Remember that time,
When we used to write poems.
Inspired by the life we lived,
oh did we live.....
 |
| (Sergei Parajanov being Sergei Parajanov) |
LostLost to time,
What was once
Never to be again.
Never mine,
But always here.
10 years sober.
I was asked to explain time today.
Time is non-linear. The time you are born is the time you will die.
But what is time...
Time is watching your mother age, slowly transforming into grandma.
Her pin pricked hands wrinkled now
In pain from all the work they did to raise us.
Time is watching your father turn gray.
Your superhero...
No longer dawns a cape, his shoulders hunched over.
Constantly out of breath.
With time we grow. But what is time....
Time is that infinite moment,
held in the arms of love...
While you crumble into nothing but skin and bones.
Her hands grasping at you by your soul.
In that moment.
Time is eternal.
With time we feel. But what is time....
Time is wasted during those long glances into the cold mirror.
Judging yourself inch by inch,
Disgusted of your misshapen mistakes
No eyes are as cruel as your own.
Time is wasted.
With time we scar. But what is time....
Time is the true healer.
Nothing, no pain at all lasts forever.
even in death we forget.
Forgotten are the names and faces of those that the wind took...
Far, far away.
Time heals all.
With time we forget. But what is time....
Time is what you make of it.
Seconds. Minutes. Hours. Days. Years. Millenia
Here for now. Tomorrow never promised.
Like the objective lie of life.
Time is all but subjective.
 |
| Allegory of Vanity by Antonio de Pereda (1632) |
Nouvelle Vauge
The call to prayer...
"you up" texts.
A new found appreciation
for simple affection.
I've been having dreams,
 |
Mann und Frau (Umarmung)
by Egon Schiele (1917) |
My hands missing fingers...
My mouth missing a tongue.
Cursed by desire,
Fueled by perpetual longing.
Undeserving of touch and spoken word.
What am I, if not just a boy,
In a mans clothes....
foreign to oneself.
The thought of happiness,
A commonplace mistake.
The moon and me,
Lonesome lovers.
The dark night calls...
My mind its messenger
What am I, if not a vessel,
Occult obsessions...
Pleasurable pain.
Nothing "good" happens after midnight.
But "good" is not what we are after.
Thank you to Tigran Hamasyan, Artyom Manukyan and Nu for the soundtrack to my mindless musing
Thank you to Old "New" Friends for reminding me that I used to write poetry.
Thanks to my therapist for making me understand its okay to be angry.
I love you all if you've read this far.
Send me a FUCK YOU just so I can feel the love back.
Yours truly,
Hakop
