Sunday, July 21, 2013

Saying it.

I write down water, and all the seas
condenses to a single word
I describe wind, and a tempest germinates
between an inky nail and page.
I describe love


a vortex brims  

Always



“...that swimming, sloping, elusive something about the dark-bluish tint of the iris which seemed still to retain the shadows it had absorbed of ancient, fabulous forests where there were more birds than tigers and more fruit than thorns, and where, in some dappled depth, man's mind had been born...” 
― Vladimir Nabokov, Speak, Memory

This.

Call it turbulence
Call it misunderstood
Call it whatever word could define the clutching of ones temples with frantic, trembling fingers
A bleeding gaping wound that seem to breath, expand and germinate
Call it sczhoprenia
Call it a narcissistic reflection
A careful tweaking, shading, blending to create a temporary perfection
Call it a mask, a pastiche 
Call it pretentiousness
Call it sin
Call it life

It exists, it hurts
It hunts, it breeds