with a fallen angel goes along the lines of;
“Yes, yes, honey, shower me with hugs and kisses. Oh, my love, how I yearn for you.
Pleasure me with your lust until the water in your veins runs out and you become a raisin.
Only then, will I toss you in the sun and wonder why the hell I’ve never gotten lucky.”
When will the water cycle end for the both of us?
What compels Venus to bewitch me to make bad choices?
Why else do you think independent seekers with degrees in hand avoid commitment?
Our grandparents and parents are more patient than our generation is now
Because compared to us, they tended to their gardens and their raisins.
You did a bang-up job tending to me by showering me with promises you can’t keep,
With complex wisdom about human nature, stories of your struggle to get your education over with,
And the snuggles and touches that I wished were real more than the chains I dream of shattering.
You’ve made this game look so easy, you know?
All that had impressed me about you lately is how you’ve lured me into your arms,
Only to neglect me without warning when the sun was at its hottest.
Part of me does not wish to see you go because I tolerate the pain that your absence has left behind.
You scarcely have time on your hands, but would you care to join me for a cup of jasmine tea?
It won’t take long. What I want to know next is what else is new that you have yet to tell me?
The Beast Inside...
The beast inside…
© 2017 SachikoMochiko " Sachi Ruaya
What’s worse than killing someone? Leaving them suffering alive. Now, whether or not they suffer is up to them…
Cracks…that’s how the light comes in.
You found that someone,
Who you deem; is the last piece of you
O’ but that one…that other one just "
…
How long will your grip hold?
It’s a dark feeling; jealousy
Where green, grey and black swirls weave your heart
Like steel, poison ivy
As your blood curdles and boils,
your red-laced eyes eyeball
That one who touched your precious
Your precious gem that you admire from afar.
Your precious one, who births a hazy warm chest.
Your precious half…the other fading half of you.
But you refrain from killing
And instead of making arrangements to prey,
You keep that one alive but suffering from your fangs
Your inner beast lurks inside,
already devoured half of you and yourself.
Its true form will not feast unless you do
Your fangs…its fangs bite, drawing thick, oozy blood
Of the one you hold captive in your prison
All for that one precious one, you shed blood
Your bite…your torture…your beast
Is a reflection of the steel, poison ivy
Is a being born from your selfishness…your jealousy
But you continue to feast even when you know
Know that this beast will soon consume your flesh, Bone-clean
Because pleasure will come from ones’ suffering
You are blinded by the beast; your scarlet eyes see no more,
the beauty of your precious gem…
Blurry. Vivid. Pitch-black.
You have lost sight of your intentions,
And your precious gem’s light is no more
Now, you know: You. Are. Devoured.
You sit there on the bottom of the beast’s stomach
Living with the pure darkness of your own
Alone. With your crackling, dry heart -unable to love
After all, you were just blind.
Destined to lurk in darkness.
Emptiness. Your skin slowly peels off from the dry darkness
Slowly…painfully, in this prison, the veil is ripped
Revealing something undeniably powerful
You.
The bleeding wounds of which the skin is peeled
Thus, shunned the lies and unveils the truth
The truth of you embedded inside -within the beast
…
The light suppresses the dry darkness
With your passion, memories, joy and love
You slice through the belly…striving for freedom once more!
Author’s Note:
This is one of the small fragments to ready one of my upcoming masterpiece. I will write more poems like this (having the same motivational force). WORRY is next.
© 2017 SachikoMochiko
The Art of Writing...
Humanity's engraved history,
on the tips of our fingers,
on the tip of the mind
It's a beautiful art, isn't it?
How someone's soul,
personality,
beliefs,
style,
Is expressed with a language
Of course, I do not
I do not limit
Limit to words...
Body language is the writing of the body
Music is the writing to decorate time
Facial Expression is the art of writing and interpreting...from the crust of a soul
Writing is not what you just think it is
It. Is. Pure. Art.
Figment of my Imagination
Figment of my Imagination
By JFarrell
I am just a figment of your imagination
I don’t exist
The grumbling of a piece of cheese
Eaten too late at night
A shadow stirred by a
Tap-tap-tapping on your door
Memories awakened by
A howling on the wind
The breath on your neck
Of “Spring-Heeled” Jack
The knife at your throat
In Whitechapel
A ghost, a wisp
A vivid dream
Already forgotten
As you wake
The flea bites me
Then bites the arm of God
And I am nothing, forever
Just a figment, an echo
Clouds
Clouds
By JFarrell
Like a film reel
The pictures flow before me
One by one
A majestic bird, an eagle,
Spreads it wings and takes flight;
A steam barge,
Chugging it’s way upriver;
A juggling clown,
Putting on his mask, to hide his tears;
Another man in a mask,
Highwayman, to take your gold at gunpoint;
This one shows the sun breaking,
Over a lovely, sleeping town;
This one shows the sun setting,
Over the smouldering, blackened ruins of a bombed village;
This one shows the beginning of all time,
That one shows the end of all time.
Clouds are beautiful and wondrous,
And such an inspiration,
For the imagination.
Look up,
You might too
See the beginning
And the end
Of everything.
Imagine Everything Is Backwards
I just want to be
With the night.
Quietly write.
Just float in space,
And feel misplaced.
Weightlessly fly.
Gather letters and words,
Sounds that taste like rain.
Voicelessly sing.
Carefully calculate
Senselessness.
Condense the expansion.
Melt it into an ice cube
And swallow it whole.
Shut in the out.
Turn on the dark,
Greet each subtle whimsy,
As I dangle from the edge
Of a crescent moon.
...and swoon
I want to be with the night.
Alright?
Let's pretend
Let's, for a minute, pretend. That reality is a figment of our imaginations, and a nightmare in which people choose to live in... let's pretend that it's only us and the stars, the clouds, the dusk... well, let's focus on us.
I know it's irrational to move away from the grasps of the inevitable reality in which this world forces us to feel emotional and doubt who we are and what we feel... but let's just pretend and be happy, even though we know it's not real...
In this place we call a "dream," let's be together and do everything that reality prevents us from doing... Let's fall in love and have hope and be just fine with no anxiety and smile about all the great things we could do together...
Let's just pretend...? Only for a moment..
Imagination's Longevity
Imagination's Longevity
by Odin Roark
If no father takes my hand,
I'll make Care my father.
If no mother wipes my tears
I'll embrace Order.
If no friend stands beside me,
I'll make Quiet my friend.
If no enemy presents lessons
I'll welcome Other shadowless light.
If a roof is not for me,
I'll make Audacity my shelter.
If my eyes fail to see,
I'll Listen.
No ears,
I'll Think.
No thought,
I'll Wait.
If no Fortune comes my way,
my Means will make me rich.
If no Love furthers smiling,
I'll court Sleep to imagine.
Tomorrow,
and tomorrow's tomorrow,
is but a sunrise away.
I'll remain of Hope,
knowing dreams are often
one’s Imagined rewards…
meaning to happen.