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20th May 2006

toki_hasegara5:33pm: DOUBT
Covered by a shroud of uncertainty
I lay waste to my own fear
Helpless and uncertain,
Scared to move forward and take a step.
Demeaning my self-worth,
Underestimating my own abilities;
No self-respect nor self-esteem,
I am but an empty shadow,
Trampled upon by those around me
Going unnoticed.
And why should I,
When I have done nothing!
Empty things cannot be seen;
And I remain hollow,
Never to be looked upon with admiration.
Alwys and forever, still.
Never moving forward,
Never moving backward.


The reflection on the glass
reveals an unknown person.
She, who has been living in me
is someone I do not know.
Inhabiting my body
and living my life,
she has changed me entirely.
She looks like me,
even has the same name,
lives in the same house,
and has the same family;
yet she is not me,
and I am not her.
Her face is covered with marks,
plastered with paint and color,
like a tribesman off to war.
Her body is marred with black,
images and signs
that cannot be removed.
She dresses without clothes,
covering both everything and nothing.
Has she sold herself to the devil,
to replace her body with someone elses?
She carries it around as if it was her own,
yet the truth cannot be hidden,
not from me.
This stranger that lives each day
as if it were hers,
who carries what is not hers,
acts without care for consequence,
and lives a lie...
is the person that is reflected
on the glass wall.
This stranger, who is me.
Current Mood: crazy

27th January 2006

trypanophobic342:44pm: Ballad of West Sing Sing
There’s a melody running through your valleys
Crawling over pastel hills and seeping
Into your suburbs, spotted with unused keys
While we here are silently teething.

You have the whole sky, to cup, above you
We have a lazily drifting square of light
Pale and weak like the pool of anemic faces
The young ones snap jaws and lacerate and fight
We shudder in our skins, newly washed bright and clean
And sing-whisper, “Oh, Ah-les, it doesn’t matter what you do
I know I’ll never really get inside of you”
Because when I pulled her moony skin over me
The eyeholes were suffocating, tight, and I felt lost
Burrowing like a beaten child-dog, hiding myself behind,
Inside what was not.

Your chipped picket fence – your wilting flowerbeds
Your penny loafers – the morning newspaper
That arrives, mysteriously, every day while you sleep
To reassure you that as you dreamt, the world was yet turning
Your best dark suit – your home-cooked meals
Your Janie and Jack and their Sunday school
At home, you watch girls on the tennis courts
Discreetly titillated by the grunt and white rise of skirt
As they stretch upwards, hopeful, and arch their young backs against the sun
And afterwards, but afterwards, abashed and vaguely saddened
Your modest dreams, the hoarding of all the things
You’ve spent your free life accumulating
Pretty little house and Labrador and microwave
The wife that smiles, the children that behave
The mind that dulls and becomes staid with age
No longer sharp, no longer vivid, no acrid, vital taste left on the tongue
Loathing it all, the inescapable pleasant dream
Yes, I see you, but do you know what it means?

If you count back to the past
When I was the yellow-haired boy
And still sucked on my thumb and clutched at Mother’s skirts
And often put my face down into the ground
Convinced that, if I did, my heart, stifled, would stop beating
And stop tormenting me with its erratic rhythm,
Masturbating, aspiring to some unnamed element
Leaving me feverish and dizzy
You’ll feel light-headed and see I could have been your child
And with a white hand, carefully, carefully, dreading,
Shake open the paper bringing old news, heralding the modern
Make a great show of saying
“Oh, those sick fucks
Absolutely disgusting”
Put that thing up on a pedestal as a thing of horror and repulsion
Abominable, grotesque, to be reviled and shocking
But you’re feeling the stir, the little puh-pump, this heart
You’re feeding the mentality that simmers and shivers
Licks and bites the fingers
I’m a small part of the piece, just your soiled front page
Hissing and spitting at the walls they’ve conjured around me
Hatred siphoning the blue from my eyes
The hypocrite in me coveting the things I see you having so casually.

You’ll come out of your box when the alarm clock hammers your head
I’ll never leave these six surfaces, never truly get out of bed
I’ll lie in a small, dark room with these hands
Still wrapped safely in Alice’s polished, lusty skin
I’d peel it off, if I could, but since I put it on
I’ve found I can’t really take it off, so then
I’ll lie here, quiet, not angry, still consumed with her end
Singing a song of Sing Sing, with all the rest
The sounds will carry over your valleys
And nestle, at home, inside your head.

West Sing Sing = infamous West Block of Sing Sing "Correctional Facility"

Based on A. M. Homes' The End of Alice.


25th January 2006

trypanophobic345:24pm: Heartstone
“I’m so sad
I’m so sad that my heart is going to burst
And bleed all over my rib cage
And when it’s finally dead and done
I’ll be skipping and humming
And it will be your turn to hurt”

So I’m standing in the cold bright air
Each breath I take is like a stab in the lung
And I’m trying to clear the mist from my head
And once it’s gone, I will feel
Relieved, though a little bit empty
It will all be done

But I’m softening
The rigid shoulders are slowly loosening
The cold is drawing itself like knives through my body
And the fierce smile is steadily drooping
This moment will soon be gone

And when it’s sunny, it’s always cold
But there’s something in the frost untold
Something vaguely warming and comforting
So I’m standing in it and, unwilling, loosening
I’m holding my throat down, and humming to myself
And the sounds are forming ribbons in the air
They’re twisting together and softly saying,
“Don’t be angry with the world
There’s so much more than you could understand
The tears don’t suck back into your eyes, but
Don’t be bitter at the world”

There’s a stone that fell in my heart
There’s a feeling,
Like pure, ethereal beauty,
That’s rising in me and now, crippled, falling
And the words that slipped out drop dead and dumb
As single stones upon the ground

I know what it is
I heard it as a child long ago
As a melody on a piano in my dream
Whose notes sounded ineffable sadness
Beauty, that is
Now you know
What it is I hold so dear
And now you know why I keep it near
So stubbornly, as though jealous of it
And the heartstone grows, but behind closed eyes I see
The same old dream, and the same old me

“Don’t be angry with the world
There’s so much more beauty than you can hold
You’re waiting and hoping, and thinking you know
My child, at seventeen, you’re too young but too old.”

I wrote this awhile ago. I haven't written a poem in over a month, I'm sure. Creative flow is getting tepid. I remember a couple days last year when I would just hurry home, formulating phrases along the way, and write them all down feverishly, poetic lines assaulting my mind and leaving it a bit dizzy.

9th December 2005

toki_hasegara12:02am: DREAMS
Still being edited...

On its boundaries I tread
Leading me to a fantasy realm
As fiction pops into my head

Reality in distortion
The imagination in hyperdrive
The body in unconscious form
Creativity in the mind

Time has no meaning
Wishes have no end
Until the light of morning comes
In my world I will pend

Knights saving damsels
Fairies of the night
Monsters under my bed
Angels taking flight

Places yet to be found
People yet to be met
Stories yet to be told
Fate yet to be set

Dawn’s first streak of light
A fairytale out in the blue
Fiction becomes reality
Dreams do come true
Current Mood: creative

18th November 2005

trypanophobic3410:21pm: Split Lip
My lip cracks and bleeds
Each time I smile too wide or too deep
Perhaps I shouldn’t smile anymore
For collecting in a pile on the floor
Are tissues pinprick-spotted red
And ghosts are lying upon the bed
They’ve been there since they went years ago
Beside them, I ponder the meaning of “alone”
For I’ve been told by a sideways man
That the universe scatters in my hand
And the Big Bang in my pupil is coveted by my eye
Its progress slowed but not deterred by intrinsic design
And although I never quite understand what he’s saying
There’s a scale in my pain-squeezed heart and it’s been weighing
The lightness and darkness in this life
The quantity but not the quality of strife
And that lip is still bleeding
The ghosts, dead, are always growing
And the world inside me is still spinning
Not yet surprised that I’ve stopped smiling.

8th November 2005

trypanophobic343:22pm: "Dear Mr. and/or Mrs. Sender...your life will be one never-ending 'Hope you're feeling better'..."
Yes, another one of these incredibly long poems.


I follow him there every night
I guess you could say I’ve become a bit of an admirer
He sits and drinks till his eyes are shining bright
I wonder what images play behind the dying fire

He looks at all the girls
Flashing a smile crooked-and-stitched-on-one-side
Everything’s a Tilt-o’-Whirl
For a moment we see a giant spider, and oh, that he lied
He has his fun, but soon it’s done
’Cause once he side-glances into a mirror
There’s a stone that drops in his heart, and a leer
That makes him shrink like a pale eyeless thing from the light
Something burned and decayed thrice

And like the snake has said before him,
With silver tongue of insidious intent,
“Shed your skin, the pain of accumulated days
Grow it healthy, anew, by burning it all away.”

I see him shiver inside his skin
Bruised yet caressed by the cold night air
There’s something in him, either thick or thin
That hisses and presses but doesn’t dare

When the hour is old and exhausted
I sit alone in my sea of lamplight
Hoping that he might notice me
But of course he doesn’t, doesn’t even see
Because I am more real than those barroom dreams
Oh, I’m not pretty
And I’m not brave
I’d only make him feel bad about how he behaves
I’ve known him long enough without his knowing
To know I’m nothing he can use, nothing he craves

And like the snake has said to him,
Time immemorial, with his own tongue,
“You can be like me, be whole again like me
Free yourself from your skin’s mortality”

Yet I can’t help feeling lonely
Watching him walk, solitary, down the street
There’s a hollowness to his back
And a sadness in his step
Every footprint he leaves fresh in the snow
I imagine trails a bit of ash and regret

I strain to hear, strain to see
The shadow that always precedes him, away from me
There he goes again with his silver tongue
Murmuring something small and strange, mocking me

And like the snake has said to me,
“My dear, you know he sheds his skin weekly.”
Clouds of gray wreathe him and dream there lazily
And he doesn’t look quite surprised to see
Though his eyes, of course, are practiced liars
The fingers he bends are licked by blue fingers of fire

He’s shuddering and twisting, not knowing
That his inverted mirror is certainly cracking
There’s something in him that wants to pierce his walls
Something behind the burning skin that wants to get out

Can I be your sordid little secret?
Can I be the skin you toss so meekly?
Can I be, in that smoky barroom of a dream, the side
Of you that you want to tear away and die
When you know there are no partial suicides

I follow him there every night
I guess you could say I’ve become a bit of an admirer
I sit and stay there till my eyes are shining bright
’Cause at the heart of every tragedy is getting your heart’s desire.


Note: Two people not to confuse in this poem are the narrator and me.

9th November 2005

toki_hasegara2:19am: Entitled, "My storybook lover"
I wrote this a long time ago, it was inspired by a book I read, "Knight in Shining Armor". Hope you like it, it's a very amateur-ish poem, I think. Haha, don't hesitate to comment and criticize.

I am lying down on my bed a book wide open in my hand
My raven hair spilling into the pillows
As I turn to the next page
I find myself in a storybook land

A dream and a reality merged into one
I awaken in an unknown place
Noticing only the air fresh and my surroundings beautiful
From nowhere, a man suddenly appearing in front of my face

With rugged features and a strong body
He is my knight in shining armor
He lifts me unto his horse, carrying me away
Sweet passion erupts and I become his paramour

Days pass, pure ecstasy filling each second
I live each day as if there is no tomorrow
Each night, reaching high unto the Heavens
My body reaching the highest high and the lowest low

Together forever he had said to me
This was a promised shared with a special bond
A glorious month passing as fast as a year
In happiness and in sond

Walking around, we find ourselves in a familiar place
Where started the happiest moments of my life
We lay down on the grassy lawn, the wind emitting a sweet melody
Slowly falling asleep as my mind dreams, memories still rife

Waking up once again, I am back in my bed
Gone is my knight in shining armor
The book is still open, I start to close it
But I stop as I stare into the words, “The lord saying, gone is my raven-haired paramour”
toki_hasegara2:13am: Entitled, "Someday, just not now"
I wrote this last November 4. Inspired by my current feelings towards "someone". I think it's more of free verse than poetic though.

When you’ve got trouble
When you’re in pain
When you can’t seem to get out of the rain

I’ll be there

When no one’s there to cheer you on
When no one’s there to trust you
When no one’s there to hold on to

I’ll be there

Despite what you may say
I know that someday
You’ll learn to recognize me
You’ll realize that I was there all along

When that time comes
When you’re on your own
And you’re feeling blue
You’ll realize that I’ve been there all along

But by then
It’s too late...

I won’t know if I will have found someone else by then
I don’t know if I’ll still care for you as much as I do now
I don’t know if I’ll even be there anymore

You’ll always have a place in my heart
Because you are the first
You’ll always be the first one I’ve told face-to-face

Someday, I’ll realize
You weren’t worth all this pain and all this heartache
Those times I’ve spent thinking about you,
a complete waste

You may have been flattered
For a while, I was stunned
But it’s all over

I’ve come to a conclusion
Though I may still feel hurt
Like my heart’s in a knot every time I think about you
Someday, I’ll be happy that I moved on

Just, not now

30th October 2005

trypanophobic349:02am: Happy Almost-Halloween
Wrote this last night. It pretty much follows the style of "Harlequin Baby." Again, it deals with a strange creation and the narrator's feelings about it, but the Scarecrow is an actual product of the narrator's mind, whereas the Harlequin girl was more like an unnatural, random product of nature, though both essentially serve the same purpose for the narrator. It also has a similar, rather unorganized verse structure (not that I ever organize them, really). I worked the themes of "dirt," "drops/ravines," and "New/Old Tomorrow" into it, for some reason. I'm not sure I like it very much.

So Long, ScarecrowCollapse )

And in case you didn't know, corbeaux=crows.

You might have noticed a strange connection between scarecrows and me by now.

I wish I could say that... "So long, Scarecrow."

21st October 2005

trypanophobic346:54pm: Can think of no witty title to insert here
Lately I've had moderatorship of the community below sort of transferred to me. Join it if you want.

8th October 2005

trypanophobic3410:41pm: "There will be time, there will be time, to prepare a face to meet the faces that you will meet..."
Here's my latest poem:

Harlequin BabyCollapse )

Side note: Eight members! Joy!

Side note #2: [whispers] You don't know this yet, but my secret source of nourishment springs from comments on my poems. I feed off your opinions and suck praise up through a candy cane-striped bendy straw.

7th September 2005

trypanophobic344:34pm: Wellness
I looked down into a Well
The depths swirling and my reflection quivering
Thrown back up out of the water
And cast into the skies
Where it wavered for a moment like forever
And slowly, eventually died

That soul of mine
It never stays still but considers
And like a person-shaped shadow
Huddles doubtfully in the corner

I know that I will never get well
It’s simply a realization
How does the world look when it’s slanted
Or when you’re slightly sideways?
Ignorance is the price of wellness
Both can be softly stolen away

This disease
It’s the hollowness in your bones
Like birds’, about to break
It’s the veins scraped clean like gutters
Puckered like skin-deep scars
It’s your heart beating so hard it bursts
And bleeds all over your rib cage
Seeping into your lungs, you breathe in blood
And drenching less vital organs

It never goes away
Crept in through the shutters of my soul like day
Wellness hovers like an illusion about to break

There’s not a moment to lose when death came far too soon
And all the moments are interruptions
In a stream of conscious oblivion
Like piano notes in a song that simply do not compose a song

This bastard brainchild
Stillborn emotions that did not live or die
The love that grew in me withered like a vine
And I am afraid that it’s been annulled by time

And all the fountains of beauty in the world
Pooled as tears of blood in my eyes
And all the hate and hurt I feel
Eat away like cancer at the hollow cavities inside

And at the end of the day I’m left quite far away
Sitting in a room
In a place you will never reach
And I know that I’ll be okay
Yes, I’ll be okay
Because no one can ever, ever take me away
From this place
That is me
From this room
Lit by day


11th July 2005

freddybenn12:26pm: cross posted from my lj
somebody just slap me if you get tired of me posting here, new poem

i'd rather be with you

thinking of all the things i have done in my life,
i'd rather be with you,
remembering all the different places that i have been,
i'd rather be with you,
seeing all of my old friends at the class reunion,
i'd rather be with you,
looking at all the people at the mall,
i'd rather be with you,
living out my life until my last day,
i'd rather be with you,
wishing that i had met you 30 years ago,
i'd rather be with you,
out of all the people i have met in my life,
i'd rather be with you.
fwb, 2005
lj 224

30th June 2005

freddybenn8:49pm: cross posted from my lj
i don't know

i don't know,
what happened or why i did not go slow,
i don't know,
how it got to this point not so long ago,
i don't know,
why now i don't feel the least bit low,
i don't know,
how my spirit once more started to flow,
i don't know,
why my life suddenly has a little glow,
i don't know,
how much of my soul that to you i now owe,
i don't know,
anything, except, i never want you to go.
fwb, 2005

19th June 2005

trypanophobic3410:27pm: Neverwhere
This is a kind of reflection that I wrote. Isn't it convenient that I'm the mod and didn't set up any rules?

I have been nursing a secret, perhaps an American, dream for some years of my life. Only in America could such a dream be enacted and realized; only here can I “get lost,” so to speak. Other countries’ denser populations and more binding family and social structures make it more difficult for one to sidestep society, “real life,” and extricate oneself from the teeming, alienated masses and ceaseless maddening crawl of “roaring daily life,” at once viscous as molasses and erratic as strobes....It is my secret. One day I hope to throw closed all the windows and doors to my house, to my life, and follow the example of Emily Dickinson, the greatest poet America has ever been able to produce. Routinely inviting Misery and Loneliness into my home, I will embrace them as old friends and dismiss Fear as only the feathery-cockroach sound of his bare feet whispering along the floor. I will exist for myself only, and write and write in a room with writing decorating the walls or walls serving solely as a background for writing. All the words that have killed me will be written and celebrated. A whisper in the dark, a sound carried on the air; that is nothing. Some’s actions speak louder than their words; some’s words louder than their actions; and for some, when they speak, their words are their actions. Dust angels do not convey any importance until they fall on the printer paper whose words will eventually be covered with the holy snowflakes. Evanescence won’t exist in the world whose halls I traverse like a ghost. I will live in this hypocritical way, both aware and proud of my self-contradiction, knowing that self-inflicted misery is at best a love affair with self-pity and extravagant drama. I am dead now; I will be dead then, and as alive as always and never.

No man, proclaimed Donne, is an Island, and he was wrong. If we were not islands, we would be lost, drowned in each other’s tragedies. We are insulated...from the tragedy of others, by our island nature, and by the repetitive shape and form of the stories. The shape does not change: there was a human being who was born, lived, and then, by some means or another, died. There. You may fill in the details from your own experience. As unoriginal as any other tale, as unique as any other life.”
-- Neil Gaiman

Cross-posted from my personal journal.
freddybenn11:49pm: first post :)
to my love

to my love
let me give you my time
to my love
let me give you my smile
to my love
let me give you my touch
to my love
let me give you my breath
to my love
let me give you my spirit
to my love
let me give you my body
to my love
let me give you my mind
to my love
let me give you my soul
to my love
let me give you my life
fwb, 2005
trypanophobic341:09pm: Perseverance
Er, here's a poem I wrote that you can comment on...

Mirror Girl

Did you hear what happened
One year, one night?
Did you hear that awful racket,
That scream of a whimper of fright?
I did, I marched upstairs
I came and she was there
Kneeling on the ground, where
Shards of mirror lay scattered
Like ashes
Stare, stare
“Fragments,” she said, “look at me”
“I’m not there and I’m not here, I
Am not anywhere”
“I’m broken,” she said, “look at me”
“I broke myself,” she said, “look at me”

What am I going to do about that girl?
What am I going to do about that girl?
What am I going to do about that girl?
What am I going to do about that girl?

The escape, escaped
Filler for the gap
Between reality and what you wanted to be
I have dreamed a thousand dreams
Between branches and trees, I cannot see
Dirty fingernails
Tapered with time
Running and melting into ceiling of mine

She smiled when I didn’t
She laughed when I cried
Sunshine struck her when out the window,
Only clouds forever and back I could see
Reached out and
Impaled her with golden spears of light
That strange rainbow, that sharp glint, I might
Have reached out and touched her but once, but once
Does just as well as twice or thrice
That moment of stillness, then the eruption
Of multicolored, silver-edged light
And she smiled, and she smiled
An eye in that corner, a slip of mouth over there
I am not there, I am not here, I
Am not, I’m not, I’m not, anywhere

What are we going to do about that girl?
World too narrow, mirror too old
What are we going to do about that girl?
Disappeared, squeezed into the pieces
What are we going to do about that girl?
Through the cracks and under the threshold
What are we going to do about that girl?
“Broken,” she said, “I broke myself”

So...how's everybody's...lives? I don't have one, so you needn't reciprocate the question.
trypanophobic341:06pm: Stillbirth
Wow, this community died before it was even born.

1st May 2005

pennyroyaldeath9:49pm: ...one for each photograph that has come to mind when you were looking for yourself to pass the time
wow, great to be here.... you have to add that one Irish poet to our list of intrests.... that really sad one... he's in our lit books and i'm related to him, i really should know his name

<3 don't look back in anger
Current Mood: sick *blech*
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