I have always been a writer; to myself. Hundreds of magazines, blogs, newspapers and publishing houses have turned down my writing. I was mad, even depressed. I’d go through stages of self hatred, thinking I would never be good enough and my writing was shit; I’d never get any better. You want to know why […]
From being burned OUT! Translated…
After the noises, I knew, I will never, return, to those days of quiet, of serenity again, every day, I’d, watched that sky that’s, constantly changing colors, the thunder that, came from, nowhere, the flood that started, out of nowhere, how, do I, get back to the days of the past, when I could, feel at ease and just, study? How do I, go back to the days, when this trail wasn’t, so well traveled? Right now, my mind felt, like that old shirt that’s been washed and rewashed, over, and over again, no matter how I’d bleached, there are still, age marks, spots, with the memories of the injuries I’d, sustained in life.
A bird returning to the nest flew by the skies, where, is it, returning to? Where, can it find a nest so settled and stable? Can’t remember, how many times the feathers changed, with that expectation, of a, brand new life, living among others, but too shamed, to fight for the food, and the only dignity it had remained, in flying solo amongst the buildings. If name is a symbol of glory, then, distribution becomes, the biggest sort of insult. That sort of an awful looks from fighting over the food, don’t know how many fell ill by seeing it every single day. Just like that bird that cut across the skies, allowing, that shade, to vanish, into the distances.
And, in the depth of the night, came the sounds of flute playing, who is it, that played that song of sorrow of the eras? Is the person, hiding that scent of sorrow in the notes, passing, to someone who can understand, or, like a nightingale, singing its songs of the night? The notes seemed to have that ancientness to it, man’s pursuits of thousands of years, will NEVER measure up to the purities of the world, and, how can you, mutilate yourself so? No longer, flipping at the calendars, no longer, seeking out that longitude/latitude on the maps, where to station oneself, it wouldn’t, make a difference. Sneaking a peek, at others, everything is, so clear now.
exactly what that felt like…not my photograph…
Some sang high, those who followed along, gathered, only that lone bird, continued, flying, all on its own, it doesn’t call on its kind, so, it can only, flight for the reducing amounts of foods, that branch it’d stood on for day already, rotted out, and can no longer, withstand the weights of all the birds. It’d, flew onward alone, left ALL the noises from the others behind, continued in flight, and, flying on, and on, and on, even as the moon dimmed out, depending on just the dying light of the stars. It’d, kept, flying onward, become, this small, black dot in the universe.
So, this, is how the writer feels, getting lost in the daily grind, there’s, that sense of burnout, that sense of I don’t know what I’m doing here, that sense, of feeling tired, fatigued, of the same old routines, day in, and day out, and just like that bird, the narrator will, keep treading on in her/his own life, because that, is what we all do, we, carry on, with our lives!
Meditate X-Ray Vision
Measure & Weigh that Gigantic, Gorgeous
what it’d looked like, before the show starts…photo from online…
I Already, Relieved Myself of the Quality of
the Internal Flames. The Moment I Touched
the Plot with the Extension of My Hands
Instinct Suddenly, Shoved Me Outside the Doors
And, I Was, Faced with
Everything that Happens On the Set at the Moment
Waiting Until the Rice Grew Past My Knees
That Sensation that Compelled Me to Pull Them Up
Sounded off the Alarms of Joy
in makeup, and running that last rehearsal of lines, to make sure that we are, more than prepared…photo from online…
Asking that Sky from Outside My Windows
Are You Too, Afraid of Noises?
So, this, is all someone’s mind, making a scene, so to speak, the narrator is having an introspective moment, and, this is leading the narrator somewhere…
So many, metaphors here, translated…
Time is, with the Back of the Hand, Closing in on a Cat
As the Hand Approached that Light Pink Nostrils
that, is how time sneaks up on us…not my comic!
It’d Started, Inhaling the Air So Coldly
So, this, is how this poet interprets time, there’s how greedy the cat become, in consuming the air, which I believe, is a metaphor of how some of us greedily, tried too hard, to keep time from running out………
Bauhaus once said: I hope that after I’d died, I can still believe, that I’m alive, walking around my house like I were, continue writing, discussing matters of religion.
Back then, as I’d heard, I was, shocked, I hope too, after I’d died, I can still feel, that I’m alive too, I can, slow down the paces of the day, and, feeling poetry, forming inside of my body, contemplating, the time to capture poetry in my hands.
So, this, is loving something very much, that you can’t live without it, having that passion for the things you do, and, it would be wonderful, if we can all find something we loved doing, and be committed like that.
It was, rainin’, really hard as I set out…
Bombed by the rain, everywhere I looked, there were these, thin needles, that pricked up the road, torn it up, like how if you’d, stuck needles into a piece of dough? Yup, it’d, looked like that, only, that the holes wouldn’t be, permanent at all!
Bombed by the rain, the rain was so fucking (and your point being???) hard today, and, it’d, rained like this for about a week or so, and, there’s still NO signs of this season of rain, ending, anytime soon…
like this, only, that the water came from up high, photo from online…
Bombed by the rain, I don’t know, how long this roof over my head will hold, in fact, the last time it’d rained just as hard, those prickly needle-like rain had, fallen, straight into the bucket I’d placed on the floors (yes, this place leaked too!!!). Bombed by the rain, I now have an idea, how those soldiers, dodging the bombs from their enemies felt, only, that this rain “bomb” gets absorbed by my cloth, unlike how the bombs of war can, kill the soldiers, blow them up to pieces!
Bombed by the rain, it’d, felt harsh now, never had this sort of experiences before, I mean, rain was just rain, was just and ONLY rain, don’t know why I’d felt so sentimental about it now? Or perhaps, this is, the very first time it’d rained, after, you’d, walked away from this home we’d built up???
saying goodbye in the downpour…not my art…
The philosophies from life, translated…
That Ancient Cement-Paved Wall
Became So Spotted Like an Ancient Piece of Paper
The Spots Seemed to Cause People to
See Certain Images Underneath the Sun
a wall like this must have stories to tell…photo from online…
Those Art Classes from Our Middle School Years
After Passing Through the Accumulation of Time
Became Like Shiny Stars High Up in the Skies
Sometimes, They’d Looked Like the Broken Stems of the Lotuses in the Ponds
The Architect Measured the Totems of the Land
That Wall Often Attracted Me
And Metamorphosed into Various Stories in My Mind
It’d Stood, Few Feet Away
Colliding, Changing into Various Things with Time
Entered from My Pupils
or like this…photo from online…
Started Growing within Me
Becoming, an Endless World of Wonder
Like Stories that the World
Has Disclosed to Me
So, so many things are, written down, not in words, but in images, every place has its own history, and you just need to, listen, or look closer, to hear those silent words that these places are telling to you…