The Nights Where I Couldn't Write

The Nights Where I Couldn't Write
I went
to the ocean blue
to hear
a thousand chains
dragged on
marble floors
I went
to the mountain green
to smell
the stench
of rotting flesh
So I hid
in my room
and bolted the doors
to pick up
the chains
and smell the stench
to lay dead
on my bed
for the ocean
to take me away
while the
mountains
watch over me

Where is your mama?
as you sleep
on cardboards that
used to wrap
refrigerators
and when you snuggle
up only to feel your
elbows against your
knees on a rainy
night while taxis
pass by without
blowing their horns
in a highway without
traffic
in the middle
of the night.

Where is your mama?
as you puff cigarettes
like a marlboro chimney
with every penny you have saved
from not washing your face
and walking on hot cement
while the sun is out
to burn your little feet
and spare your tiny hands.

Where is your mama?
as you fight with bigger kids
to earn your day's glue
to grant you dreams
while you walk in a crowd
full of people who look away
when they stare right through your eyes
afraid they would only see..
themselves.

 some joys are better expressed in silence,
as a smile hold more meaning than laughter,
i was asked if i enjoyed meeting you in life,
i just smiled...
me too...
 
 i do anything so that you love me
i change my face
i'll look like the way you want
i change my attitude
i'll be what you want
i change my words
i'll say what you want
i even change my name
call me what you want
do you love me now?
no wait!
dont love me please
i've changed so much
that i'm gonna hate myself now

Herve Joncour, a French silkworm trader, undertakes several hazardous journeys to Japan in the 1860s, to purchase the finest silkworm eggs in the world. The travel itself is incidental to the tale, and Baricco deals with it perfunctorily, in a formalised repetition that captures the cadence of tedium in repeated travels. While in Japan, Joncour is profoundly struck by a deep and aching desire for the concubine of Hara Kei, a feudal warlord who owns silkworm eggs, an aviary filled with exotic birds, a village and all its inhabitants, and the girl. This passion draws Joncour back to Japan time and again, and, though their relationship is unrequited, except indirectly in a stunningly written ritual bathing scene, his feelings for the girl deeply affect his life with his wife and friends in France.
 
Don't miss reading silk by alessandro baricco

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

Write for example, 'The night is shattered
and the blue stars shiver in the distance.'

The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

Through nights like this one I held her in my arms.
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.

To hear immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to a pasture.

What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is shattered and she is not with me.

This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

My sight searches for her as though to go to her.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.

The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.

Another's. She will be another's. Like my kisses before.
Her voice. Her bright body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is short, forgetting is so long.

Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.

Because of you, in gardens of blossoming flowers I ache from the
perfumes of spring.
I have forgotten your face, I no longer remember your hands;
how did your lips feel on mine?
Because of you, I love the white statues drowsing in the parks,
the white statues that have neither voice nor sight.
I have forgotten your voice, your happy voice; I have forgotten
your eyes.
Like a flower to its perfume, I am bound to my vague memory of
you. I live with pain that is like a wound; if you touch me, you will
do me irreparable harm.
Your caresses enfold me, like climbing vines on melancholy walls.
I have forgotten your love, yet I seem to glimpse you in every
window.
Because of you, the heady perfumes of summer pain me; because
of you, I again seek out the signs that precipitate desires: shooting
stars, falling objects.

pablo neruda

i'm so tired...

There are times in life when one becoms a poet; when that joy and pain becomes irepressible and it wakes you up in the middle of the night to write the songs and wails of the heart

If you cannot join me
in my darkness
or weep as my heart breaks
I will ask what love is.
Will you buy me cigarettes
in the morning?
and serve me whiskey for lunch?
If you won't
I will ask what love is.
Can you see me in my empty eyes?
then feel the void in your heart?
If not, I will ask what love is.
In my asking
will you ask with me?
And if you shall
I will know what love is.

There's nothing different about the looks on those faces you recognize and hold dear. There was never anything ordinary about the faces you ignore. All are one and the same, besides what you invest in them. There is only one face, ever before you in a hundred wise, only one day infinitely repeating.

Lying, thinking
Last night
How to find my soul a home
Where water is not thirsty
And bread loaf is not stone
I came up with one thing
And I don't believe I'm wrong
That nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Maya angelou

Silence is not a lack of words.
Silence is not a lack of music.
Silence is not a lack of curses.
Silence is not a lack of screams.
Silence is not a lack of colors
or voices or bodies or whistling wind.
Silence is not a lack of anything.

I am a man: little do I last
and the night is enormous.
But I look up:
the stars write.
Unknowing I understand:
I too am written,
and at this very moment
someone spells me out

octavio paz

Memories
the break up conversation game!