The Brushstrokes

It’s all a dream:

The lowest moments

And the greatest,

The imperfections

And the changes

Made by the mind

To what was by the mind,

Confused,

Created;

/

It doesn’t hurt, really,

When in my nightmares

Hungry demons

Gnaw at my bones

And rip to pieces

The magic heart

That every morning

I find unfailingly

Beating in my chest;

/

It is all a mirage:

This face, this body,

Their existence

And their ultimate

Disintegration;

There’s nothing wrong

With pieces breaking,

Cracks manifesting

On the unforgiving skin

/

Painted over

Emptiness

In thick colors

Of fear

Named and signed

By the artist,

‘Me’ –

Both as a sentence

And a key

/

To freedom

Can I Stay?

Can I stay,
My hands glued to the floor,
Breathing in the dusty rustle
Of steps
Over my head?
/
Can I sleep
When the drums start to roar
And thick voices converge
Under the ceiling
Like black crows, trapped?
/
Can I cry
Without anyone looking at me
Like I’m going to melt
And leave
A stain?
/
Can I walk
Without anyone thinking
It’s to
Or away
From them?
/
Can I ask
Of the air that I breathe
Little questions like these,
And not hope
For an answer?
/
And in the silent
World
Can I help going mad?
Can I help growing old?
Can I help
Dying?

A Million Deaths

There is nothing to fear
But my self;
There is nothing to loose
But its chains;
/
There’s no power
I haven’t possessed;
There’s no weakness
I haven’t made mine;
/
There’s no bed, where I can
Rest and sleep –
I’ve been a toy of dreams,
Wild and vain,
/
All my life, all my
Million lives;
And a million of deaths,
Which I died,
/
Never taught me
That I couldn’t keep
Anything; that I would
Become rain,
/
Rain,
That’s naught
But the new life
Of clouds

‘Clouds are the past life of rain’
Thich Nhat Hanh, Understanding our Mind