The Theory of Him
remember I once said that I can feel, sense and perceive about individuals; pick up their good and bad vibes, even from a brief interaction? and, of course, I always beware or walk away fast whenever I feel something about them is off. I hate to admit that I never wrong about this one.
now, you see? he traps you in his web of lies. he screams his self-justification at the top of his lungs, but it’s your silence that screams louder.
you see? he always tries to make you think what he wants you to think. he doesn’t love you. he only loves the reflection of himself in you.
when you stop being what he expects you to be, he explodes to create emotional debt.
when you stop seeing what he wants you to see and start analysing the situation, he guilt trips you. it’s that simple.
he always tells you how to react, what to say and what not to say, you ask him many questions and question his intention in your head, and now you’re the one who is deemed irrational. you can never be the voice of reason to rewire his brain. he thinks he can control your bloody mind and attitude....can you fucking see?
you could feel something would happen between him and her long before you learnt his empty love confession to her.
he’s the one who denies, but the truth speaks differently.
he’s the one who breaks the mirror, then wonders why everything doesn’t look the same anymore.
he’s the one who stabs you in the back,
then blames you for hurting him.
it’s never about you. it’s always all about him. his love is cheap and based around lies. still, he wonders why you change and thinks you know nothing.
he shows his true colour
while my colour fades
and you’re not his only one.
you think he takes your breath away but you are simply suffocating from his bullshits
... and I’m not the only one.
— Mapping Satanic Circle And The Origin Of My Evil
Pic: ©Laura Makabresku
the moonlight dance
upon her velvet skin
down to the forest floors
in the cold autumn night
when he sought gentle warmth
between her rosebud lips
as she touched his heartstrings
with her electric fingertips
and drank poetry
straight from his lips;
she left him speechless
so he made her howl
entwined, to the depths of their soul
and she made him growl
before the moon grew dimmer
and darker shade of magic fade
before old owl went back to its roost
and the morning birds sang to the Sylvan
before fox spirit of Sigyn
stopped chasing light and shadow
and the olde mage woke up to bless their
golden fallin’ leaves stopped in midair
and tale of deep forest were told
by moonstruck lovers eyes
before magic hour started floating away
and left nothing but her sweet musk scent
embedded in his dew-drenched skin.
Pic: ©Shelby Robinson
see the world through repercussion
through bad action in justification
trip over an illusion
to gain more validation
or seek admiration
in the land of manipulation
where each life decision
is made without clear vision
in the wrong direction
so lost in contradiction
for real truth’s a mere fiction
defeated by self-deception
hides behind false good intention
dissent stirs strong reaction
spit of hate over self-reflection
reinforces a pleasant division.
something’s off with sweet disposition
but once again, gut feelings work with
between the lines full of blurred definition
at last one soul is saved from pseudo affection.
Pic: ©Laura Makabresku
subtle hints of blade’s keen
glittering chiseled edges
planted in the chest
stirring vague sense of
belonging somewhere down
in the guts
gone with the wind
when days carried on
bearing the pain
of things untold
gasping for lifeless air
in lively world of the dead
beneath sinking skies
where stars crumbling
into your callous gaze
over the web of lies you spun
and for once, i belong to you
when nothing left for us to hold on to.
Pic: ©Laura Makabresku
night sky lies bereft and bound
my fingers, cold and tired still,
tracing the fading stars
in one final attempt
to pull myself closer
to wherever home is
through the dark clouds
and distant emotions
that linger high in the air
and my lips, cold and puckered,
whistling melody of the dust
for all things i’ve lost
across the seas
across the lands
and for all things
yet to be found
in me, in you, in us
and for all of you i’ve missed
what stories would the wind tell you?
i wonder, as i clench shifting sands anew
while the world starts waking up
into a hollow dream,
i step away from that sleepless night
to somewhere we don’t belong
with seashells in my pocket
and ocean air in my lungs.
here i am again
where the sands of time
and our footprints
have long been gone
washed by the ocean
that once pulled you
into its wondrous depth
and harshly erased
our wildest dreams
in those endless summer days
when you and i entwined
under the spell of the golden light
reflecting off our rolling waves.
now i close my eyes
to see what you saw
as september breeze
the sound of our silences
beneath my breath,
years of heavy tears
so i let you go
for the first time of my life
i open my eyes
when the sun sets
over the horizon of our past.
my tiny star is forever yours.
Grey sky races overhead,
the wind blows across the troubled clouds
to the barren hill
where I stand upon.
between my folded hands
and I get lost in the waves of thickened grey
where distance has unfurled its wings
As every shadow whispers your name
We soar apart,
whither the wind blows the silence further afield
Yet I see you still
when the lightning flashes across my sky,
you breathe the roaring storm
that once raced through my aching spine,
and swirled ’round my splintered rib.
I feel you still, clinging on by your fingertips.
Pic: ©Laura Makabresku
In The Devil’s Lair, We Never Sleep
something was turning around in his mind, a thought, a scratch that he couldn’t reach
having sight but the shadows painted blind
mirrored the voices, shackled in speech
defenseless against the darkness that crawled under his skin, soft flesh was tormented by disease
echoed the pain within,
hurling over thousand shades of unease
the nightmares had returned, sleepless nights filling his veins with guilt and dread
shapeless moments quickly got burnt, fomented creation of hell inside his head
insanity knocked on the doors, vile tongues as if shattered glass floating in his bloodstream, payback was signed by demon himself
chunks of flesh scattered around the heaven floors, all rotten souls preserved soundless scream and lost their ways in classic death fermentation before the twelve
he fell to the floor, limbs twisted and bent, angels and demons both calling his name, what he had done, left a mark, an edge cutting knife under the skull
tracing old war, when everything was never meant, days of glory, like a dying flame, barely lighted up his lifeless hull
redemption, the angels sang,
cleaned your wounds, mended the broken bones
shouted out the holy light,
confused, he tried not to hear
devoured by the sins —
a luscious delight of the impending doom
damnation, the demons sang,
crawled across my ground, unleashed my hellish moans
soared high in the hollow night
where benevolence was left abused,
“now, clench your fear
dig deep into your wounded skin
strain your eyes, peer into the gloom”
the night drifted into a finale
yet the nightmares were reluctant to quit
cemented into his subconscious, ruthless killers of faith
body squirming, muscles in spasms
*another day arisen, foul sinner*
find your hope
or the endless turmoil of torments shall never end
something was turning around in his ever-fleeting reality,
a bottomless pit with its troubled wit
which smothered him senseless
so brilliantly obnoxious, a persephonic wraith
in symphonic bastardisation of his scriptural orgasms
taunting the angelic brigadier into existence in a dewlit morning like a pompous winning loser
walking the notochord of corporeal slob —
the lone(ly) sheep-clothed wolf barely felt content.
Malleability of Us All
an anthem of any uprising —
(c)omposition four is the best key in perfect notation; ear-blasting and heart-wrenching.
spitting chorus of (viva la) revolution
might never make a big hit in top 40 chart
where the war for the safest space
or the space of the safest war
preserve the relevance
for those untrained ears
that fail to listen to concealed fears
beyond the 40(s) in (un)popular culture
ever since the rats banned sprangle of humanities branches
before a man could find his (f)ucking key in bloody battlefield
before you or i or they finished counting the stars
in the tombstones or in our skies
but, power is a mental state and age is merely a number after all.