Sonnets to Scream

 1. A. Todd Anderson

There's a shy poet in every class

Who always recites loudly, if comfortable;

His thoughts and heart could never pass

As anything less than admirable.

He writes until his friend smiles brightly

For he enjoys the words he often hears;

It brings the poet joy, though only slightly, 

Before he feels the eye's fall of glass tears.

The snow weighs on him as a lead boulder

While he cries out a famous, dear name;

It shoots through him like an arrow in the shoulder

And it pains him to know who is to blame.

He always senses every little thing

And the toll each of those could bring.

B. Todd Anderson 

Există câte un poet timid în fiecare clasă 

Care recită cu putere, dacă se simte confortabil;

Dar tot ce altora adesea le pasă 

Este adâncul inimii și gândul său admirabil.

Scrie până când un prieten surâde cu lumină 

Pentru că el adesea adoră ce aude;

Atunci poetul are fericire, deși puțină, 

Înainte de simți a ochilor cascadă de lacrimi surde.

Neaua îi cântarea în spate precum plumbul 

Atunci când striga o dragă, faimoasă denumire;

Îl săgetează și infectează tot mai mult plumbul

Fiindcă deja știe totul despre acea sortire. 

Simte fiecare detaliu, este aproape un tic,

Și vede efectul său, oricât ar fi de mic.

2. Loneliness

I stare at a painting hung on a wall,

The poet gazes out bound with loneliness;

I can only imagine all of his joy and its toll

While a skull filled his eyes with dryness.

I smiled, yet I couldn't feel anything,

Though I'm trapped in a frame, like that poet;

All I have left is to remind myself to sing,

To sing loudly while I write my sonnet.

I am stuck with the scent of lavender,

Under the light of many shimmering stars;

I feel everybody's so bitter tears,

Yet mine often fall silent on Mars.

Sometimes, people read merely from outside,

Forgetting thus, all the keys we always hide.

3. Aristotle Mendoza

He always listens, but rarely speaks

Because he often prefers to wear a mask;

He sees beyond all mimics and tricks,

Although he fears the questions they may ask.

Loneliness was all you could see in his eyes,

Like a black button on a white walll;

All until he met Dante and his absence of lies,

The one who could make him forgt it all.

Dante brought passion to Ari's indifference

And showed him a world of unknown words;

Ari never thought about the difference

Because he couldn't see Dante's swords.

It puzzled him that he was loved dearly,

Although he was rather mute, clearly.

 

4. Dante Quintana

He was often open like the books on his table

Because his fire can burn too brightly;

To read, to learn, to teach, he was often able

Because words aren't a struggle, not slightly.

Looking for a bird, Dante didn't hear Ari's call

And was pushed to avoid being killed by a car;

Broken bones and stitched faces were their fall,

Though Ari could still see his eyes from afar.

At Dante's swollen face, Ari couldn't bare to look

Because the beating could have hurt him too;

Dante would weep for the many hours it took

To return to what for him was true.

They hold each other in a warm embrace

And feel their minds' tempests without a brace.

5. Închis 

Închis într-o sticlă, stă gândul în compania

Unei lacrimi solitare, dar totuși înghețată;

Când se întâlnesc, îmi aduc mania

Și zilele cu mii de vorbe ce se îneacă.

Știu că nu-i ceva sever sau permanent,

Dar acele lungi ore parcă paralizează 

Al tobelor allegro ritm intermitent 

Și închid orice exteriorul stimulează.

Și se adună mereu că într-un glob de sticlă rece

Fiecare gând tăios ce doar rănește;

Uneori, furtuna nu mai trece,

Iar puterea unui fulger doar crește.

Coastele și plămânii aruncă inima la închisoare 

Și-l doboară pe Iar în zborul lui spre soare.

6. Why do certain people care too much?

Why do certain people care too much

About everyone else's sense of fashion?

It's simply the art's tender touch

That brings in the theatre, all the passion.

Some think they see a lavender streak 

In anyone who's out of the ordinary;

Whoever forces the norms to bend and break

It is often seen as a mere circus scenery.

It scares me about it to be thinking 

For it tightens the knot of my tongue;

It will be enough before I start sinking 

And I tear apart the pages of poems, too long.

Is it a mistake to go on a different way?

Will I be stuck in an open cage till the last May?

7. Pens & Words

The pens & words pierce into my throat,

Succeeding in paralysing my tongue;

Still, the two are what keeps me afloat

And what gives me the power to write my song.

I live in worlds I, myself, have created,

Worlds in which I am the god or goddess;

Thanks to my golden sceptre, all has melted 

And caught fire from the ashes, nonetheless.

It is odd to choose the pen instead of a sword 

Because they both carry a mountain's weight;

They can both kill and heal, blade and word, 

Because brutality and tenderness can be the same trait.

Pens and words pierce often into my heart

But they also help me be reborn through my art.

8. Long Hours 

Long hours can seem paralysing

When the lungs quicken, the beat of the drums;

That's what I often catch myself analysing 

In hope of understanding those wasted sums.

It's the eyes that tell all these stories 

About water, singing of joy and sorrow;

That's how you live through grief and glories

And bear all the masks you could borrow.

Yet I stare aimlessly through the empty void

With crystal eyes that have long dried out;

It's a sort of numbness I failed to avoid

Because it stifles each and every shout.

There isn't much that I could think or say

Which could bring me a better or new May.

9. Stomach

A knot in the stomach takes the focus again

Because the head is locked in a jar of glass;

To hide that, I always aimlessly train

So that the clouds don't gather in a mass.

The glass will break and I will gather the shards,

Despite the blood, tears and scars so bitter;

I need to learn to play better with these cards

Or else I'll drink the salty water by the litre.

Oh, knot in the stomach, killing all that's beautiful

And urging the drummer to play much quicker!

It must be a virus way too graceful

Because it only makes me grow sicker.

Why do I write with ease about torment

When I often admire the universe's adornment?

 

10. Heartstone

It's cold outside, even when the sun shines,

But I still adore all about swimming;

I don't cover my head, not even when it rains

Because I'd rather allow myself to be dreaming.

Thor, they call, the short boy they tease

And I always find myself caught in-between;

To take the punches for him, I'd do with ease

Because It's still not the worst I've seen.

I ran into a car with eyes in a waterfall

And some don't seem to see the intention;

My whole being is for beating a call,

So I decided to put an end to the ideation.

Why was I born like this, blond and blue-eyed, 

And didn't realise to whom I had lied?

11. Fernando P.

You still stare at a mirror with broken pieces

And see the shards of yourself, unknown before;

It's nothing but the pain everybody misses

Because we cannot be without the living's bore.

Complex and simple beings by our nature,

We create words and worlds to outlive our years;

How odd is it for a social, lonely creature

To write poems that please many ears?

Álvaro de Campos talks about progress and modernity

In all his endless maritime or triumphal odes;

Ricardo Reis calls upon the gods with an eternity

To which Horace forever proudly nods. 

Man is not an animal, but flesh with a mind,

Although many fit the sort that's ill and kind. 

12. Fears

I want to cry, although I cannot,

Not when those blue, eagle eyes stare down

And spit the fire that trembles every cot

Or burns the skin, lip, ears, and crown.

Eyes swell, scars gather on pale skin

While numbness devours all that's feeling;

Yet laughter wires everything in tin

And keeps my ravens under a glass sealing.

Only a cat can stand the endless tears

That fall on trembling limbs or cuts, so little;

Yet I stand breathless between the fears,

Although they could crush my bones, so brittle.

It all slowly freezes inside the glass bottle,

Yet it's closer to boiling, as if it was in a kettle.

 

13. Language

In this world, nothing could be closer to reality

Than those who too often write or paint;

That's how we embrace the banality

As well as each bruise and every faint.

More than the gods, a pen gives birth to many worlds

And brings music to the silence of the void;

Ideas ring and speak through all the words

That sing of questions we cannot avoid.

Identities and cultures are born from language,

Which gives names to every little universe;

That's how creatures with each other engage

And learn to read and write in the craft of the verse.

The head and heart need to be in such a balance

That others may find in them a menace.

14. Between White Roses

The sun still rises upon the lavender field,

Although many droughts and winters tried to stifle it;

Their masks always hide them behind a shield

And so it's never killed, though it does take a hit.

Lavender can grow anywhere between white roses,

Regardless of weather, rank, or time;

Even when you still see the hooves of horses

Or when its oil is smelt on the hands of a crime.

Achilles adores the bitter-sweet scent of lavender

Because it reminds him of the joy in Patroclus' eyes;

Now tears rain over his cheeks, as if he was another,

While he refuses to sing any of their cruel lies.

Although I feel I'm talking to the windmills,

Lavender still grows on all the past, present and future hills.

15. Orpheus

Sing to me, Orpheus, with the strings of your lyre,

Of every pansy and rose, every eye and ear;

I will write the words, for I still have the fire,

Although partly extinguished by a bitter-sweet tear.

May Apollo and his muses bless my worlds

Because I think I am ready for the life's dance;

Feeling become figures when shown through words

Because otherwise we would be cought in an endless trance.

Yet I still stare aimlessly through the window,

Remembering the embrace of a dear winter;

I already have the colours and the brushes of wilow

Because od Orpheus' generation, I will be the painter.

Before rebirth, something needs burn down;

Before the sun rises again, in needs to set in every town.

16. The Boredom of F.P. 

When I get bored, I begin to write my sonnet

So as to forget the fact that I exist;

That's why I must have a bee in my bonnet,

Since through symbols, I often try to resist.

How many pick up the pen instead of pulling the trigger?

As Virginia Woolf always loved to say;

In this war, I don't know if I could be a Sieger

Or at least to keep the devil of feeling at bay.

It's odd what can be born of boredom,

The worlds we create when we roll our eyes;

Though it can feel much like a martyrdom,

The instincts cannot ever tell lies.

It's strange what non-action adds to the brain,

Although the oxygen through the fire comes to a drain.

17. Februrary 14th

Teddy bears, dyed roses and frozen hearts fill the place

While my stomach knots as if in sickness;

If blood falls, I will not leave a trace

Because above all, conquers the deafness.

Many wear the mety mask of joy

On this moment that's nothing but Thor's day;

They pull the strings as a child plays with a toy

And then cut them before the following May.

Why do I talk when I'm looking through a glass,

Forver observing what I don't feel?

It's all a headache and a weightless masss

Because I carry spade aces made of steel.

I do not feel the void I was warned about,

But the curses will sometimes make me shout.

18. Indifference

The moon itself could fall off the sky

Or the Tiber river could change its course;

For all I care, it could all be a Prussian dye

Or have the salt-and-pepper of a wild horse.

When it comes to faith, the indifference grows

For Christ isn't above Apollo or the dragons of jade;

Each story has golden marbles and circus shows

Because to live for mythology is the oldest trade.

All people are born equal to both of my eyes

For nobody is better or worse than the other;

I abhor all the petty, egotistical lies

Which make of differences such a bother.

Why should I care about when the prime minister sleeps,

Or which politician towards the gallows leaps?

 

19. Acid

We spew acid that burns the other's skin 

By pointing out every little difference;

It gives to many a reason to use nails, clay or tin

To make their living a less painful sentence.

We forget the equality we were born under

Because people fail to see each other as such;

The spine feels as if close to the deafening thunder,

Before the lightning delivers its sweet touch.

Words as spears pierce into sensitive hearts,

Freezing or turning them to little stones;

That's why we cfreate and admire the arts

While forgetting all the yelling and fearful tones.

Why do we look for somebody to take the blame

When we are the ones who make each claim?

20. Earthquake

The ground shakes, all the building catch its song

And begin to dance while losing their bricks;

All the people suddenly speak the same tongue

And forget the world, their masks and tricks.

Glass blinds them and hurts beyond the skin

While everything falls apart under the naked eye;

The rapair is always done only is thin tin,

Although it can lead many to kill or die.

The mind seems to be turning against itself

While thin and long scars appear on the arms;

Each memory is a small glass on the shelf,

Which brings the sound of laughter less than it harms.

The ground trembles and so does the head

Because over a thread continues its tread.

21. Flower of the Bard

Silence dawns upon every great city

When the quiet ones find the courage to speak;

Still, the gods only know to take pity

Or use angainst them a poison and trick.

Those who are mute wear streaks of lavender

Which too often lead to stares, curses or punches;

The scars left by war are rarely tender

While the back in pain, sometimes, hunches.

To stay or to rot, I keep asking a tarot card

While the lavender blooms in one of my rooms;

Poison never stifles this flower of the bard,

Which suffered 10 planets' worth of glooms.

To leave or to die in a sweet misery,

All before I cover myself in the grave's mystery.

 

22. To Artemis and Athena

Afrodite sings, while you hear the sound of the lyre,

Of love unbound in golden or rusty chains;

To Artemis and Athena, it is nothing but endless tire

For enamoured lives are to them a bane.

Artemis runs the wilderness with the moon by her side

While the huntresses follow her into the darkness;

Outside, inside, nobody has anything to hide

Because her way leads out of any harness.

Athena knows the words of philosophy and poetry

For the wise owl is always her proud guide;

The head's matters require a masterful deity

Because learning involves someone close by our side.

So the two live in th ewonder of maidenhood

In their tight, merely aromantic sisterhood.

 

23. Winter 

The sun sinks to the depth of frozen rivers

When everything falls under the deepest sleep;

While snow and ice give other the shivers,

I sit underneath and count the mind's sheep.

The winter freezes the tears when they fall

And the frost on windows paints the glass;

Meditating, you see the heart's silent call

And start to stitch all of your wounds in brass.

Nothing and everything changes in the contradiction of men

Because many thoughts put us in the middle;

In one head, can exist at least other ten

And to understand them is the life of Sphinx's riddle.

Winter can be a riddle you fail to understand,

Though all you have to do is observe, not see, to comprehend.

24. 18th Of August 

In an endless universe, storms gather first

Inside the silent head without a tongue;

Joyous sadness keeps its forward burst

Before the blood starts pouring for too long.

I don't know how to feel, so I simply act,

Before disappearing and turning into a mute;

I wish I knew how to work it out or react

Without being put in the most tight suit.

I'm not even 20 while I'm losing my own name

Amongst the louder ones of all other poets;

Although not a single day feels the same,

I still find myself quietly writing my sonnets.

I feel the world's endless warmth and cold,

But I know so little, though I'm not yet 20 years old.

25. Look Directly 

I fail to look directly and see people's eyes,

So I only notice shirts, freckles, and moods;

Bodies are often unable to tell lies,

As you can see such laughter or will to hang in the woods.

Eyes, ears, and mouths always greet the outside

With empty politeness and masked words;

When somebody has a total of nothing to hide,

They are seen as the destroyer of others' worlds.

Why is it hard to look towards the present 

Devoid of judgement and defensive ideas?

Why do so many look back or forward and resent 

The progress or lack of it in little Korea?

I see, but often solely with my ears

Because nothing deceives what the mind hears.

26. Întuneric 

Privesc adânc și lung în eternul întuneric 

Și nu reușesc să înțeleg teama de influența lui;

El transformă orice râs, orice plâns isteric 

Într-o amintire ce bate în minte un cui.

E adevărat că te poate lăsa fără voce și respirație 

Fiindcă adesea sparge globul tău de sticlă rece;

Dar te obligă să simți ce ai putea să iei în considerație 

Și să-ți vezi renașterea după ce uraganul trece.

E bine să cunoști și întunericul și lumina,

Să nu le știi în alt mod decât complementare;

Numai așa poți vedea frumosul de pe colina 

Pe care Sisif împinge continuu piatra de sare.

N-am teamă de ceva ce nu cunosc bine

Fiindcă adevăratul răspuns vine din sine.

27. Brave New Worlds

I stare outside the open window and hear

A few words, among which counts my name;

The voice is unknown, yet very sharp and dear

Because it calls to mind a distant flame.

A portrait almost foreign to me

Reveals a future that rarely forgets words;

It is something I look forward to live and see

Beacuse ideas can create brave new worlds.

Thus I fly higher and even catch a cloud

Before falling to break my bones on the ground;

A sharp voice keeps calling me with its loud

And intense, yet calm, and careful sound.

The gods want me to sing while writing my sonnet

So as to have fewer chances of losing my bonnet.

28. The Reason of Feeling 

Nothing bothers me anymore these days

Since the head turned off all that's feeling;

I've only been wondering through an endless maze

In the futile attempt to break its sealing.

The reason of feeling brings the worst pain

And forces the head to bloody tear itself apart;

From this game, I have nothing to gain,

Aside from ruining all sides of my art.

Words and ideas can equally heal and kill

Because they work in different ways for each;

I hope this time I will not easily fall ill

Or try to poison myself with a rotten peach.

I try to swim against a swollen river

Because I refuse to drown in such a shiver.

29. Stained Glass 

He paints a stained glass and doesn't show his progress

Beacuse his own colours tint those he uses;

He fears the storms may bring such a mess

That he might fail to see what he chooses.

For disobedience, he was yelled once more

While being hit for speaking his mind aloud;

A spot in his heart is growing so sore

That it overflows any rainbow or dark cloud.

He now doesn't feel so much anymore,

Which sometimes brings tears to his eyes;

He still feels those scars without their gore

And can still notice if he's being fed lies.

Nothing saddens him or brings a distant joy

Because a small gesture can even kill such a boy.

30. Our Generation 

Our generation was born and died 1000 times

While thrown into the dust all alone;

The air no longer smells of blooming limes

Or ideas about whoever owns the throne.

Worthless, lazy or much too sensitive

Are names that still ring in our ears,

And it doesn't help that we're still creative

Because it feeds endlessly into many fears.

Still, I try to look above and see the stars,

Although I have no clue what tomorrow will bring;

I refuse to let my mind be locked behind bars

For I still have my quiet wish to sing.

I salute the lovely minds of our generation 

For they will highlight every artist's creation.

31. Labyrinth 

To interact can be a labyrinth for me

Because I fail to understand their cues;

I know the language, yet I cannot see

The link between words and silent clues.

I am aware of every gesture I show

Because I know how some may react to it;

In such moments, I feel like I am a crow

Who often by most pigeons is hit.

Yet I bury it like the corpse of a friend 

Who died long before finding his peace;

I fear the noose might soon bring my end

Because I can no longer stand such a hiss.

Why is the brain wired in such a way

That I cannot see February changing into May?

32. Sounds Like Treason

People often stare and I cannot return the look

Because I usually notice only the colour of the eye;

Everybody seems to interact according to a book

Without which, they slowly start to die.

I do see things others don't for some reason

Such as the slight difference in manner or tone;

But to say this aloud sounds like treason

Because it cuts people close to every little bone.

The brain is wired against itself and it often feels

As lonely as a wolf who was quietly exiled;

They say as time passes it always heals,

But it leaves the wounds open, however mild.

I'm used to being a sort of a different breed

Only because my mind follows another creed.

33. Abyss

This abyss of mine seems to be endless now

And I tried everything to find a way out;

I ended up here, but I don't know how

Nor do I see the rhyme to write about. 

The void can be equally consuming and feeding

Because not even fire has the courage to exist here;

To get out, there is no universal leading,

Not even a memory of something dear.

Yet you rise and often touch the sun

Like Icarus with his ideals and wax wings;

Only you never cared for what had been done

And only want to write what Apollo sings.

The abyss can be both sadness and joy

Because your own mind becomes a toy.

34. I craft my mask so as people cannot see

I craft my mask so as people cannot see

All the intensity and tears which lie inside;

To navigate the universe, I become a bee

Whose joy or sting of frustration has to hide.

And it works because few dare to break the glass

To discover a truth that's not sung about;

It sometimes makes the sound of a great fuss,

Although it's too low to sound like a shout.

It is draining, but often reduces the isolation 

And calms the nerves activated in a social setting;

It can feel like belonging to a different nation

When every single interaction becomes a betting.

In crowds, why do I even bother to fit

When I know I'll be the one who takes the hit?

35. Dense Fog Inside My Mind

What is it that burns too often my head

And leaves the most dense fog inside my mind?

I sometimes feel through me the arrows of lead

Or the claws reaching for my shoulders from behind.

Is the ice on my spine or endless fear

The one seeming to conquer the rhythm of my drum?

Either way, it comes along with a tear

And the infinite spectrum of being numb.

Inside, outside, it is all the same

Because everything works in similar ways;

I forgot who could or should take the blame

Because I'm used to losing my mind, most of the days.

It kills me to think and feel at the same time,

But it becomes tiresome to have to play the mime.

36. People are curious to feel everything around 

People are curious to feel everything around

Because nobody rules better than an impulse;

In my ears it never quite makes a sound

Because I don't wish for whatever quickens that pulse.

Some go as far as missing their flight

For the blood and poison adorning a rose;

Seeing this leaves me in a state of fright

Because many get out with worse than a broken nose.

Many lose dreams, tongues, ears and eyes

For someone they saw as the one and only;

In agony such a heart too often dies

Or is endlessly consumed by sorrow, solely.

There's a glass between me and such intense feelings 

Beacuse when the head rules, the heart has 7 sealings.

37. Too Quiet or Too Loud 

I sit in silence, usually buried amongst people

Beacuse the shadow is cast always by the light;

The night is dark and fright is triple 

Because I'm again stuck between freeze and flight.

I try to speak my mind, but it's either too quiet or too loud

For anyone to even notice its existence;

I often lose my head in such an indifferent crowd 

Or they cut it upon forgetting all their patience.

Both sides crave the sweet poison of the other

Before falling apart, as if crushed by a hurricane;

The storm brings brings silent, violent tears to one another

While the heads are left with every single blame and bane.

Isolation and lack of it destroy all the same

While leading to madness in every kind of frame.

38. Snow & Rain

It snows heavily all throughout spring,

And its weight bends and breaks many a shoulder;

But in my ears, such a threat doesn't ring

Nor does it signal me a muscle ready to falter.

I do enjoy everything about its peaceful presence 

Because it calms down the turmoil of summer;

Against my head's clamour, it returns the patience

And slows down the allegro rhythm of the drummer.

I fail to understand why so many hate snow & rain

As they extinguish the fire we all carry;

Few can walk along with the burden of pain

Before they quietly choose which one to bury.

There is nothing that bothers me anymore,

Although some spots still feel too sore.

39. The Deafening Silence 

A bottle is all you can see in an empty room

As well as the deafening silence filling it;

It's nothing but a strong scent of doom

Before the thick glass will take its final hit.

The bottle always gathers the strongest feeling

Which tries to spill your guts on every table;

Head & heart slowly become nothing but a sealing,

Preventing you from seeing your feet as stable.

And it goes on and on until the glass bottles break

Or intensity overflows the brain of a ghost;

Now eyes show the pressure they cannot take

While your body becomes to such a play a mere host.

Numbness can hurt as much as vulnerability 

Because it forces the mind to lose an important ability.

40. Books as a Crown

Books will feel like a crown on your head

When you see everything expanding before your eyes;

Even long after your tongue has bled,

You will still be able to read between their lies.

Before yourself, everything will open in absurdity

And all the darkness will suddenly make sense;

That's how nature will show you its dignity

And its beautiful particles will become dense.

By walking in light, you will be able to find darkness 

And see the beauty hidden between all its lines;

Now you observe each season and its shortness,

Water & fire, head & heart, rises & declines.

The mind is crowned by the study's beauty,

But to recognise this is everybody's duty.

41. All Cuts & Wounds 

All cuts & wounds have at least a little stitch

Which helps the body reduce the bleeding;

Still, when all these begin to irritatingly itch,

I catch myself counting red drops, onwards leading.

I hate how much my skin feels tight

While the stitches gather mountains of salt;

When I pick them, my body is locked in freeze or flight

While both head & heart are put on a halt.

And so my head keeps spinning aimlessly, 

Before it quieted every slow movement of the tongue;

Minutes, hours, days, carry out this curse helplessly

While I write, listen to, and sing this bitter song.

It feels like a computer malfunctioning up there,

But I have no clue how much of it I can bare.

42. My Mind's Labour 

My mind's labour guides the eyes to see ahead

The sight, hearing and taste of too many;

But long after my own tongue has bled,

I can no longer fathom the words of any.

The cogs spin, day & night, in & out,

Although they are wired in an odd manner;

Regardless of how loud or quiet is the shout,

It could never reveal the blood of the banner.

Although the stones keep gathering around me,

I try to keep my head above, to swim & float;

Beyond that, not many people can see

Or try to help, to build and offer a boat.

Lucky those who never had nor ever will feel this misery;

From outside, they see nothing but a circus scenery.

43. All Empires Must Fall

When the ground shakes, all empires must fall

To make way for the new world which settles in;

Although old ghosts still make a crying call,

The newborns won't repeat the same drowning sin.

And thus, a new light suddenly pierces the ground 

To teach the beauty of colour to those who see only black & white;

For some ears, it might be too sharp of a sound,

Despite the pleasure they take in the unusual sight.

Instead of carrying the old flag and its blame,

The youth prefers to makes one without a thorn;

Such minds cannot, will not be the same

As those before who could throw anything in scorn.

We may be born just too early or too late,

But we still learn to accept what you used to hate.

44. Houses Built in a Distinct Way

Each world has houses built in a distinct way

Because different ideas come from all places;

When those collide, it is curses some would say

Before seeing the other along similar traces.

Still, some buildings seem oddly designed 

Because the architect wanted to show off his skill;

Such houses are often demolished or simply fined

Because such a presence makes everyone ill.

And so brains are wired without fitting in

A world, a place, a language of wonder;

Such brains drown themselves in water or gin

Because every interaction is as exhausting as plunder.

How can we grow to embrace difference 

When we only know the taste of indifference?

45. Ari & Dante

Dante's hands calmly caress Ari's scars and skin

While he feels his face to be as fragile as porcelain;

Dante cries when he remembers Ari's broken shin

And feels as though such a mind couldn't be sane.

Likewise, Ari couldn't bare to look at Dante's swollen face

Because he doesn't understand why the boys did it;

Of blood, his fists still have an awful trace

Because the challenger didn't expect to also be hit.

With all the scars and fears, they stare at a shimmering star

Which guides them through the universe, both dark and light;

It feels immense when seen from the pickup of Ari's car,

So much so that each of them discovers a reason to fight.

Neither tears nor blood can tear them apart

Because the way they feel represents their art.

46. Nothing Happens Anymore 

Nothing happens anymore when eyes become mute

While intense feelings drown in endless numbness;

Still, my mind forces a smile to fit the suit

Because nothing could feel worse than eternal deafness.

The heart still sings, though as a player in a band,

Even when the legs and hands start to paralyse;

In my eyes, there's nothing other than glass and sand

Because when the storm begins, few take the time to analyse.

Every second, minute, hour, day, it doesn't end,

Regardless of whoever is the nameless, silent speaker;

My head keeps firing signals nobody should send

Because nothing can hurt more than being an overthinker.

It never stops, no matter how hard I try,

And this can stop Icarus from his attempt to fly.

47. Aimless Ways & Moods

Many throw stones in aimless ways and moods

Because they dislike to hear what is different;

With knives at cows' throats and burning woods,

Questions about disappearance become frequent.

They all hear the stifled, yet loud cry,

But choose to stay silent, to play blind;

Everything, everywhere is nothing but a lie

Which builds a golden crown from behind.

And people forget superiority doesn't exist,

Not even when talking about a silent voice;

Not matter who you are, bird, man or beast,

Your quiet tone can change a fellow's choice.

Why choose to be cruel in a world that suffers enough already, 

When you can improve the matters, slow & steady?

48. May 5th

This very day, the kitchen's scent makes me sick

Because they all just repeat the same tiresome words;

I'd say it would feel better if I was stung by a tick

Because an old frustration is revealed in such worlds.

People spew acid to burn down opposing tongues,

Especially on Easter day, when rejection is obvious;

But gods forbid you dare sing your pagan songs

Because of roots, most are too oblivious.

Why should I choose a day to prove whatever 

When every single one can be a testament to gratitude?

That's why I prefer a different road, although I have to sever

Everything coming to such a pompous magnitude.

I couldn't care less of all they do or say

When most of them act like parrots every day.

49. Endless Building Block

I stand on the roof of my endless building block

And look down to see what happens if I fall;

If I hit my back on the asphalt, if my end is a shock

Or a source of misery for those who don't hear the call.

But I won't, although I have both wax wings,

Which may one day serve as feathers in a colourful plumage;

Heart and mind join in whatever each sings

While consumed by joy, by tears, by rage.

I risk losing my breath or voice in senseless arguing

Because something obvious to me is hidden from another;

Instead I sit quietly in a darkness that keeps swallowing 

Every moment until sound becomes a bother.

I wonder if I should jump or attempt to fly

Because I hear the noise made by every lie.

50. As If Ideas Were Different Countries 

People feel as if ideas were different countries 

Which need to be defended, regardless of the cost;

They sometimes fail to respect certain boundaries,

Even though a comrade admitted they lost.

Like rams hitting each other until horns break,

Stubborn people continue a dead conversation;

No success will exist until the ground starts to shake

Or the ram receives a crown, a bright evaluation.

I never know enough, but I can always know more,

Although Aries, Taurus, will never know perspective;

With them, don't argue until your throat's sore

And allow each partaker to be brightly creative.

If mind is a neighbourhood which anyone can paint differently,

I choose to expand mine, albeit silently. 

 

(source of the image: pinterest)