Changes

We’ve come to a turning point,

A place where we are made to move on

From where we are now.

A wonderful new opportunity,

To grow, to evolve,

From whatever it is we now are.

And yet,

I wish we didn’t have to leave this place.

I wish we could stay here and live,

Like we have lived for so long.

That whatever change is approaching,

Is but a dream I am dreaming.

Because here, time exists at a standstill;

Not ever really moving or changing.

Here is a place draped in feelings,

And with memories existing in

Every scent, every corner, every glance.

Because of these that have always been,

I am able to recreate my

Most recent years and thoughts.

To make myself feel the same as I once did,

As I sat in the same place I do now,

Giving the unhealthy illusion no time has really passed at all.

I am trapped inside an asylum of mind,

And no matter how much I focus on making new,

Old memories lurk against every wall,

And are attempting to be relived,

Because here, nothing is ever different,

Here, nothing is moved.

Here, I am able to remain that little girl I once was,

In love with the idea that nothing ever has to change.

And that is exactly why,

In these moments passing,

And in the future to come,

Nothing can be allowed to remain the same.

 

Copyright © 2014
by Atirah Jewel

Perhaps A Fantasy

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

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

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.
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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…

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

Dreaming of Happiness

I hurt myself,
Just to hear the screams,
I kill myself,
Just to feel the pain,
Just to taste the blood as I drown myself in it,
Fallen to my knees in agony,
Withered up,
Dying,
All I can think to do it laugh,
Laugh, just so I can cry out more.
I’m obsessed with the idea of pain,
With the idea of death,
With darkness and decay,
The rot of flesh as it decomposes under the sun,
Unknown to any,
A woman,
Shriveled up and bleeding out until the minute of her demise,
A man,
Being the subject of torture as he begs for mercy,
Cold-blooded slaughter,
Unsuspecting victim,
It amuses me so,
Wishing I could be there with them,
Watching them wither and die,
Glimpse death as he takes their hand in his own icy grip,
Pray to be next.
Laughing forever so at these thoughts,
Fallen away to my own world,
Savouring each moment of my death,
Joining the victims of so many,
Pain was the last thing I felt.
Dreaming of happiness.

Copyright © 2013 by
Atirah Jewel

The Tree

T’was such a beautiful day,
I thought unto myself,
So I decided to go for a walk,
To further appreciate the day,
For in this life I had so few,
On my walk,
I happened upon an old tree,
It’s branches had been stripped bare by the season,
Leaving it vulnerable and exposed.
The trunk had been defiled by two set of initials,
Carved deep into the bark,
The pain those imbeciles must’ve caused the tree,
My whole body quivered with anger,
I had to close my eyes to calm my nerves.
When I opened them,
I let their gaze fall elsewhere.
To the bottom of the tree,
To the roots.
The gnarled, knotted, twisted roots,
They protruded from the soil,
As is the dirt that once surrounded them had been torn away,
Leaving them to be exposed as well.
They almost looked like women,
Women who were left bare,
All piled atop one another,
They looked as if they were calling out in agony,
Desperately pleading for their lives,
Waiting for someone to help them.
If you truly listened,
You could hear their screams,
Riding on the howling wind.
How real it all seemed,
How loud they sounded in my mind,
I caught myself imagining they were real women.
Shaking the disturbing image from my mind,
I walked on.
I came across several more interesting trees,
Each having a story of its own to tell,
I saw several birds and streams,
Heard many calls of wild beasts,
But my mind kept wondering back to one place,
Those roots.
Those helpless women.
The image was disturbing, yes,
Yet I could not help but be intrigued,
My feet moved on their own,
And I sprinted back the the tree,
The fascination consumed me.
I looked on and thought,
“These women, if I cut them,
Would they bleed?
Would they cry out in pain,
Or beg for my help and mercy?”
I closed my eyes once more,
When I opened them I stumbled back in horror,
For a brief moment,
They ceased to be made of wood,
They were human, living and breathing,
Pained.
I resolved to come back later,
When everyone else was gone,
So we could be alone.
When later presented itself to me,
I gathered myself and went back,
An axe slumped over my shoulder,
A test for her,
To see if she would scream,
To see if she would fight,
To see if she would bleed.

Copyright © 2013 by
Atirah Jewel

To Lan

The lines you have written,
Have spoken to me,
Telling me that the beauty in your soul,
Radiates with the light of one thousand suns,
All of the stars that sprinkle the night sky,
Could never even begin to compare,
To the brilliance of your shine.

With this hand, I write to you,
Pondering what words to use,
To speak to you.
How could my silly phrases possibly reach you,
When I lay upon the ground,
And you are stationed above the clouds?

Your words sing Utopian songs to me,
Racing ahead of the rest,
You dance with Beauty,
Yet you lie with Darkness,
You are the mistress to a poet,
A poet I once knew.

Higher rising you are,
On your wings made of gold,
‘Till you sit atop the Sun itself,
Finally letting it bask in your brilliance,
And shining through my darkness,
With your light.

Yours Truly,
Atirah

Copyright © 2013 by
Atirah Jewel

Engel

Sweet child of mine,
You took my hand,
You took my flesh,
And now the sky refuses to smile at you.
Murderous.

You watch as the darkness falls,
The only light you will know,
But instead of tears,
You produce a smile.
Relentless.

The wounds you have caused,
Scars that will never heal,
You fly on your broken wings of withered dreams,
And sing good-bye to all the angels.
Odious.

Copyright © 2013 by
Atirah Jewel

Liebster Blog Award

Many thanks to Mr. Ami Fidèle of the poetry blog Perplexing Thoughts for the nomination of this award. Really Ami, you nominate me for more then I deserve 🙂 Thank you very, very much.

Alright, now onto the rules for accepting.

1. Accept the award, post the picture of the Liebster Award on the top of your post and say who nominated you for the award and list their blog site. (Check)

2. List 11 random facts about yourself.

3. Nominate 11 other bloggers for the Liebster Award and list their blog sites.

4. Notify the bloggers of their award.

5. Ask the award winners 11 questions to answer when they accept their Liebster Award.

6. Answer the questions left for you by the blogger who gave you the award.

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Alright, 11 random facts about myself.

• I wear glasses and I have worn them since I was 18 months old.

• I really, really, really looooove cats. I’ve got the heart of a crazy cat lady 🙂

• I love to cook and bake.

• I typically go through one theme several times for a period of time when writing.

• My favorite genre is drama/romance, and my favorite kind of romance is tragic. I find myself incapable of writing a love poem and/or story and being satisfied with a happy ending. Whether it be by death or betrayal, tragic is always my way to go.

• I read a lot of manga.

• I get terribly bad allergies around this time of the season, so I am braving this through itchy eyes and a stuffy nose.

• I’m not so good with names but I rarely ever forget a face. If I have seen you before, then I most likely know it.

• I’m a Vincent Price fanatic, I absolutely love him.

• I don’t like accepting help from others.

• one of my favourite styles is Gothic Aristocratic.

Now my nominees:

– Sarah Jane

– Rhonda L. Brockmeyer

– Boomie Bol

– gabrielsfury

– meiro

– The Silver Poet

– IN[genuine] LOVE.

– little furrow

– ☽✵ℳ00ℕṦℌ1И3✵☾

– msuzanneb

– Wendy Strohm

Question time! I’ll take a couple from Ami.

1. Why do you write?

2. Where is the one place you wish you could live?

3. If you had the opportunity to go back in time to do whatever you wish, would you take it?

4. What’s your writing process like?

5. Among your work, do you have favorite poem? If so which one and why?

6. What made you start writing?

7. What is your favorite topic to write about?

8. Who is your favorite poet or author?

9. What inspires you to write?

10. Is there someone famous that you admire? If so, who?

11. Which time period do you like the most?

And finally, answer time:

1. Why do you write?

Nothing special or different really. I just need something like an open field where I can let my imagination run wild and free. I don’t really have much talents in anything else so writing becomes that outlet, a place to express myself.

2. Do you play an instrument? If so, which one?

Sadly, no. There are a several few that I would like to learn though.

3. In what style do you prefer writing?

I’m not very picky, it really just depends on what kind of mood I’m in.

4. What music is playing on your speakers right now?

At the moment, nothing. But on the speakers of my mind “Slow Burn” by the incredible, talented, beautiful, too-amazing-to-describe-in-words Starman David Bowie has been playing for a while.

5. Do you think in pictures when you write?

Sometimes yes, sometimes no. Mostly no.

6. What’s your writing process like?

Most of the time I am listening to a song and if I like the melody, I write what I think is fitting to the tune. Usually something just pops in my head and I just let the words flow but there are those sometimes that I have to think hard to know what exactly it is that I want to say. Then comes revision and such, and finally I am done. More than half of my poetry doesn’t make it on here though, to be honest.

7. Among your work, do you have favorite poem? If so which one and why?

This is a hard one. Heart and Soul and Beyond had been a favorite of mine for a while, I never knew why, but I do believe it has changed. I would have to say either As I Lay Dying or  Wingless, A Dream or A Love Story because of the story behind them.

8. What’s your favorite book and why?

I never actually knew the answer to this question. I’ve read so many I can’t choose. If I can name my favorite manga does it count? If so, then InuYasha: A Feudal Fairytale, Rumiko Takahasi is the best!

9. What’s your favorite season of the year?

Winter & Fall.

10. Should you write to/about a specific person do your give the poem to them or do prefer to you keep it?

I prefer to keep something like that to myself. In certain situations, maybe I would give it to them, but overall? No.

11. Instead writing, what other art form can you imagine yourself expressing yourself through or already do express yourself through?

Definitely music because it is something that can touch a person’s soul, and is probably one the most true and intense artistic emotional outlet there is.

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Many many thanks again to Monsieur Fidèle for the nomination, whose blog I admire very much myself. Have an amazing day everyone! XD