Poetry Of Chaos

Alfredo (he/him) - 24 This is a journal for myself and anyone who wishes to read. Sometimes it’s poetry, sometimes it is not.

[poetryofchaos]

05/12/21

Untextured, smooth, bleak:

museum walls, maybe banks,

and serendipitous pleasure.

“Roughen it up,” I’d ask.

Some grit to scrape the knees.

I don’t cry when I bleed;

I’d like to try it again, please.

Momentarily momentous.

I didn’t work.

Next….

[poetryofchaos]

03/14/2021

Callous flesh.

Cut so often

it’s become

numb and grey.

Up then down,

side to side,

barely grazing,

and to the bone.

Perpetually

callous flesh,

does it ever end?

How tender

the blade.

Carry it proud

after the incision.

Your choice,

your burden.

Let it be know.

Shiver,

shiver,

shiver...

You and I both,

and all the others too.

[poetryofchaos]

02/10/21

To choose the path forward,

paved in roses’ thorns;

which won’t pierce skin in pass,

but all at once in the end.

The privilege of you:

comforting arms.

Future dealt yesterday.

Today is today;

tomorrow, tomorrow.

Walking, fingers weaved,

lips chapped, breathing.

From snow to summer: held.

Enough? no... yes, enough.

[poetryofchaos]

01/08/2021

There are days when it seems impossible to believe that things will be alright. Days when, suddenly, you feel the world crumbling around you and every moment of grief you’ve ever experienced converges on a single second as the sun seems to continue shining and clocks tick forward. We beat ourselves and cry, or scream, or run, or wish to throw it all away as our knees and backs, weakened by scars that run the length of our years, desire but to give and let pain run it’s course. That’s how I felt today as I laid in bed, watching the night fall, forcing a smile for others I felt needed it more than myself.

I did not crumble. Perhaps briefly, but I was pulled back up. I was carried into safety by the thought of all those things I am lucky and privileged to have: a family that loves and supports me, and friends who’ve carried me through hard times and who know I’d do the same for them. For them I kept smiling knowing that they might have smiled for me at a time when they too felt as if their knees and backs could not take it anymore.

But, the weight of reality and the fragility of those scars isn’t gone, and it will likely never be. So, I wonder, is there a different way to go about living? This is not a call for pity or sympathy; though appreciated, that is not what I need right now. I truly want to find a way out, instead of simply moving on. At this point I’m just rambling; what else can I do but that? Allowing myself to live this moment, and hope that something will come out of it.

-Alfredo

[poetryofchaos]

12/12/2020

Perhaps it is conquerable. Perhaps it is but luck, and yet, some summit. Unquestionable, inscrutable, irrevocable joyous victory over that which isn’t beautiful, and true, and human. To be loved and to love, whether it be soul or flesh, fueled by spirit or heart. To be held, that is what we desire, is it not? We crave it and fight for it, but what would be of us if we simply waited? Insatiability or peace? If victory, a tender victory, is guaranteed, should we not but breath in anticipation? Let luck run it’s course and walk a free being? A happy ending, a peak, and worry not for that which is beyond for time is funny, and bliss is but rolling credits.

[poetryofchaos]

12/11/2020

Que se siente tener el alma vacía? Un vacío que engangrena las vías, rojas de sangre, y aún así alimenta tu miedo. Miro como crece en ti esa pudrición anómala y calculada, o quizás normativa, en esta sociedad que premia a aquel cuya bilis es negra y pesada como petróleo; y que guarda más que balas en el vacío que fuese designio evolutivo para el tejido conectivo, tan invisible como infinito, que hace de todos un solo ser. Es que te quitas el cuero de las manos para no ensangrentar la sábanas blancas, que son única pureza de tus dominios? No puras por blancas sino por esos sueños irreconciliables que te arrancan la posibilidad de placer. Y es que es irrisoria tu faz por ser externa manifestación de las pesadillas que han de conquistar mundos que la gangrena no alcanza, donde no hay rencor ni venganza por los que han sufrido de tu mano, y la vergüenza es tu única jueza. Que sueñes profundo y largo, y que las balas se conviertan en bombas de conteo avanzado, y que exudes el betún que llevas en vena, mientras el mundo gira a tu alrededor y los justos navegamos en aviones de cartulina rosa por el universo que hemos construido más allá de periferia de tu memoria y entendimiento. Aquí no se te necesita, a menos que tu alma vacía no esté ya.

[poetryofchaos]

11/20/20

Consumed, consumed, consumed...

Herald was he who heartlessly

waved goodbye with a smile;

stench of procedure and grace.

And, where are those whose lunacy

might approach my own?

Is there a senselessness?

What have you taken, herald?

What might a creature as myself

see in stability while I preach chaos?

Consumed, I am. Perhaps dead.

Is it for me to determine? No.

Of that I am most certain.

Might have that herald taken nothing

but shown that a lunatic I am not.

Being but a farce, performance of pain.

Reading my own scripture as observer.

Unequivocally, an attention whore.

[poetryofchaos]

09/26/20

Is it enough to be wanted softly — shadows of affection — while you see in your own reflection the insurmountable love you have poured on another soul’s arms? Can I not ask for more than flicker or incandescens? I want fire so that with fire I might respond. I crave for those who’ve come and gone. The misteries in the eyes of someone who’s so infatuated with my body that I can only say I love you for this level of affection can only be retaliated with even more so. I crave for that hold that begs forgiveness in the sight of incredible pain, but that is not, for there is nothing to forgive. I crave lips electrified and magnetized which, when apart, challenge nature itself, brakes it rules for together they find their state of least resistance. Even so, I crave that which I only get from this love and no other before, stability; and yet now I fear it not enough. I once asked for love that rises fantastic every dying die but I never considered I might have left it stranded on some lost soul’s hands and lips and eyes along the way. To be loved softly is never gonna be enough. I want love magnetic and a electric, burning like flames too hot to touch and impossible to escape. Love that can only be retaliated against with more love than a single soul can give. More than want, I need it all, for in compromising I loose myself and all that I found true and beautiful. One day... but not today, not yet.

[poetryofchaos]

07/01/20

You know those moments when hands, drunk with more love than lust gives credit for, search for skin hidden by tender embrace as two souls join as one? Do you know of the moment when skin finds the skin it sought and in a flash, unstoppable like tide on shore, charges every inch of ones body as it shivers in electric contemplation of beauty for beauty’s sake? Have you not felt the world turn heavy as one soul becomes two by force and not choice, and lips magnetic fight to keep them safe from the jealous evil which pulls love apart? If so, then you haven’t seen life seek life and love find love, and neither have you felt the earth and moon dance or the stars shine at night, for it is possible that you have not lived. Let life and love be one and all. Let me show you as one soul, which skin does find, electric and unstoppable like tides, all that love is and none of what it is not. Let this servant be yours tonight.

[poetryofchaos]

12/1/19

Sea of clouds splitting earth

in beginning and end, no beyond.

And when earth has gone: endless,

white, whipped, twisting crests.

~

From above, a turn makes of cotton

an earth, distinct and inside out.

And me, in contemplation, ignoring truth,

that it all remains the same, still just clouds.

~

Now, so far beyond the vanguard,

the world’s become a land I don’t know

that I wish I knew, where I could “BE”.

But this is no place for one who can’t fly.

~

Descent, crests become fluff and blur,

evermore endless and captivating.

Inside: nothingness, no hidden truths,

or knowledge; no comfort, or self.

~

And me, in contemplation, ignoring truth,

that it all remains the same, still just clouds.

[poetryofchaos]

11/19/19

Give me love that rises fantastic,

like the morning sun when we’re still asleep.

Let love sway by, like morning turns to noon,

with no distinction and oh, so smooth.

Grant me love like the silver moon at night,

that protects, guides, and inspires mystery too.

And when night turns to day, and the sun rises again,

give me renewed fantastic love every waking day.

[poetryofchaos]

10/6/19

There’s a certain kind of loneliness

that strikes softly at night,

which takes away the color

any dream could dream to have.

It creeps up your skin like warm air

and paints a void world in your head.

Embellishes syncopated heartbeats

with complex dancing chords.

It curates extrange shivers

and dries your throat.

It strikes quick, and quickly goes.

A loneliness which reminds you of home.

[poetryofchaos]

07/23/19

It was not long ago that I felt there were barriers that once built could not be broken. It’s easy to loose faith when those you look up to appear to have vanished into their own minds and out of the struggles of reality. Action fueled by the seemingly invanquishable sense that they’ve lost the most important fight, belonging at the place they, or rather, we call home. Falling out of love with one’s future is a spectacular yet silent explosion. Spectacular for its power to change, silent for its irrecognizable methods, and explosive for everyone it pushes away in its path. An endless string of defeats dims the light in the room and hides to exit sign regardless of wether it’s a strange place or the home that you know like the back of your hand.

One small action after another. The smaller victories, when stacked together, can not only clear the exit from a life that seemed to irrepeirably stop, but also can quickly build a door to a new beginning. And, in time, the grand victories start coming but, because you’ve built from the ground with precisely crafted pieces, anything larger is humbly welcomed yet unnecessary to keep you on the right track. Step by step I started to see that barrier crack and crumble. It still stands on the way of that door made of bricks smaller that thoughts but stronger than life. It was not long ago that there was no future, only present and past. But I can feel a force, a change, and I can see the smiles coming back. The future is near for we’re still living the present but no longer are we being held back by our past.

[poetryofchaos]

06/05/19

In the path to us you slipped away,

dragged by angst, or remorse, perhaps.

We told you “go”, you listened,

and, still then, refused to leave our side.

.

Now you’ve gone before you’ve parted,

and we know not what to do.

So go, guardian, find your way home,

even if some think you shan’t ever belong.

.

In your departure he finds hope of return.

Or maybe that’s just a story, a dream.

None of us dare say it, consequence of respect,

or fear of veering you away, perhaps.

But in grief he’ll close your eyes shut

and wait for you to open them wide.

.

And I trust you, yes I do,

for guardians are meant to guard.

Once gone you’ll see everything,

the us we actually are.

The love and care, laughter and cries.

All summoned by your presence.

All silenced when you are sad.

All awaiting for their guardian, their guide.

All holding in their breath a while

until the day you have come back.

[poetryofchaos]

05/26/19

I miss you so very much. Everyone knows it, but no one cares. I have never written anything here with the intention of it being read. And, I while I hope you’ll somehow find your way here, I know you will not, mainly because you do not make use of much social media. It is a strange feeling; knowing I will actually have you by my side for the rest of our days, but not in the way I wished. Shooting stars are not that reliable, I guess. But, here’s to you, **. ********, from your very own ****** ****.

[poetryofchaos]

05/14/19

I would rather avoid summertime sadness.

It is by far the most annoying kind.

It’s never about myself, what I do or have,

but instead, about who I wish I were with.

.

I would rather avoid summertime pain.

At least I have people around to say:

“So what boy, my pain is greater”.

What are mothers for, I guess.

.

I would rather avoid summertime boys.

They come and go like the season we here lack.

Always pretty, somehow witty, and empty inside.

But I will still give them a nice kiss and a bite.

.

I would rather avoid summertime thoughts.

Usually a movie precedes them, sometimes a show.

Someone dies of aids, someone commits suicide,

and I indulge in other’s pain, for theirs is greater than mine.

.

I would rather avoid summertime amnesia.

Maybe remembering might have saved me.

But why remember when I am not I,

and the shows are to sad to keep track.

.

I would rather avoid dying in summertime,

too poetic for my style.

Kill me in the winter, when it’s nice.

Kill me in the winter, if it’s not too much to ask.

[poetryofchaos]

03/20/19

Confused about a feeling I don’t know how to feel, result of situations that hasn’t happened, caused by people I am yet to meet.

.

Fearful of tomorrow,

ignorant of today,

and blind to my thoughts.

I don’t know what’s next.

.

Cursed by demons I thought I could learn to forget, reason for my uncertain eyes, source of my inability to feel for myself.

.

No answers to find yet.