Perhaps A Fantasy

Published June 10, 2014 by atirahjewel

This feels too controlled.
Completely in control,
While indefinitely knowing I am not.
But the feeling
Of this pen on this parchment,
Of the thoughts formed,
Of the music that plays,
All known to myself.
Words I will remember in the morning
As having written down
Before my thoughts
Strayed to more desperate things.

How can Time and Space
Be split,
Manipulated, so to speak,
So I may enjoy it as it had
Led me to believe I would?
Underneath that rotten façade of beauty
Comes the real face of being.
A man-made existence of time
Distributes itself under the spell of the Gods.
How can I feel the weight of control
In my hands
When it is a falsified existence
To dignify and comfort man?

To what degree must I suffer
Before recognising and realising,
The hideous truth
Of my own potential
To posses and bend time and space
And matter that makes up the Universe,
Multi-verse even, perhaps.
Soon my script will be unreadable
To even me,
It’s maker and creator.
For the hand betrays the mind,
And in turn, the pen betrays the hand.
In truth, meaning,
The hand, in all senses,
Betrays its own primal desire,
To disobey.

One moment,
Time is here,
Offering the same offer
It had offered once before.
In the remembrance, I plead.
Sentenced to the last of my sane days,
On my knees
Pleading with the man perceived time
To grant me any favour of power
To manipulate it so as to
Create for me,
A doorway
To travel desperately through
And live in a place completely
Before my time.
Where I had been born,
And killed,
And born from again
In the wrong sentence.

Now, after a quick glance at
Surroundings of unknown origins,
I forget
Every desire but one;
The one of Love.
A Love more pure
Then I’d ever dreamed before.
The only dream tears have been shed for,
And I have begged to live.
A version of me,
Before this version of me,
Living engulfed in music
And responsibility.
Drowning in instruments,
Blissfully dying under the sounds
Of voices, carrying me through the air
As if I was floating.

A hug, a kiss,
A bond of love shared
Between my soul and my soul.
Build a dream of Life in a manner
That I’ve never dreamed,
But instead envisioned.
Cut me in half,
Cut me into small pieces,
And I still won’t weep as much,
My heart still won’t bleed as much
As did when I was startled
By the cruel realisation
That my dream was nothing
Of a dream to be,
But instead, perhaps a fantasy.
One of ideal places and people,
Skills and thoughts and friendships and doubts
Ever doomed under the cloud
Of failure.

Death would be a mercy,
Welcomed and invited in,
As compared to the thought
Of living my life in a time
After my time.
A place I shouldn’t live in
In the manner I live in it;
Instead of in the way I am truly meant
To live and fatedly meant to die.
Pushed underwater and held by
Dreams of the beyond-world dimension
That await me so I can be
Further blessed with the Love I
Once soberly dreamt of,
And now highly plead for.
Into the Darkness, I’ll close my eyes,
And open my mind and heart to
The unforeseen, impossible possibilities of
This world and the next.

Copyright © 2014 by
Atirah Jewel

Isabella

Published May 9, 2014 by atirahjewel

In a plagued Heaven,
Perhaps I can exist without
Constant thought of Death
Looming over my mind,
With no other reason
But to threaten my Sanity.
Alas, in this palace-like place,
I am caught even more in the web
Placed under the spell of Death’s beauteous charms.
Falling, tumbling, soaring,
Living in my own personal, tainted Heaven,
Forced to accept the sweetness
Of Death’s Mercy,
Though I weep for
Being prey to a Mercy
That should not exist,
Not like I exist
For in the weak existence
I am subjected to live.
It does not truly exist
On the Grand scale of things.
No,
Not like the existence of the Sun,
The Moon,
The Earth;
Whose own place in the realm
Of Life and Honesty
I begin so greatly to question.
Why should I believe
In a place
Where Hatred and Truth combine
And aimlessly murder the life
Once awarded to the Father,
The Son,
And the Mother,
Perhaps her more so than the rest.
Isabella, the face of Beauty,
Forgiven from her.
The face of the ocean
And the birthing force of
All that is Mighty and Holy.
Isabella, she fades,
Fades into the black eternity
That she is so cruelly betrothed to.
See her, dancing.
Feel her, falling.
All of the twists and turns
She encounters along the way
To find her inner sanctity,
Her own Heaven
Plagued heavy with Shame,
Fear and Guilt.
Once more we fall apart
From where we once lived,
From who we once knew.

Isabella is dead,
Finally, graciously.
Isabella is dead.

Copyright © 2014 by
Atirah Jewel

Please Don’t Cry

Published February 26, 2014 by atirahjewel

You may note the copyright notice on this poem reads ‘2013’ instead of ’14. That’s because I actually wrote this in the Summer of 2013, and it’s been sitting in my drafts ever since. I wasn’t satisfied with it and, to be frank, am still not. I thought and think it was/is typical and bland, no flavour of it’s own whatsoever. But, as is rather apparent on my blog, not every poem can be a hit and poets must suffer a few (or several) misses here and there. It only crowds my drafts so I hope you enjoy. Or don’t, either way, it’s here.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You are my sun,

You are my sky,

Your glittering beauty should only be found in flowers,

I wish I had the wings to fly you away.

I see you in my dreams,

And such a beautiful dream you are,

One that brings tears to my eyes,

But you,

Please don’t cry.

I was trapped in my dream until I finally awoke to you,

Let me dry your tears,

Let me fly you away,

Hopefully one day we will be together,

One day I will get those wings,

One day we can once more die.

Copyright © 2013 by
Atirah Jewel

Should Death be so sweet…

Published February 20, 2014 by atirahjewel

Should Death be so sweet,
As to come take me away,
To ring my bell, nice and proper,
I should go with this sweet Death,
With an air of exceptional sweetness myself.
And should I go,
Ever so politely,
With this Death so sweet,
I would dress in my finest garb,
And don my Tuesday hat.
I would kiss my wife goodbye for me, darling Death,
And Death would take my hand,
Sing me soft melodies,
Whilst watching the world weep on their shoulder,
And I, bid farewell to this tragic life.
But this, of course, might only happen,
Should sweet Death,
Ring at my door.

Copyright © 2014 by
Atirah Jewel

This is my seventh attempt…

Published February 20, 2014 by atirahjewel

This is my seventh attempt,
Of writing what has been written,
Seven-thousand times before,
Stealing the world’s ideas,
And corrupting her words,
Altering phrases, slightly turning meaning,
Until it seems to be my own,
This is my seventh attempt.

This is my eighth attempt,
Of writing the same words,
I’ve written eight-thousand times before,
Re-using the same theme,
Again and again, and yet once again,
Giving my works a sound that is repetitive and boring,
Pushing away hopes of growth.
This is my eighth attempt.

This is my ninth attempt,
Of becoming a murderer,
Attempted nine-thousand times before,
Oh but why can’t I just die,
And fade away with all my dreams,
Reiterative and plagiaristic,
And forget everything, but how to sleep?
This is my ninth attempt.


Copyright © 2014 by
Atirah Jewel

A Lover’s Song

Published January 17, 2014 by atirahjewel

It has been years since I started singing,
This song so long,
The truth of my heart brought to my ears ringing,
Believing in you was where I went wrong.
On the brightest night, the truest of the nights of Summer;
I find the fault of myself,
To have been taken in by your charm and glimmer,
The utter death of me.

Through shadows cast and breezes blown,
And with your awful grin,
Filled brimming with evil intents, I should have known,
That no love for me has ever there been.
Yet, still, the song of Love from these lips are sung,
With the fondest of melodies,
So that your heart might reached and my words not hung
Coldly at the feet of the Ogre.

With a now empty heart, I write of a lover scorned;
By their own lover, truly adored.
Although the child had been ample warned,
That their lover would surely grow bored
At their trivial attempts of a romance true,
Textbook driven, fueled by thoughts
Of imaginary Love was what they tried to pursue,
Ultimately their end.


Copyright © 2014 by
Atirah Jewel

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