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Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts

Saturday, December 12, 2009

Barcode

Labels, stereotypes, and generalization
All fit for scanning to judge us all
Grouped like items for inventory

Preset judgments to show our "worth"
As people pile them for their ignorance
Not bothering to look inside the package

Using the actions of a few for the whole
And quickly evaluating who we are
Looking over without a caring glance

Set in wha seems like a global market
As some total is rung for our exterior
Drawn from a white square with black lines

Trying to show that people are individual
Each with their own qualities and dreams
Shedding the barcode that those people gave

Friday, December 4, 2009

This post is about nothing

This poem is about nothing
Nothing is more beautiful than nothing
The serenity of silence hold life's unlocked keys
The light loose lingering feeling you get when nothing leaves

Some people think that nothing isn't anything
But there's just pessimist
Because nothing really is something
Just ask any nonconformist

Some of my favorite memories
Happen when I'm swinging on a swing on tall trees
I wish the happiness I feel in this moment would seize
The breeze puts me as ease, where would I be without friends like these?

Ever since I was little a lad
I was seldom happy, yet was  never sad
Never led a group but never followed a fad
Nothing made me satisfied, nothing made me glad

When something hard was over I felt relieved
But it was always shortlived and soon I was decieved
The system failed me, I once believed
But I know now it's takes more than dreams to succeed

I wish life's answers were written on my hands
And it's solutions on my sleeves
Like the hourglass leaking grains of sand
Happiness is sometimes left for time to achieve

Nothing irritates me more than a hypocrite
But some times I feel as if I'm the biggest creep
And nothing negates me more than my own words
We are surrounded by false pretences and fake rewards

We lived in the lime light and hid when the sun was shining
Happiness is in unfabricated truths and whats under the lining
My mind is not blind, what's the point in confining
The truth is in front of us, its realism is defining

Nothing is like stroke of genius but its more like a flast of lightening
Nothing is intelligent and brilliance is frightening
The morning sun rises the day is brightening
Yet ignorance is darkness and it's bliss is enlightening

In a world where everything is symbolic of something else
Open you eyes now, what does nothing symbolize?
Nothing is everything that ever was surmised
Lies compared, your lips eyes and thighs, the lows and the highs

But I guess to be great is to be misunderstood
So said emerson
And I'd try to explain it if i could
But maybe nothing is different in every person

And we know more time will pass
A lot more nothing will elapse
Bridges fall and walls will collapse
Maybe you too will find happiness perhaps

Some say nothing lasts forever
But nothing has no end so it'll go on forever
Or maybe it has yet to begin
But in the end it'll be the same place it started
Right in the middle of things

I changed through time, through eyes that could never bend
To the death I'd defend because around you I don't need to pretend
This happiness I can't quite comprehend
I know its right because through time it transcends
I find happiness in nothing and thats where it ends
But to me nothing is everything that's why I find happiness in my friends

Tuesday, December 1, 2009

17 Months

17 months of inconsistent chantings and occasional remunerations, I have finally managed to resurrect this blog. I feels strange to blog again. It is like a retired astronaut going back up on space or like a domesticated iguana heading back to the wild again. 

It is rather electrifying I must say.

During this 17 months of silence in the blogosphere, I have learned to blog offline, e.g., on the wall behind my forehead, unto the synapses of my friends through aural means, through caressing my dogs or behind the chair.

And, I have learned that 'blogging' in life has its moments and you would still need to resort back to technology. It helps when you can link proper imageries, videos and resources for referencing purposes without parachuting your points along with saliva. It is also helpful that you can draft, save and re-edit your work wherein real life even if you attempt to rephrase you cant undo what was said before.

As a token for the resurrection of 'Space for Fredbrication' which is now an 'undead' blog, I have made an oath that I will trade my blood and food (for thought) for the continuity of the Fredbrication. Let's pray that I would have the determination for that.

Anyway, here's a little haiku I just spat out of my cortex.

"Can Opener"

Ripping away walls
That are obstacles to goal
Break adversity


F-off

Thursday, April 17, 2008

If only it was thundering

the windows are barred
with the criss-crossed screen
and I feel trapped – even with it open.

sweet green air leaks in through
the cracks and the scent of
sky stained water tickles my nostrils.
but a taste isn't enough,
I want to drown in it,
to suck it in and never have to breath out
again, keeping freedom bottled up
inside this heart until it cakes
and corrodes my arteries with pollution,
so I have to -
explode.


smashing my glass
and listening to it trickle
to the ground with the rain,
sparkling,
glittering,
scintillating,
the world with reflected light and beauty.
(a million mirrors.)


I would let the rain pour onto my history laden floor
washing away memories, scum, and
worn-out stuffed animals.
drenching my face and hair
till the make-up and lies wash away
from my skin and eyes.
cascading downward to the concrete below my window.


But it's all too much – or maybe it's not enough...

either way I don't think I'll reach enlightenment
unless I take a leap of faith, and hope the robin will catch me
and whisper words of wisdom as I fly on it's back
to serenity. (let it be...)

with my luck though the bloody bird will fail me
and the bloody contents of my brain and heart
will decorate the walk-way to my green door.

on the bright-side,
maybe you will be good at reading people by then
to read all I wanted to say
and all I ever really felt
in the milky pink contents of my
broken smeared organs.

only...
I don't know if you read the obituaries.


Saturday, June 16, 2007

A Magician

For the past few months, i've been writing alot, mostly poetry and some short fictions. It has been posted or released in various artsy-classy forums and poetry related websites. Like always, i tried alot of different methods and ways to express my thoughts, ideas and sometimes my creativity with words and the whole point of structuring it. Writers in all forms are creators of meaningful literature and similar to many other professions which create and produce, they all served as an agent in decorating and inducing the world with more meanings and connections.

Many people once questioned me, of all forms of literacy, why poetry? why poems? Why not fiction or something more elaborated that will be more in-touch with the readers? The funny thing is, all these questions were asked by people who know me first and later about my writings, on the other hand, for those who know me through my writings, they normally have only 1 question, "when do i get the chance to meet you in person?". And so, i am left with 2 sets of questions after posting or disclosing my work to the work in some ways.

Well, why not fiction? The thing is.. in my perception i think fictions or anything around that length has a range of invisble boundaries and guidelines. In order to deliver your message or your writing in that formation, you need to be able to meet up with the reader's expectation, not exactly the level of literacy but how they assume the plot to flow along with. And the best fiction writers can create a mass flow of plots that makes you think that the unexpected twist is really "unexpected" whereas in actual sense it is just fraction of your blindspots. I still read fictions or novels whatever you love to call em, and like most readers i used to love the twists of the story (not neccesarily the climax of the fiction), as it provides you excitement and the whole sense of "wow! geez! i didnt expect that".Yeah, notice that i use the term "used to", as some of you might know that i tried fiction (as in writing 1) and still working on it. you know, when you wanna write or produce something in that mass, normally you have 2 ways of doing things, 1) you look at the big picture as in a rough outline, build the skeletons, etc and then you only you get to touch on the details, and that twist(s) are like joints of the skeletons and the organs are the characters of the story, 2) You start with something specific, like a person (normally the main character) or a place or an object or a theme and you start to add colors from that point on, it's a bit like seeding, you chose a spot plant the seed, and it grows up slowly from that point on, and the twist(s) are like the direction of the roots. Be it the first or the latter method, the creator already know what's going on at least inside his/her head. You will notice that authors who focused so much on the twists often produce extremely "wow" factor on creating the verge of diversion as the story line (the build ups) will normally lead you to a point where, the author can clearly see your blindspots, and therefore when he/she plunch a small pin in that area, you go "OMG! How did that happen?". So in a metaphorical manner, whether it's skeletonized or specifically seeded, fiction, is a pre-cook material. It's like spaghetti, pizzas, roasted chicken, curry noodles, you have the main staple, the sauces, the addons (veges, spices) and it has a form be it you recognize it or not.

Well, unlike fictions, poetry is more pure i would say, purer than sashimi, it's way raw than that, more like a fresh apple that you just plucked off the tree. Many would categorize poems into 2 big group, the structured and free phrased (non-structured). Well, the term "structure" over here mainly refer to the foundation and frame of the poem, not exactly the flow, the point, the meaning and as well as the words selection. You do not need to have a point to write a poem but you do need 1 to produce a fiction because it tells a story. Whereas instead of telling you something, a poem can be a question by itself, a statement, a creative expression using words and at times just spurs of a moment. You know, i am sure some of you would have experienced this when out of a sudden, maybe in a middle of your preparation for exams or in the movie, there's a phrase in your head popped out and like "heh, that sounds cool", and so.. unlike fiction where you will then trying to input that phrase and putting things together, you can just simply dumb the catchphrase you just got it out of your blended mind into a blank piece paper, search the feeling that helped you onto the first catch for the 2nd phrase, and before you know it, there's there. I don't know maybe it's just me, i get all the freedom i could get while i am writing a poem. However, the thing is, i can normally finish 1 in under 5 mins.. hmm.. Nonetheless i could spend like.. 30 mins or more staring at one of my own poems and digest the feelings and thoughts that i embedded into the poem when i written it there and then.

Now, for those who know me through my poems, hmm.. well i should be glad that after reading and accepting my work one way or another, you have the spur of the moment to want to meet me in person. However, I am confused at the level that, "why?". In my oppinion, maybe i am a little stereotypical in respond to this, but to me, the person that writes and the person you will be meeting up close will not be coherent in most manners. 1) we wont speak the way we write, 2) normally the essence of the poems are either the best or the worst of a situations and we dont carry ourselves like that in reality, 3) you lost the sense of freedom when 2 person met up close, and it somehow might expand the interaction into another dimension (which might be good), 4) maybe it's just me, i prefer to disclose myself that much through my work (that does not mean i dont have self-disclosure towards other people in person, just that i prefer to choose my own audience).

Now, back to the title of the post. Magicians are cool. There are not exactly a pure creator, unlike god, and just like poets we dont create works, we gather, diverse, and simply manifest something that excites.

Saturday, November 18, 2006

Just a figure

Still remember.. bout a week ago or so, i had an online conversation with a friend. The discussion started off with some really broad and typical topics such as "how's life over there" "what are you doing" and all that sort. However, as the time go on, we began to talk about more sentimental stuffs, when we touched on intimate relationships, boy-girl interactions, etc. Suddenly, she popped me a question, "Do you prefer to have a relationship with someone younger than you or elder?". Well, this isn't a completely new question that someone has asked me before. According to her observation, as well as general assumption based on general media, upbringing, and other sources of info, most guys "prefer" to go out with younger female, while she also said she read it in some articles (lol, don't think it's refereed) that 20% of the guys (21-30 yrs old sample) ONLY choose to go out with younger girls, bout 40% "prefer" to, 15% don't care, and the rest were categorized under "others".

Well, when i heard that from her.. I cant stop laughing.. anyway, it's pretty obvious that those stats are definitely bull and wont be much of a reference, however, to be frank i think the stats isn't that far apart from the actual trend if someone could actually supply a complex research onto the contemporary trend. For me, "age" is merely just a figure, it might be sensitive to some individuals (both male n female), but to me it's nothing more than a piece of evidence that proves your physical existence. So, i don't really include chronological age as part of my criteria (if i actually have one) of looking for possible partner. Nonetheless, my friend insisted to seek out an answer from me, as in, she kinda forced me to choose 1 definite answer, a) younger? b) elder? No in between, same age or anything of that sort.. Well, since she insisted, i gave her my answer. b)

Fundamentally, her question is pretty tricky to answer, as it actually fluctuate along your lifeline. Imagine, a guy who's 28, if he's dating a girl who's 6 yrs younger than him, say 22, it sounds completely reasonable, however, if that guy is only 22 yrs old and the same situation apply to him, meaning he's dating a 16 years old girl, well, then it will seemed to be abnormal and out of the ordinary. Strangely, same effect applies to the same scenario, with just the switch of gender role, say 28 yrs old female dating a 22 yrs old male, social pressures along with stereotypes will haunt the couple from several angles and in various forms. It's weird isn't it?
How powerful a culture has, and how much it affects our perception and how we look at majority of occurrences in our daily lives.

Personally, to be honest, if for some reasons, i have the chance to choose, i really prefer to date a female who's elder than me. Although there isnt a direct positive correlationship between chronological age and mental age, i believe that there is a certain skew towards that direction, and mature females has something that the youngster do not practice, yet. Well, that's just basically my personal thoughts, part and pieces of it that i am willing to disclose here. And yes, it's obvious that, to me, mental age > chronological age. For now, since i am 21 yrs old (already.. lolx), my tolerance should be about >5<> chronological age, and you can possibly find more substance out of a mentally matured individual than a naive individual. Till now, i don't think i've ever.. gone out with anyone younger than me.. i think.. yea.. lolx. Not to say i have the tendency to fall for elder female, but i don't deny there's a certain relation that leads me to that. Anyway, elder, younger or not, those are just words that we used to converse information with each other, it's just a symbol of articulation that made up the meaning for better understanding, i don't think that's important as to what you looking for in a potential partner, but something within her, something more than physical attributes and chronological appearances.

Not sure why i decided to disclose this amount of info bout myself here, probably just a way to release part and pieces of my inner stagnant gouge. Anyway, along with this post, i attached a piece of my poem that i wrote illustrating aging in a woman's pov. Cheers..



Hourglass

Bearing herself, like a pale yellow moon

Odd, but precisely so, the truest Queen

Whose lurid beauty would enflame

Great casualty or festering odium

Transient, versifier of raven wings

Pending cleric of a renounced god

This diffused luminary, too far away

A reverie whose prevailing pallid monarchy

Is just that, aspired?

Misshapen convex, a knot, a fray

So sure they were of this final stretch

Clutched this maiden in hidden prayers

Before her all was sand.

Thursday, November 16, 2006

The emptiness within


A shell of a young woman traipses across the grounds

Head down in mourning for herself

No one watches as the hot tears fall down her pallid cheeks

She has turned her face from the sun

Away from the god that was supposed to protect her glass heart

From the heartbreak of having to watch love walk away

She has to watch others take hold of what she once possessed

Arms embrace other bodies of loved ones as eyes glance over

Shyly at lovers standing across the hotel hallway

While she remains empty

No feeling in her soul

Wednesday, November 15, 2006

The Apostles of my pathways

Speak in tongues, my darling.

Tell them everything you know.

Loyalty never mattered more.

Kiss me as you leave, my darling.

Was it worth it for the silver

that slips between your fingers?

The prize is yours, my darling.

But will you ever sleep again?


Give yourself to shame, my love.

Deny my name, don’t be afraid.

Honesty never mattered more.

Don’t weep as you leave, my love.

Was it all worth it for your life

That slowly slips away from you?

The lies are yours, my love.

But will you ever sleep again?

Denial. Crucifixion.

All of it comes in threes.

Thrice before the cock crows.

Because you are my Peter.


Touch my wounds, my sweet.

It’s alright, it doesn’t hurt now.

But trust never mattered more.

Stigmata follows me, my sweet.

Was it worth your scepticism

That somehow slipped away?

The truth is yours, my sweet.

Can you live with yourself?

Doubt. No faith.

But you’re wise now.

If only you’d believe me.

Because you are my Thomas.

Betrayal. Suicide.

I have sold my soul.

From me, yours fatefully.

Yours severely, your Judas.


P.S - this is actually one of my old pieces, just thought bout it recently and gave it a revamp.

 

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