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kurokojin

Dad, Writer, Nerd, Chef, Awakened, Solitary man, Empath, INFJ, Dominant.

Performance

We dance upon stage
All our hopes
All our dreams
Held within gestures andnl movements
They watch, cheer, jeer
The curtain
It falls
And then… And then… And then…

We are birds
Beautiful yet fragile
We break, under this curtain
Fractured dreams and lost hopes
Our own music
Rythm, lyrics, words
Hurts us like we are deaf
And then… And then… And then…

We wonder
Lost in minds become nightmares
If we write our names in the sky
Will they remember?
Our truths
Our hearts
Will the rain bring us joy?
Drowning us
In what we have lost
And then… And then… And then…

Will they lift us?
In gentle hands?
Will we persevere?
All that remains of our hearts
A fragile, broken, beauty
Can their love teach us to dance again?
And then… And then… And then…

The real curtain falls
Silence now
Applause
Our caracatures can finally die
And then… And then… And then…

A Sadness, A Truth, A Love 

My heart has no home 

No safe place in this world 

It’s beats are a rythmic and loving chaos

Torturous and beautiful 
A wandering soul 

Made of dust and stone 

A hunger, a craving, a need

In its hidden emotional depths 
What beauty can be found 

Is drank from too deeply

With needful tendrils of compassion

The shallow flee in desperation 

The craving returns 
Deeper still lies a strength 

Though lacking a home 

This heart has enough 

To love, to give, to endure 

Because this heart has a child 
A child needs a home 

Deserves a love 

Even in the greatest chaos 

Everything a soul knows 

How to give 

The Game of Hope and Dispair 

​Rain washing on pavement

Footsteps echo like thunder

In this small place
Even shadows hold beauty

Cracks along uneven stone and brick

Iron wrought stairs to the places of heaven above
Moonlight through a dusty window

Night creeps silently on wings

Whispers of the city float upon threads of hope
Grand bedchambers constructed of paper

Burn in the heat of their own beginnings

Peace settles upon a bottle of dreams
Despair waits silently

Cobwebs of failure teasing the mind

Nightmares of a non-existent world
Dawn comes brightly

On the shining wings of an angel

Bright and blinding as the sun
Psalms raise hope again

Pasts leak away like water

Bottles no longer hold dreams
Pride walks into the world

Holding salvation’s gift

A weak hand becomes a fist
Into the sky calls

The voice of new promise

A soul has been born again

Wings 

Loving a damaged girl 

Is like holding a bird with broken wings
She’s gentle but hurt

Wants comfort but is anxious

Her plumage is beautiful but stained
You want to hug away all the hurt

But it will suffocate her

You want to caress her scars 

but they’re still bleeding
She’s fearful of her past 

But those old scars are what you love

Her eyes are deep 

Yet guarded
As she heals she screams

Too much and she will break again

Too little and she won’t heal
But if you’re persistent, reticent. Kind, compassionate

Her wings will soar again
Even if it breaks you before it’s ending.

A Soft Chaos 

I have always existed in this small place

Walls like cracked conch

That reflect my emotions

Revealing the most intimately dangerous  vulnerable parts of me

I have never been alone here

In this place beats a rythm

Wild and dangerous 

Her heart

It’s soft beats echo off the walls

Gentle, loving, soothing

It has a power over my soul 

An unknown ephemeral thing

That can elevate my greater self 

Or shatter everything I am like glass 

Yet still I kneel 

Still I love and give in

Because in that weakness

Within those things that hold my destiny captive

Sleeps the greatest strength I have

Someday this small place will break 

Through the cracks a light

Will bathe our world 

In those things we have kept most private

Yet given to each other

It is a soft, beautiful, and strong, hard hurricane 

That type of wild depth that so few can even dream of

Mother 

Do you hear the music? 

It’s playing softly 

ever so softly 

like feathers floating on the wind 

rustles of beauty shadowed in the dark 
Nighttime 

sleep now my child 

be peaceful in your dreams 

imagine yourself in a place 

a better life 
Listen to my voice 

I’m here now my child 

ignore my pain 

I love you and I am here now 
Wake my dearest one 

It’s morning and the night is gone 

go play now 

and be happy 

and smile with joy 
You are my dreams now 

My child…

You are my dreams now.

A Day in the Park (part one)

Her eyes shoot open. Wide awake yet still very tired. A sleep, a sadness, that has seemingly settled into her bones. She blinks, exhausted, from trying to find sleep again for what seemed like hours. 

She runs her hand listlessly along the smooth cold sheets. On the now empty side of her bed. How could he do this to her? Leave her? Betray her? Hurt her, and their son, so much? Reverie.

The alarm from her phone sounds. Startling her out of such thoughts. She rolls to her other side and swipes the annoying sound away. 

Slowly she rises. Stretching pained and beaten muscles. Sitting up on her side of the bed. Throwing away her warm and rumpled sheets. Warmth escaping into the morning air.

With a tired sigh she stands. Picks up her phone and walks down the cold hallway to her bathroom. The light flickers a few times, after she hits the switch, before finally staying on. Yet another small thing added onto her list of responsibilities and expenses to endure.

She looks into the cracked mirror. Red rimmed green eyes stare back at her. Deep with pain. Crying. Quiet reflection. She shakes herself. Conscious thought coming back to the surface. Sighs. Examines her bruises and pains. Still healing. Still reminding her of violence and sadness.

Again she shakes herself. Finally coming out of those moments of quiet despair. She looks down and touches the button on her phone. 6:30 am. Still enough time to clean her face. Do her hair. Put her makeup on. Before her son wakes up. She doesn’t want him to see.
 

Verses in Beauty 

Verse 7: Book of Hearts 

An old wooden door. Ornate glass. A gentle creaking. The ring of an old bell. The busy hectic world retreating for a time. The scent of old paper.

A greeting. An offer. The clerk smiles gently. She mumbles a reply. Something about just looking and coming in from the cold and rain.

She begins to wander. Eyes exploring this new strange environment. Fingers tracing titles upon paper spines. Each a world onto their own.

Searching. For a thing unfamiliar. Reading the words of others. Wondering. Is there more? 

The distant sound of an old bell. The clerk’s greeting. A reply. That voice. Calm. Kind. Subtlety demanding. 

She turns. A swoosh of butterflies in her stomach. Like driving too fast over a hill. Him.

The sound of footsteps. An end to anticipation. A moment. Brief. Heart pounding. A simple and complicated thing.

Deep blue eyes. Depth. Regarding her quietly. She backs up a step. Places her hand on the shelf behind her. A subtle. Secret. Plea for support.

Slowly. He walks towards her. Long measured strides. Heart beats. Mere moments. A quickening of breath. 

He stops in front of her. Deep blues look directly into hers. The world fades away. She feels a pressure on her skin. A craving. No. A need. For his touch.

He leans in closer. His right hand gently runs along the woolen grey and white leaves around her neck. He smiles gently. Grabs hold of it. Pulls her towards him. 

Her skin tingles. Her leg touches his. A warm sort of itch spreads along her skin there. Her neck heats. As he touches it. With his other hand. Sending a warm pulsation through her. His hand settles upon holding her chin. 

He stares into her. Deeply. Like before. She can’t look away. She wants to. But also doesn’t. Emotion. Physical demand. Confusion. A play of contradictions. 

She looks into his eyes. Sees in them a hunger. Something primal. He wants her. All that she is. This scares her. Thrills her. Dare she say no to this man?

He leans in even closer. She can feel his breath again her neck. Against her ear. She feels a warm wetness between her legs. He whispers. Ever so softly. “Not yet.”

He pulls away. No. She thinks. I want you. He’s already turned. Walks away from her.

A weakness betrays her. She sighs. Leans against the solid wooden shelf for support. 

Deep. Measured breathing. An eventual regaining of composure. She rises. Finally. Slowly walks to leave.

A sympathetic and friendly smile. The clerk holds out a small paper back book. “He left this for you.”

She takes it. Turns it over in her hands. Reads the title.

Book of Hearts.

 

 

Verses in Beauty 

Verse 6: Synchronicity 

Life. The world. Gently moving. To their own devoid rythm. Not unlike a heart. Beating. With its own madness. Hollow and meaningless.

Common comforts. Errands. Work. Friends. Salacious smiles. 

Small things. That once held their own kind of warmth. White noise. Cold as the hollow and meaningless world they belong to.

Yearnings. Heart. Mind. Soul. Searching for a thing. Something unknown. Something. More.

One small thing remains. Soft. Comforting. Grey contours and white leaves. 

The world drones on. Listlessly. Her hand reaches into her black leather bag. Upon occaison. More and more. Often. Fingers touching. Caressing. The warm woolen thing there.

Her mind wanders. Exploring its own kind of madness. A voice. Gentle. Kind. Demanding. Over and over again. “You are all that is contained in the Universe.” Her fingers caress grey wool and white leaves. “But you are choosing to be uninspiringly normal.”

Cravings. Heart. Mind. Soul. Something. More. Blue eyes. Depth. Strong arms. Firm trailing fingers. An enlightened mind. Love. Things she has not known. New possibilities.

The loud wailing of a horn. Startlement. A cold wind. Rain. Her scarf flutters. Plaid polyester briefly blinding her eyes. Before flying away. Into the cold world.

Her hand is too slow. Sleeve catching on her black leather bag’s clasp. As it withdraws from her comforting distraction.

Missing her grasp. A plaid polyester scarf settle onto the cold wet ground. A car tire. Mud. Rain. Melted slush. 

She stares. Dismayed. Yet unable to really care inside. Ruined plaid polyester. A simple. Hollow. Meaningless. Small thing.

The cold wind bites deep. Distraction. Fingers grasping. Around a warm woolen grey thing with white leaves. 

She wraps its gentle warmth around her neck. Finding comfort from the cold.

A last downward glance. At ruined plaid polyester. A soft sigh. A settling of her shoulders. She looks up again. Gazing across the cold wet street.

A book store.

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