Painfully aware
that it is you moving around
collecting your things
preparing to leave
while I sleep
fitfully, having been up a long time
though, it's probably best
if you go
a jumble of confused words
rallied around an emotion
that changes quite constantly
a quick surge of anger
burns out to reveal
a lost and wandering confusion
that finally finds itself
stuck inside its own raincloud
We grow, and we change.
We change as we grow, and we slowly make our way across life. Instead of all the metaphors that I could use, I will simply say that we grow to overcome our problems. That or we grow as we overcome our problems. The appearance of problems is directly related to our growth. Real or just percieved, getting over them leads to growth.
The problem that the surmounting of one problem only reveals a new one, one that was more formidable than before, and we can't do anything but face it, rather than be crushed by it. It's ok though, to fall back a bit, to retreat and regroup. And you are not alone. You have a wealth of inform
Going through the robotic motions
seemingly lifelike
till upon closer inspection
the assembly line production
becomes apparent in the movement
under the costume of a soft skin
under the misillusioned theories of creativity
striving for something
more than human experience
He was incoherent and babbling
a picture portrait for confusion
He was secure but scrambling
a cereal box model for delusion
He soon left as all things do
it didn't matter in the least
he was just my reflection
Lost in things I cant comprehend
just that kid who didn't want to grow up
blocking out the things I couldn't handle
collapsing on me in a moment of weakness
Where did all my strength go?
When did I start being like this?
Lost in things bigger than I am
a refusal to accept responsibility
running from it since I was younger
when it was forcibly put on me
Where did it all fall apart?
When did I stop being the mature one?
Lost in childish devotion
unable to accept that things change
fearing the things I can't predict
permeating each second
I just fell apart
Once upon a time, when I little, I would try to catch butterflies. With my own hands, no nets or traps or anything. Having many more facets in their eyes, as well as being more perceptive to changes in air pressure and the wind, such an act is fairly difficult. But like any curious 9 year old, you press on anyway, and maybe you get lucky. Today was a purple day. Small, triangular. Maybe you know about it, I just know that I grabbed it and put it into a plastic container.
The problem with catching butterflies is that they're very delicate. You can't catch them well with your hands to begin with, and when you do, you probably shouldn't have. I
Wavering
back and forth
back and forth
like the curves of a sine wave
or the tracks of an underground train
inside the tunnel
lights flicker as we pass them by
the sky hides
It's too early for this.
Unfamiliar room
rough carpet
small blanket
a hazy dream
wasn't pleasant
wake up to a sing-song tone
take a few train rides home
a deluge of hot water
tape on my arm
different from yesterdays rain
1.50 for a wash
another for a dry
Paper wings dont fly,
paper hearts dont last.
Paper stars dont twinkle,
all blown away in the wind,
fakes of what really are.
Paper's good for many things,
paper's good for writing poems,
for writing songs,
its good for writing love notes,
its good for sharing stories.
What paper can't do is not much,
but it's the most important by far,
paper cant be the real thing,
paper cant provide a lasting comfort,
cant last for long.
When you hold it in your hand,
and raindrops start to fall,
and the paper will melt away,
you'll find that its good for nothing,
good for nothing at all.
What paper is, is a medium,
on which to pour our
The steroetypical emo kid,
those don't exist.
Those so called "emo" kids don't exist.
It's about being liberated,
from the image of emotionlessness.
The mind's true liberation,
the realization of one's emotions,
the ability to be human,
to connect with other people,
to show one's frailty and weaknesses,
to realize one's humanity.
It's about being able to cry if you need to,
to talk when you need to,
to be able to express yourself,
to be who yourself,
and to be whatever you so choose.
The stereotypical emo kid can't be described,
becasue they don't exist.
They are as different as you and I.
Love is like holding the universe,
in the palm of your hand.
in this universe,
their is everything you need,
anything you could ever want,
yet it remains incomprehensible.
The sun will rise
on a new day
on a new time
on a new face
but this day wont be the same,
because this day will never last
people change
things change
stories and songs of love long past
plaster the walls of the brain of humanity.
Crying out, in their fianl throes
the dying crescendos of human pain,
the tears, the sadness of the human race;
but the sun will rise again
on a new day
on a new time
on a new face
and this day will never be the same
because memories of the past days remain.
they remain to remind us,
to remind us of the pain,
but also of the joy,
the joy of a new face.
so each day is worth living,
cuz its no
Don't cut your fabric to this year's fashion,
its only a passing fad.
Don't cut your fabric to this year's fashion,
that would be a crime.
Don't cut your fabric to this year's fashion,
you're perfect the way you are.
But if you cut your fabric to this year's fashion,
I'll still be your biggest fan.
Dare to dream, live to love.
I'm looking for a real relationship. I'm not looking for a summer fling; I'm not looking for fun. I'm looking for an honest to god relationship, one that will last more than a week, more than a month, more than a year, last till the stars burn out and the universe is just an empty void. An empty void where it'll be only you and me, still in love. I'm not some asshole looking for sex, or for attractiveness, because attractiveness can be found in the strangest of places. I'm looking for a romance, a life-long one, a soulmate. I'm not looking for an eight-grad summer romance, or a winter fling. I'm looking for someo
Farewell Until We Meet Again by Zoklar, literature
Literature
Farewell Until We Meet Again
I'm writing this note as I bid farewell,
to all my friends and loved ones,
these last few days i haven't been quite as swell,
it's not your fault I love you tonnes.
it's just that I've been really confused,
about my life and what to do,
I feel that I'm being abused,
by people I used to trust and used to trust me too,
they're spreading lies,
about me and about you,
and I'm tired of all the friends who are really spies,
that fuel this rumour mill,
that generates this slander,
I'm feeling that maybe I will,
snap one day and be charged for murder.
As you can see my life isn't what it used to be,
it's full of the pain of loss,
i
A long time I was a dream
upon the sad shores of tomorrow
I built a crystal ship
and sailed the seas
of my sorrow
I thought about an hourglass
and it reminded me of you
I stared into the sea
a misty grey
and thought I was looking at you
I died a thousand times
and at least a dozen different ways
an ocean of regret
never lost
beneath the waves
Calmly I remember
the tremble isn't in my voice
it's in my heart that I feel
sadness
a sadness so pronounced
I stay inside my world
I don't want to go out
I just want to decay
a minute at a time
a penance for my pleasure
world with you I aught not remember
I feel your lips again
their home is built upon a foundation of awkward silences, things best left unsaid, and unconditionally undeserved trust. it's a strange situation; their day-to-day life composed of things between lines far too fine to read; left blurry and smudged in the rough creases of skin along palms that could read lifelines if one only knew how. luckily for him, the layers of dirt, disdain, and regret never wash away; he still tastes it, bitter, at the back of his throat whenever she comes by - her own hands soft against his own; ingraining tenderness into his very skin. she never learned to read the way he did - catching glimpses of lives and secrets;
Dew covering the leaves
Tears falling from the sky
It was just a night, just another sunset.
A pitch darkness covered the room
An utter darkness covered his spirit
Silence spreading into nothingness
Empty words being exclaimed
Excising the bliss in the soul
the corrosive feel of knife on flesh
a needle to the eye
a gun to the temple
control the chaos behind the trigger
and don't know what to do
the hammer falls back
a syringe to the vein
The winds as you stand atop the thirty floor building
The unjust lust behind the rape
The hesitation before stepping into the noose
The tear in your eye under the guillotine
the waves crashing below you
the deep blue, engulfing sea.
im sitting here, empty sheet of paper, pen cocked with ink,
whilst the poets writing her love stories,
and the novelists writing the latest thriller
the directors got the latest box office hit,
and the painter just finished a 'mona lisa,'
m sitting here, pen cocked with ink, music blasting,
and a mind full of a thousand lusts,
and a thousand ideas.
How could I feel/think/live something for so long, and then when it actually happens, reject/deny/refuse it?
Maybe she's lying through her teeth. Maybe I'm delusional.
*I don't check in here often, but here's a snippet. And to all the people I might owe a comment, a post, anything, don't hold your breath.
Regretfully, my use of this site has declined to almost nothing over the past year or so.
I find that I no longer write as much as I used to, actually, hardly at all. While I enjoyed my time here and what I got from it, I do not see myself returning much in the near future. As selfish as it sounds, I will be responding to the last comments and notices that I have, and then probably disappearing.
If anyone is still reading and looking at my stuff, I can still be found on Twitter and Tumblr. Of course though, these aren't the same. If you have either, they are:
Tumblr: http://3948.tumblr.com/
Twitter: http://twitter.com/Zoklar
I hope to se
It is perhaps in the dark that we are most human.
It is said that in the dark, when no one can see what we do, that we become the most bestial, the most perverse.
In the middle of the story, the "hero in the dark" has a choice. He can take the easy way out, and still triumph, but with the knowledge that he cheated. Or he can stick to his morals, and triumph anyway. Either way, hardly anyone knows.
In the dark is when we are most vulnerable. We are disconnected, we are cut off. Unable to see anything except the faintest of shapes, unable to discern our location. Sounds play tricks on our minds, and we have no other choice but to imagine the