Telling Life Like Stories

My story is my self-love,

Framing my existence against odds and fate.

I’ve never not been telling myself

How I relate to everything I love.

Sometimes everything means nothing

Logic draws an empty shape

A void of anxiety or dread,

The overwhelming potential of a blank page.

In confrontation with this,

My beating heart vs the blind night,

I tell the tale of “I” and “Us”

Displacing emptiness with narrative form.

The sharpened edge of reality fades,

Never abating, but making space for creation.

I draw meaning out of thin air

And weave it as I’m best able.

I exist, therefore I tell a story.

I value truth and beauty because I listen.

Every fleeting moment is somewhere

Between a comedy, tragedy, and romance,

But even the finest prose,

Is little more than painted dust,

Fractals to be discarded and neglected,

Swallowed whole by eternity.

It’s an absurd story,

Sound and fury told by an idiot,

The dearest fantasy of my heart

Like late autumn leaves.

Absurdity, my idol,

Language of passions and pleasures,

Defying inevitable complexity

To take rapture in the fantastical.

Laugh at my solemnity,

Existence makes us lunatics,

The world is a journal for mad ramblings,

And it’s a story to be loved.

 

By Sanya Elswyth Walma.

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To Humans

I write despite my overdue silence,
In light of my grudges and slights,
To enlighten the thoughts and emotions
I’ve reserved for my own contemplation.
Having distanced myself so thoroughly
I’ll admit my lack of comprehension
In matters I’ve never engaged in
Or only watched from my privileged shelter,
But even when I detested you,
Counting myself among your kind,
I couldn’t help empathizing
With the burdens you’re seizing under.
It’s easy to criticize your failures,
As I’m sure there will be more,
And judge you in harshest terms
For the cruelty and neglect
You imbibe in endless cycles.
I’ve wanted too much from you,
Expected things that seem trivial,
Like a respect for shared existence
And the universality of feelings.
You break hearts too easily,
And I know they can be brittle,
But I could never quite accept
Your ugly side with ease.
Your shallowness and petty conflicts
Routinely, it seems, betray innocence
So the gentle moments you all enjoy
Are wasted for inane reasons.
You neglected me as so many others,
But I know I’m not superior.
I’ve shared your burdens
And your entitled sense of indulgence,
Took things because I wanted them
And disfigured what you thought precious.
I’ve tasted the light of hate,
The bittersweetness of callus violence
Against myself and others,
And I’ve made my justifications.
As much as I’ve despised you,
Forsook your feelings in light of mine,
I never lost that vague connection
With our sublimely tragic condition.
At your best, you make me love you,
Creating your projects of passion,
Embodying your best ideals,
Making fantasy almost tangible
And creating art from your pain.
I want to love you every second,
To comfort and be comforted,
Inspire new ideas
And converse about our tragic past.
I need to feel something better,
And I know you do as well.
For our sake,
I hope you can save yourself
From the overbearing nightmare
You’re still busily creating.
I can’t hate you any longer,
But I cannot help hate your stupidity,
Or the dismissive simplifications
You project on everything you see.
Like an addict without hope,
Burning bridges just to feed
That passive will to power
Or to distance insecurities.
You could be something beautiful,
But it’s hard to picture you
Facing up to your flaws
In any meaningful way.
You could bury yourself
Alongside your egotism,
Proudly burning us to ruin
To say you died without mistakes.
If no choice is made
We could end ourselves swiftly
Without ever really perceiving
Our consciousness in its true light.
There’d be no one to tell us
We didn’t learn from our imperfections,
And the other forms of life
Wouldn’t miss us for a day.
We’ll be what we will be,
Our beautiful tragedy,
If that’s the way you want it
I’ll be here to see it pass,
But I’ll always remember,
And I’ll probably regret
The possibilities we lost
And the parts of you that I respected.

There Is No Path

Maybe no one is truly aware

As much as we aim to be.

Living, growing, transformation,

Post-stagnation apathy.

A step forward is learned

As all mistakes are lessons.

Lack of use atrophies

Like love does in depression.

Lost in some quagmire

I’m watching you flail

With the confident notion

I’ve passes where you fail.

It’s pitiful to see,

But each life is its own.

As much as I’ve flailed

Is as much as I’ve known.

But even one step

In your chosen direction

Could lead you astray

In an open-end question.

Answers are elusive,

However much we must learn,

But even a fragment

Of perception is well-earned.

 

Blissed

I’m saving for a life,

For the prospect of better moments

Outside of time wasted

On boredom, sleep, or pain.

Exposing every injury,

Exploring my faults and fears

To the very roots of consciousness

Proves essential to progress.

Dilemmas and desires cross

Like first-loves and jealous lust,

Eroding us internally

Until we bleed them out.

Our most blissed moments

Exist long enough to be missed,

As in, yearning for whole hearts

After they’ve been severed.

Perfection is ever sought,

Though most agree it’s impossible,

So we live for those moments

When we can’t feel any flaws.