Posts tagged spoken word
Posts tagged spoken word
Where has my mind gone? Seems I’ve lost touch with my own sanity. It’s been quite some time since I last remember the tease of a lucid rationale. You see, I used to be a writer. At least, I used to call myself one. There was a time when the words would flow through my fingertips. Every letter inching its way onto a screen, one right after the other, forming words and making sense of some kind of emotion. Now these words are lost. Or maybe I’ve used them all up. Maybe I’ve overdosed. I used to get high off my own mental jargon, a soliloquy of inner turmoil so suffocating it made my heart bleed. I used to fiend off emotions that lay trapped between text and context, finding salvation in a written form of creed. Now these words are baited by the swift breeze of being, of living a life so tainted with busy, it becomes work. Writing has become a chore, an agonizing servitude. What once was passion has turned into a fading euphoria.
My heart is soaked in defeat, drowning in this magnitude of self-doubt and loathing. Feels like I’ve fallen too far out of the reach for kindness and into a disparity amongst souls as lost as mine. I’m overwhelmed with un-triumphant battles in a war too trifling to win. This life is expressionless, devoid of meaning and lacking passion. Where does one find the will to live when it is lacking of will to start?
It’s been awhile since I last wrote something meaningful. I used to write almost everyday. Here and there, little notes just to keep the creative side of my mind in motion. But lately, it seems like I’ve lost the will to write. I’ve been so focused on fitting the pieces of my life together, I guess I’d rather act on it than write about it.
Today, on the other hand, I feel like I need to filter my soul just a little bit. Put my life down on paper (tumblr text), I guess you could say.
So let me update you on me:
I’m in a good place emotionally. Taking some chances, stepping out of my own boundaries. I’m in love with life, in a way, for the first time.
I’m starting a new job, a better one, with more opportunities and room for growth that is right up my ally: advocating for social justice. I have new ambitions, or rather revived ones, and I’m taking the necessary steps forward to achieve those goals.
I’m in a wonderful relationship with someone who adds meaning to my life. Someone who believes in me and knows my true self, inside and out. Someone I can be myself around and not feel scrutinized or judged. He sees right through my walls. Together, I know we will do great things.
There are down days, of course. Tis life. But they fail in comparison to all the good days, the happy days, the cup half full kind of days. And it’s nice to be able to appreciate that and not feel so apologetic.
“It is never too late to be what you might have been.” - George Eliot
Given the fact that Muslims, myself being one of them, are constantly upset over being grouped into a stereotype of “terrorists” and whatnot due to the actions of a select zealous few, it would do these same Muslims in the Middle East a favor to stop raging against American Embassy’s in an attempt to show their discontent with the select few Americans who made such a denigrating video. Anyone smell the bitter scent of hypocrisy? Come on people!
Have we forgotten how to be humane?
There’s something about writing that doesn’t feel honest anymore. I sit in front of a screen, fingers typing away on a keyboard, writing an infinite number of words and yet… they’re all meaningless. Maybe writing isn’t as pure as I used to think it was. With all this scrutiny, the fear of sounding vulnerable just turns these words into shallow holes devoid of any significance. I remember once listening to a song just to hear the lyrics, just to feel the tight grasp of the verses suffocating my soul with longing and relatablity. How simple words could capture an emotion so vividly, leaving me a sobbing mess of sentiment. In and out of the context of language came the taste of love and lust, the very essence of passion, all inscribed like scripture. Faith had a definition engraved in bereaving hearts and lifeless souls that found refuge in romanticized jargon and home amidst the chorus of colloquy. Our words have become so far removed from deity that we’ve grown accustomed to calling them politics, so formulated and barren, they could have no evocative expression but to assume the form of dogma.
I awoke on my lovers bedside
Opening my eyes to see the mornings rays
Seeping through the transparent window drapes
My eyes dart around as my fingers trace the memories of the night before
It was the happiest moment of us
Right then and there i knew I was in love
and not for the first time
His eyes like cool welcoming crystal pools on a summer day
A smile like childrens laughter
His kiss sending waves of electricty pulsing though my body
There was not a single moment together where i wasn’t the happiest man on this earth.
That is until the moment he left me.
"We will sip from the cups made of old grenades and shades of green are only worn by nature. There will be a time when the fences choose to sit with us instead of standing between us. Amen."
I treat creed like a drug, practicing sobriety and kneeling to religion like a failure in rehab. Every year I’m reminded of my addiction to faith, the way hunger creeps on me like habit or the cotton-mouth dryness of thirst. Somehow the meaning of Ramadan is lost on me. Thirty days of obvious conviction eluded by eleven months of oblivious principle. I’ve spent days of repentance on nights bursting with sin, yet the price of indignation doesn’t seem high enough. Religion weighs heavy on my soul but I’m tipsy on the words of a saint and acting on a sinner’s budget. How faithless this heart of mine can be amidst the yearning for salvation. God have mercy on my soul, Lord knows I haven’t.
His smile is like the tickle of an orgasm, humble in its approach but wild in delivery. Some days that’s all it takes, just the glimmer of his eyes and the tease of his smirk to have my heart melt with satisfaction. I find myself lost in whimsical pursuit of his affection, yearning for his covet, crimson with desire. His touch itself is the taste of sin, like vice lacking regard for virtue. The feel of his breath warm and heavy against my skin leaves me senseless with reverence. And that kiss of his, oh how to explain such bittersweet sensation, the feel of lingering sunlight on a brisk springtime afternoon. Countless times I’ve found myself slain in his arms, a massacre of beseeched adoration. How feeble my heart lies amidst his palm, clasped against the grip of envy. He who has captured me and yet, somehow, I am liberated.