Unpublished Thoughts
Signed with love, A. H. Fashina
She thrust herself into
the arms of reality,
a giant spectacle of existence,
literally a giant.
She clung onto the soft, fleshy
surface that the giant revealed
to be its palm.
She could feel its pulse flowing
through the giant’s cells
like how a woodland creature
can hear the closest stream.
She stood, nervously but happily
gazing back at the Dali sunset she
would now have to leave behind forever,
for this colourful, dreamy wasteland
was a place that all people outgrew,
it was now her time to bid farewell, adieu…
SITTING IN A QUIET CORNER OF A PLACE, AT A CERTAIN TIME ARE TWO WELL-SPOKEN, RANDOM PEOPLE, WITH ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGES. QUITE FRANKLY, IN THE NICEST WAY POSSIBLE, WHO THEY ARE AND WHAT THEY LOOK LIKE ARE NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS. ALL THAT MATTERS IS WHAT THEY ARE SAYING. WE ENTER, MID-CONVERSATION.
Him: You’re a contradiction, you know that right? How can you fall so easily in love, yet never trust anyone?
Her: People are beautiful, wondrous specimens of life but they are dangerous. Carnivorous plants pour a great palette of colours into their flesh, but you wouldn’t stick your finger in one. You love their beauty without giving them your trust, because they will hurt you but you’re inexplicably drawn to them, they’re a subject of interest to your curious mind.
Him: You think all people are monsters?
Her: I think everyone has the potential to be monstrous.
Him: so you could never truly love another person (PAUSE) a monster as you might say.
Her: quite the opposite, the more monstrous the person, the more likely I am to give my all to them.
Him: ah, another sufferer of the bad-boy-attraction syndrome.
Her: don’t be so cynical. I hold the belief that the worst of us need the most love. In fact, the more horrible a person you are, the more love you’re capable of.
Him: I can see your point with the former half of that statement, but the latter seems unreasonable, as much as you would like to believe it.
Her: think of it this way; love and hate are two separate things, they are very different emotions that evoke very different thoughts and actions. However, they both stem from one feeling: passion. Anyone who is capable of putting so much energy and time into anything so unimaginably horrendous or hurtful has a wealth of passion available to them, a wealth of passion that can spring into an incomprehensible harbour of love. The category they choose to hold their passion in is down to a numerous amount of possible life factors that I alone could not list.
Him: (FINISHES DRINK, THEN REACHES OVER AND TAKES THE REST OF HER DRINK)
Her: (PUZZLED) I wanted that, why would you do that?
Him: I figured you’ll have to invest more love in me, the worse I behave. I have a lot of passion to categorise by my understanding of things.
Her: (SMILES SLYLY).
End.
They swim in the blood of
Their victims in a ghoulish
Village called Macabre.
The people there are vile,
They are feeble and sickly,
They are the worst of all,
They cackle in swarms,
Step in unison to the broken beats
That drum through the cracked bells
Of the tiny decrepit church on the dewy hill, where the most colour springs
In the form of specs of
Purple-blue buds of lavender
That lace the green path that
Feeds the eye with such
Brightness so, trailing from the top
Of the hill where the doors of
The church remain open always,
Its inner walls as empty, soulless
And bitter as the people who avoid it.
The church is the heart of the baron
Village, where all the once
beating hearts lie.
The people of Macabre are
Not at fault, they were once
Ordinary folk like you and I,
They are the forgotten loves
Of those once generous,
Those now greedy with their
Bodies, their minds, those who
Hide all they have to give from
Those who will nurture them the most.
The village of Macabre is where
All remains of shattered love boxes
Go; where dreams burn and rot,
Disintegrating from glistening
Sand sparks from the sleepy chambers
Of the Sandman to dry, blackened ash crystals; where hope is scattered for the last time, and dark begins to grow.
Words are re-written
Whenever they are read,
Words are re-written
They are never really dead.
You set your eyes upon the page
And then the air becomes the same
And the waters begin to turn,
And the earth is again what it was
When the ink-stained fingers
Of the thwarted, downtrodden
Writer met the silky pages
Of their ‘special’ journal
With oh so much sentiment
(they bought it as an afterthought
on a shopping chore after several
hours of being worked to nothing
more than a vessel).
Here on the page they are everything
Anything, nothing and something,
They are a demi-god limited
Only by your opinions,
By your interpretation.
Your smile, your tears,
They are the writer’s wine
And yet your dismal sigh,
Your empty breath of dismay
that escapes at your last
Whisper of their words
Is a bitterly intoxicating overdose.
They will relapse by will,
Again and again until
Their blood spills.
You are their sin and their thrill,
Your purchase pays for their bills.
You overwork them so,
You cruel creature,
For words are forever re-written
Whenever they are read.
Writers seem to fall so easily in love with concepts, theories and ideas of things that they forget to hold on to the real thing. They fall so deep that there’s nothing left to hold on to, nothing real. Once this happens, it’s too easy to love an idea more than a person/thing. A person can say ‘no’ whilst an idea will continue to grow.
