things I read

Books. Poems. Pictures. People.

[itsthingsiread]

Blisters

Same old blisters

with the slow

steady

ache

of not feeling good enough

How many times has my poor breath

stunted

in my chest

Giving new meaning to the word cavity

There

in the deep of my inhale

resides a cold fear

where a joyous beating heart

should swing to calypso tunes

should hum along to Etta James

Sunday kind of love

Baby if only you were your own

Sunday kind of love

[itsthingsiread]

You woman

caught in the tug of war

of colliding worlds

You great butterfly

with wings entrapped in thick waters

How strong you must be

to go against the winds

You woman

bird of paradise

who still flies

despite these burdensome burdens

You woman

Bearer of love and hope

How strong you must be

to fight the nets cast by this world

You woman

Gasping for air

Your tired wings

will find a resting place

in love’s embrace

May you be so lucky

as to find it

within yourself

[followcb]

The Simplest Poetry

we stood there

warm wind kissing our faces

in silence, in awe

mesmerized by life

aliveness of mother nature

her earth, her water, her sky

her inimitable creativity

no words spoken

said it all

our hearts and emotions

fully engaged

wowed by the magnetic

magic artistry

of divine inspiration

the simplest poetry

everything we needed

all we breathe to be

Image & Poem ©️ @followcb ☆ June 15, 2020

White Lake, NY

[itsthingsiread]

Vengeance

I cannot deny

that I might not love you.

You see, I am strange

because

I fall in love with metaphors

not people.

And you in all your grandeur

only exist

because I fell in love with a poem

I wrote about you.

Would you call me selfish or vain

if I told you

that I love because I write?

Would it hurt you to know

that actually it’s not you

but me

that’s made you beautiful?

Would it cause you

pain

anger

envy?

Go ahead and hurt, baby.

Bleed.

My pen needs ink.

[itsthingsiread]

Temptation

What wouldn’t I give

to unread your words

to wrench them

from the folds of my brain

to silence your pained,

beautiful voice

in the halls of my chest

to stop that murmur in my heart

when you say something

that moves me

What should I call you

Oh great disturbist

Oh wrecker of ships

What should I call you

when my heart beats to another name

What should I call you

Oh shaker of truths

Oh heavy vessel of regret

What should I call you

when I keep another’s heart close to me at night for warmth

I am sinking,

sinking

sinking,

and even though I want to call out to you

My lips are formless

because oh you whirlpool of longing

You are nameless

[itsthingsiread]

I’m a little tired of

meeting people

You see,

a boy I loved once said to me

“Perhaps we are poems,

not people”

and I have found these to be

the truest words.

So, my dear stranger,

don’t talk, but

sing to me

a verse from your soul,

and I’ll sing to you,

a verse from mine.

We can write songs

of eternity

together.

[itsthingsiread]

A good morning

I wake up often with the muscles of my neck sore

I wonder if it is the weight of my dreams

or the lumps in my pillow

I stretch backwards

And forwards

I wince

moan

bleed curses into my coffee

Nothing helps

I spend my days with my shoulders frozen

like concrete

But today is different.

From my window, the Great Tree beckons me

I watch rain drops pressing on leaves

Like timid fingers first touching a piano

I hear the notes of something to come

And sure enough, the rain drops are emboldened

They hit the plains of the tree

and its body erupts in a song just for me

I tremble and listen

The melody enters my neck and shoulders

And I begin to learn the names of my oppressor

I have met him before

I, Self, Ego

He has many names

Names I forgot

But I know again why I have felt submerged

There was a moment in time when I had wrestled my own drowning

Drained an ocean and planted a garden

Every morning I would wake up

And be overcome with delight at the new blossoms

The trailing vines

The smell of jasmine

But the sun hasn’t seen that garden in a while

The vines have shriveled

And a chill has entered the soil

Allah

Light of my soul

I fell astray

I stopped nurturing the best parts of me

I seek You again

In the Great Tree

In raindrops

In mornings like these

I throw the shutters open,

Allah,

plant the seed of light in my garden again

I promise to grow with it.

[itsthingsiread]

darkest shade of distance

i just can’t type anymore he says

well don’t

you know what you can do instead?

give me my heart back

my middle of the night kisses

my handwritten notes

and the ocean of tears

i drained on you

give it all back

and then say you can’t type anymore

let’s see how you get the balls to say that to me without my love

don’t take me for granted

my forever isn’t yours anymore

[itsthingsiread]

You turn now

with dry, sore eyes

that burn with every blink

to your own words

your own lullabies

and whispered assurances

Every time

you turn

to yourself

to feel whole again.

And you are never disappointed

In that warm cocoon

you have always found

Peace

And

God.

But when you have your face buried

deep in his embrace

You forget.

You forget the things you know already

And you forget the lessons you have learned already

Remembering is the new challenge

[itsthingsiread]

you did not ask me

how i am

i had told you my mind is eating itself

my thoughts

a swirling mess

get stuck in my throat

A weighted knot lives in my chest

and breathing is not easy

not natural

It feels more natural to be unconscious

Asleep, adrift

If you had asked I would’ve told you

I feel a deep sense of

long

ing

it is endless

like falling in a dream

It feels empty

like there are parts missing that would make me fully alive

It feels heavy

like the emptiness is a great big mass

I imagine holes in my body

where the air can pass through

freezing my insides

I lay by your feet, my hands out and up towards your face

I hope you could give me some thread

to sew myself back up

To fill the holes

With your beautiful strands of wool

Is it wrong to want some thread from you to sew me alive again?

I want to ask a therapist

Is it wrong to want some thread from him to patch me up like an old treasured sweater?

I imagine the answer is yes

I imagine the answer is

make your own

be independent

self sustainable

I would like to be Mr. Therapist

I would love to be all those things

[itsthingsiread]

white coats

I don’t know if I believe in coincidence.

Seems to me it’s just a cynical name

for magic.

Why do humans think small surprises

perfect moments or

beautiful alignments

are nothing but

random occurrences.

Is it coincidence

or magic

that you brushed past me last november

and i remembered you from a dream i had about horses.

Is it coincidence

or magic

that I craved blueberries one morning

and found a handful in my pocket.

Why do humans think small surprises,

perfect moments or

beautiful alignments

are nothing but random occurrences.

Humans can be so boring

when they have white coats on.

[itsthingsiread]

Dreaming

My soul sneaks in through the back door

Every morning

It tiptoes through the garden

And slinks onto the first step

A lot like Peter Pan, to be honest

Silent and wily

It slips a feather into the keyhole

And tickles me awake

I wake up

With my lips parted

The aftertaste of a dream

Lingers in the spaces between my teeth

My tongue tries to reach

The secret crevices

For one more zing

One last relish

But I'm thrust back into the world, wide awake

And that sly spirit curls up near the fireplace

And is fast asleep.

[itsthingsiread]

The day the sun became the moon

How could it be both?

They're two different things

No?

Like happy

and sad

Like light

and heavy

Yet today

The sun was the moon

And

The moon was the sun

I felt the merge

in my heart

I learnt that two things

can be one

Like happy

and sad

Like light

and heavy

Like the sun

and the moon

- 5 oct 2017

[itsthingsiread]

Privilege

I wear it

heavy

around my shoulders

No matter how much

salt

from the earth

I rub

over my body

That crimson mark

That gold sheen

Of silver spoons

and honeyed existence

sings

the truth about me.

[itsthingsiread]

Today's favourite word

[itsthingsiread]

Acid Diaries #3

This world is matter. I am matter.

Or at least this skin, this flesh, this body is matter. I (the real “I”) am not.

(What?)

It becomes known to me that that I am two things. Matter and soul.

(Soul?) It’s real, it’s true. I have a soul.

I can feel the junction where my soul is connected to my body. I cannot deny it.

Deep down I always knew that. Everything was already known. I knew, I knew.

But what is a soul?

I can tell that it is my real being, my real form. My body is nothing but a covering, a shell.

But I don’t know what it is. I know it is not made of matter. If it was, I would be able to see it and know it and comprehend it. I am man and the only thing I know is matter.

So it is not matter.

Then what is it?

I do not know.

In fact, I CANNOT know. Because the only reality that I understand is the material world. And if my soul is not matter then I cannot know it.

I just cannot.

[itsthingsiread]

Acid Diaries #2

I look at the sand. I feel the coarseness of the tiny grains. And it occurs to me that everything we know of, everything we touch, everything we see is made of matter.

Man, the great inventor, the only triumphant inventor in all of the species, did not create matter.

In fact, man cannot make anything that is not matter. Matter is all he knows. His entire reality is constructed with ONE thing.

All the great inventions, masterpieces, skyscrapers are mere manipulations of matter.

Man cannot CREATE. He merely knows how to work with play doh.

Play doh playing with play doh.

Man is a fool. He feels proud of his intellect and abilities. He feels absolute. He has crowned himself the king of the world. He thinks he is powerful because he can think and create.

But he has not created anything ORIGINAL in all his existence.

Oh my god.

Man is a proud fool. Play doh with a paper crown.