Eyelids weightlifting -
Benching themselves.
Losing is easier than winning
When you're tired as hell.
-YB?
Monday, March 23, 2009
Pencil in Hand #17
THESIS OF GO.
The simplicity of GO is still jarring to concrete trapped minds. The idea itself, to them seems like gratuitous madness. Freedom of thoughts, still scares the jailed ones. I stand waiting for - opportunity. For the fucking guts to let GO. I see it. I know it exist. Will I believe and follow or wake up forever tomorrow?
-YB?
Friday, March 20, 2009
Pencil in Hand # 16
Winter in Australia
Ghastly gusts of wind gallop
With unrelenting reason,
Intermingled with drizzled rain,
"From sun to none" -
Oz beckons a new season.
-YB?
Ghastly gusts of wind gallop
With unrelenting reason,
Intermingled with drizzled rain,
"From sun to none" -
Oz beckons a new season.
-YB?
Pencil in Hand # 15
The Neglected Sonnet
Still, furiously fuelled by flimsy flames
While drooping in the drowning thoughts of;
(A haughty heart beckons once again) ;
The retreating beauty of fleeting love.
-YB?
Still, furiously fuelled by flimsy flames
While drooping in the drowning thoughts of;
(A haughty heart beckons once again) ;
The retreating beauty of fleeting love.
-YB?
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Pencil in Hand # 14
Beat.
I have walked the lonely streets many a nights with only the cherry on my cheap cigarette to guide me along the darkness buried below my feet. With wet concrete, I have blended as much as I have clashed with the downpours of rain. However, tonight there are only drizzles of cloud sweat that perpetrate my solemn thoughts.
From the moment my shift ended I knew that I'd rather walk home that become once again a constraint victim of subterranean metro madness. Upon leaving, a man that I had politicked over religion 30 minutes before, on my cigarette break, smiled and said "God bless you, man" I couldn't help but smile and pat my heart. He had tried with relentless and stuttering effort to make me see the light. Little did he know that my soul was etched through a carousel of darker means. I couldn't convince him that the Bible is a great work of fiction, much like he couldn't convince me that Jesus had helped him walk again from his fatal rock climbing accident. But at least he believed in something, which is a fuck more than I could proclaim about myself.
My instinct was to cross the street, and so I did. At this point I was no longer guiding my steps. The sounds of the streets took over. The infectious rhythm became my only agency. Under some urban night constructed spell I lost my sense of purpose only to devote my soul to correspond with the beat being expectorated by the means of plastic buckets, wooden drum sticks and a genius fortified by individual drive. Questlove would have felt this dude as much as I did. My earlier smile now grew to a content grin. I made eye contact with him and he reciprocated a certain understanding only to be shared by those "who get it", as Hunter himself so appropriately put it. I could have stopped and experienced a fuller moment. Nonetheless, the beauty of it lies in the fact that my motion was forward. Infused by the drums. As I crossed him, we clicked. He quit the buckets for a bit, smacked his sticks four resonant and tempestuous times, as if to acknowledge my own damn rhythm, and continued to bang on. I felt it, man. Can you dig it?
This genius remains unknown. Nevertheless, the streets will continue to acknowledge him much more than a public ever could.
-YB?
I have walked the lonely streets many a nights with only the cherry on my cheap cigarette to guide me along the darkness buried below my feet. With wet concrete, I have blended as much as I have clashed with the downpours of rain. However, tonight there are only drizzles of cloud sweat that perpetrate my solemn thoughts.
From the moment my shift ended I knew that I'd rather walk home that become once again a constraint victim of subterranean metro madness. Upon leaving, a man that I had politicked over religion 30 minutes before, on my cigarette break, smiled and said "God bless you, man" I couldn't help but smile and pat my heart. He had tried with relentless and stuttering effort to make me see the light. Little did he know that my soul was etched through a carousel of darker means. I couldn't convince him that the Bible is a great work of fiction, much like he couldn't convince me that Jesus had helped him walk again from his fatal rock climbing accident. But at least he believed in something, which is a fuck more than I could proclaim about myself.
My instinct was to cross the street, and so I did. At this point I was no longer guiding my steps. The sounds of the streets took over. The infectious rhythm became my only agency. Under some urban night constructed spell I lost my sense of purpose only to devote my soul to correspond with the beat being expectorated by the means of plastic buckets, wooden drum sticks and a genius fortified by individual drive. Questlove would have felt this dude as much as I did. My earlier smile now grew to a content grin. I made eye contact with him and he reciprocated a certain understanding only to be shared by those "who get it", as Hunter himself so appropriately put it. I could have stopped and experienced a fuller moment. Nonetheless, the beauty of it lies in the fact that my motion was forward. Infused by the drums. As I crossed him, we clicked. He quit the buckets for a bit, smacked his sticks four resonant and tempestuous times, as if to acknowledge my own damn rhythm, and continued to bang on. I felt it, man. Can you dig it?
This genius remains unknown. Nevertheless, the streets will continue to acknowledge him much more than a public ever could.
-YB?
Pencil in Hand # 13
Amongst the overarching gloom that hung about the wintry sky and the gentle breeze that caressed our souls, you could still see that something was on his mind. As he slowly made his way up the central steps, the ones gathered didn't notice or feel his exuding sadness. The world had chosen its anonymous victim. Fate, with unrelenting force, had made a decision. The perils to come for this young man were only beginning. With omnipotent intrusion I understood what he felt. I related to his confrontations with insurmountable obstacles. He stared back at me for what seemed like an eternity, silently confessing, hoping that I may shed some repressed tears instead of him. As if deliberately trying to transfer his load of woes into my foreign pool. He was introspectively admitting to me all of his secrets without uttering a single word. I understood him, better than anyone else in this world. And still, I was but a reflection of his torment. In me, he saw something that no one ever could. The truthful truth of his existence, his ambitions, his dreams, his fears, his reality, his all. He stared and stared until it was time to go. Relieved? Or perhaps even more confused than when he arrived, he left. And so did I. Until we meet again. Perhaps at that time, he'll let a minimal sigh of relief morph itself into a single smile fuelled by accomplishment.
-YB?
Pencil in Hand # 12
On my Head Top.
The clouds felt heavy. The sky looked dismal. An apocalyptic aroma lingered with perpetual persistence as the drops catapulted themselves on the pavement hard enough to bounce back and ricochet off others falling subsequently creating a mid-air explosion of raindrops. As if to allude to the possibility that this world was finally being consumed by its own rigorous force of the blue source. Days like this made the sun feel inferior. I couldn't help but associate my mood with the orange giant, the recluse ball of fire, as I walked home, drenched, but nonetheless smiling at the absurdity of it all. I slowed down and let my soul be refreshed...fuck it...getting wet was inevitable.
The clouds felt heavy. The sky looked dismal. An apocalyptic aroma lingered with perpetual persistence as the drops catapulted themselves on the pavement hard enough to bounce back and ricochet off others falling subsequently creating a mid-air explosion of raindrops. As if to allude to the possibility that this world was finally being consumed by its own rigorous force of the blue source. Days like this made the sun feel inferior. I couldn't help but associate my mood with the orange giant, the recluse ball of fire, as I walked home, drenched, but nonetheless smiling at the absurdity of it all. I slowed down and let my soul be refreshed...fuck it...getting wet was inevitable.
-YB?
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