Reality Check
What is it you see when you look in the mirror everyday
Are you looking for something that should be there, or is it staring you in the face
Deep down we all know that we're always creating something out of nothing
Giving life to an illusion, creating a seperate reality
I suppose that's how we survive
Each and every one of us so sure of our own realness
Or maybe, we're so sure of our illusions
that we've forgotten what's real and what's not
It's easier that way, for some, for most
We spend our time crafting our identities,
however illusionary, however far fetched, however unbelievable
And that biological puppet we've been stringed up to is more real than flesh and bone
Because the faces that we see are not our own
They're an invention, a facade, a defense mechanism
I think that in the quiet moments we don't really like ourselves, our real selves
That's just too much reality, too much truth to handle
It's like removing your make up, getting undressed and going out into a crowd
Bare faced and naked with nothing to hide behind
Letting strangers inspect every crevice, every flaw, every thing
So we pump ourselves full of chemicals
Fill our veins with mindless entertainment
Just to hush the voices
All in the hopes of forgetting
Forgetting that it's more than just bodies spinning around, going through the motions
It's about maintaining the misalignment of nerves and the misfiring synapses
So that even if you wanted to, you would never know which side of the fence you were on
You're lucky if you find yourself in the shade
But if you happen to be in the path of a hurricane, I guess you wouldn't any better
All those bruises and scars will seem like they were meant to be
And in time, your broken heart will heal, just not in the way you thought it would
And you'll question everything
You'll question your father, your mother, your lover, your God
Because you know that branches and debris alone can't do so much damage
Was man supposed to love so much that it hurt?
I guess yeah, but not in the way that love was meant to be felt
Who knows how we're meant to love
If you've never been in a gunfight, how would you know what I was talking about
And yet, we all talk
We talk like we know what we're talking about
But no one seems to talk about the important things, like time and death
They bring life to the things that are worth knowing
Just look into the eyes of everyone around you
Forget other people, look into the mirror at yourself
When it comes time to go, everyone welcomes it
We finally realise and accept how easy it is
Or maybe we're just grew weary of pretending
Because in the end, it's refreshing to know you don't have to hold on so tight
Letting go is accepting that your dreams; both good and bad, are just memories
Memories made of moments you keep locked up in your mind
Moments where you dream of what you should be, what you could be, what you're not
And like all dreams, there's a monster at the end of the hallway
But unlike all dreams, you don't always wake up.

I am from, third cycle
by Natalie E. Illum.

I am from the ocean,
sea salt tangled in my hair.

I am from an ancient lineage
of seers, shamans, and crazy women
believing in scattered prophesies.

I am from the cast out and the called in.

I am from a broken womb, a dead landscape
of swollen tissue, spastic limbs, a falling down
I cannot control. I am from the lexicon of cripple.

I am from a dirty secret
of my grandmother's mother's mother,
a mixed dialect, a faulty bloodline. A girl
no one would claim.

I am from the wanderlust
of rock stars, from those fantasies spun
out of guitars. I am from the chords
of Joni, tethered to my bones.
I speak in requiems.

I am from a lover I couldn't hold
on to. A woman I can't forget, a man
who traces my body, whose fingerprints
form my smile.

I am from the fragmented Zodiac,
the manipulative sisters. I am from
tattooed skin over scar tissue
and the sound of glass breaking.

I am from a story I wrote once,
A pen I won't put down. I am from
the exhausted scribes of teenaged angst
and track lines. I am from survival songs.

I am from the way you see me
in afternoon light, in shades of darkness.
I am from the ocean; salt and bone
entangled. The pulling tides and I
are whispering.

Forget the Leaving.
I'm starting to forget
the little things about you
and how I said I'd never forget
I'm starting to forget
on a cellular level
the feeling I felt when your hand was in mine
and like tendrils of mist
your memory snakes away
slipping through my delicate fingers
but it is nugatory, wasted effort
like holding a phantom, praying day won't come
because you are a shadow
slowly fading into the light.

Squalor and Splendour In A Magnificent Shantytown.
And I have loved you more than I anyone I have loved before
( How would I know, as there has been no one else )
Perhaps more than I will love anyone, ever
( And I know for sure )
I set up my defences on the outside, but maybe I needed to protect myself from myself
( But what would you have me do )
When you see lightning for the first time, a wonder out of nowhere
The way it streaks across the skies, like you often streaked across my mind
When every subsequent clash of atoms and eons will never equal the first time
Seeing magik marble across your eyelids, a smile adorns your face
And you know you will never be the same again
( So what of this pain, will it ever subside )
Perhaps a memory can transform into a throbbing hurt
One that comes and goes, like the ebb and the flow of the rushing tide
Or triggered by a smell, a perfume, the sound of laughter
that could've been yours, or the way someone holds onto their fork
I never thought it would be you, but now you are a throbbing pain
Unmedicated, unattended but a mass of self perpetuating burning questions
Like neurons (mis)firing and kneejerk reactions
Churning out what if's and propositions and assumptions and empty dreams
You birthed a thousand little cares that linger at the back of my throat
Causing me to gag every so often
But the mast has been set and this rotting ship will continue to sail
Rickety as she is, she searches for replacement parts
All the while creating myths and legends and convulated stories
This tunnel is long but maybe there is a glimmer of hope at the end of it
I can hold out for a breath of fresh air, something must remain
( But what of those questions that still remain )
Maybe I should have tried a little harder
Fought a little more, shouted a little louder
But you can't stop the path of a tornado
I stood in front of it and was swept off my feet
And it pulled wool over my eyes, but I still saw the light
Filtered as it was through unravelling strands of thread
Pull, pull, pull
Until it all comes undone.

Sitting On Paper.
Between countless coffee cups
and pauses in puffs
the silent stares and the idle thoughts
you are here, existing
and sharing the same air
so that my breath exists
as a part of yours
even if
for a little while.

Exaggerated.
Wishing against wishes
that I was the one
holding onto the smoking gun
instead of the one
with the gaping hole
where a beating heart
used to be.

The night carries a sombre melody
on its wings, when emotions are raw
and we cry and we wail, but who will remember
those who passed quietly into the night?

Now phantoms, gone like the wind
rustling leaves. A force that can't be seen, but felt
as it snakes its way through a labyrinth
of concrete jungles.

Forgotten 'I love you's' and misplaced compassion
the  air of melancholy is thick and stifling, igniting a
collective mourning that only a few
truly understand.

So we pray and bow our heads, a solemn vow to
give anything if we could turn back time
doleful eyes streaked black with tears and teeth that grit
and fists that clench.

But nothing changes, and the world spins faster
and faster into the future when the futility of hoping
is a fleeting pleasure, dissipating into thin air
what once was a bleeding wound starts to heal and
nothing remains but the raised remains of an ugly scar.

So behind closed eyes dreamers conjure wild fantasies
and decadent dreams
a different night sky, one that begs to be looked upon
streaked with flourescent hues and flashes of lighting
where the stars light up like runway strips, welcoming
the weary traveller home.

And whispers of the 'gone' and the 'going away'
become averted regrets and forgiven sins
where sadness is placed
in a museum of accidents, and the poetics of loneliness
isn't allowed to exist.

Flight MH370.

Every Ounce Of You.
You speak in cryptic kisses ( k i s s m e ) that you left littered
and staining my skin, black and blue from blows that once
caressed, now linger as phantom memories of phantom hands
that make me come undone. And those days, although so far
away from where I am, make me feel like a tourist in my own
body. One who stands barefoot outside in the cold, looking in
through the cracked and dirty windows of my weary eyes. But
would you return like a shark who smells blood or would you
wait like a predator in the shadows for me to completely
fall
   to
     pieces?
When all I am is a fusion of crossed wires and mixed
      signals, a train barrelling through a dark tunnel of insecurities
         and everything you ever said I was when I knew full well that
             I wasn't. Muscle and bone and marrow and guts, beating and
                 thumping in tune but out of sync to empty words and nonplussed
                      emotions. A heart that races for no apparent reason and familiar
                            faces carved into stone. Flowing through a river of blood like a
                                 drunken sailor, with too much pride to ask for help but too much
                                      guilt to set sail for home. So as a fool would do, I will quiver
                                          as I drag my calloused heart towards the edge of the
                                             mountain top where I will squint, and staring into the
                                                 setting sun place one foot in front of the other as
                                                      it singes my skin to the colour of my sins.

The Northern Lights.
Did you know
the Northern Lights
they twist, roll and dance
all over the sky
before disappearing
like a gentle tease
without a trace?

But they do return
night after night
unlike you
a night visitor
haunting my dreams
spectres of light
of whiskeyed breath and rosy lips.

Lists of Hearts.
Is it love or madness
when a desert rose blooms
where no one can see
twining a maze of desire
towards a scorching lover.

For 60 Minutes.
Hungry lips
 Wandering hands
Crashing desires
 You kept your eyes closed
And forgot to breathe
 When we pulled apart
I felt you exhale
 Upon my soul.

Catching Stars.
I remember that first kiss
Trembling lips and breathless sighs
And the red on my shirt,
Was it blood or wine from your lips
Walk on by and my heart still skips a beat
Watch me fall all over again
Medusa's lure in the curve of your smile.

From Beyond.
How does a child of the night
embrace a child of the day
except when meeting at twilight
standing face to face
they know not what to say.

Coffee Lovers.
The way I fall in love
effortlessly
with strangers in cafés
simply
by the type of coffee they order
and how their faces light up
happiness
after the first sip.

An Archive of Rumours.
Everything that once was
now a wisp of a memory
tinged with hues of regret
like an eternal kiss,
burled in an angel's bosom
or a kiss goodbye
from a summer lilac.

One Your Side of the Street.
On your side of the street there's one street lamp flickering
And the stars shine a little brighter
Are you watching or pretending to sleep?
I know you can hear me calling from your side of the street.

On your side of the street are you thinking about me?
When you toss and turn in bed are you wishing it was me?
Do your sheets feel cold like the tears running down your face?
Or do you still pretend it was nothing but a dream?

On your side of the street is that cafe we used to love
Do you remember the coffee and is it bitter like your regrets?
Or that time we danced in the rain under the moon?
On your side of the street where I warmed you in my arms.

On your side of the street I see you've turned out your light
You're so far away but I can almost hear your breath
On your side of the street I feel you hesitate
On your side of the street.

Exploring Specificity.
One day
( hoping )
the wind will give wings
to my words
so they may touch you
until then they mark the
d   i   s   t   a   n   c   e
between you and my captive heart.

There's silence tonight
except for the music
carried off on the wind
the shadows in my room
are bellowing duets with the moon.

Talking to Charlotte.
Remembrance like hazy days
of drinking too much and laughing too loud
forgetting to measure each minute that passed
till hope dwindles to a flickering ember
and everything that once was
turns into a shadow on the wall
the tattered wallpaper in someone's heart
like a latent memory of searing regrets
or an eternal kiss,
burled into an angel's bosom
a kiss goodbye from a summer's lilac.

Wishing
on
the
moon
instead
because
there
are
no
lucky
stars
in
sight.

Dying Under Rubble.
The ways of love are strange indeed
like a winding river
passing through moments of passion
and fits of rage
caressing our souls
we chase the demons away.

But that was then
and as elusive as dreams
when morning comes
all is forgot
like a teardrop in the rain
or a ghost in the heart,
we stare into emptiness
that of beauty adorning sightless statues.

Duets.
The earth is still tonight
except for a certain melody
carried off on the gentle breeze
could it be that the shadows in my room
are singing duets with the moon?

Searchers.
Wandering through your mind
sifting through precious memories
I am the intrepid traveller,
indulging in an orgy of sightseeing.

The First Love of My Life.
On a starless night
step out into the cold

grasp the secrets held tightly in your heart
and kiss the wild blowing sands

with a deep breath open your hands
let me flow free into the winds of regret.

I Lend You My Madness.
You've scorched the sky
and now you sit
listening to the pulsing beats
while searching for my voice
between your satin sheets.

What It Feels Like.
Everyday I ask myself what I can do about this nightmare
before it turns into a giant mushroom cloud exploding in my horizon.
I shudder as I feel the rapture building within, and in the stifling heat
I find myself constantly having to shake myself out of the thought of your lips
as they dance to a heavenly rhythm just before you smile. But these crashing waves are relentless,
dragging me down, robbing me of my escape, as a jealous ocean won’t let me leave,
I am captive in its dark depths . . .
. . . staring into the beautiful abyss, I breathe out a prayer,
[consign me
under your gaze
into eternity
with a single
chaste,
but lingering kiss].