Can't Sleep

I can't sleep because I think too much;
Robbed of life with a bitter touch.
Even in my own home, my decisions
Are met with skepticism, dismissal and derision.

 

By friends so colorful, who don't know my name,

By family so loveable, who think me as tamed…
I feel like a stone tablet left on a table:
Ignored and forgotten, till it's moving is enabled.

 

I'm so angry it hurts; this pain in my chest

It's left behind, like me and my rest.
Can't I decide, (in my own home no less),
what games to play, when stuck with doctor or dress?

 

It hurts like a dream, filled only with pain.

I can't sleep when nobody knows the frame.
I'm stuck in a loophole, a cycle straight down,
Where I can't even sleep in my own home town.

 

Why the same thing; endless repetition?

Why not sit back, even if you need to pay the tuition.
It doesn't cost much… to change your own ways
When it opens up new doors, and I can sleep away the day.

 

 

Who am I even talking to?

 

 

 

Echo Echo Freely

Echoes echo echo freely.
Over water, through the air
Echoes echo echo freely.

 

Inside a storm, inside your mind

An echo resounds
Creating afterimages of effects and times;
Memories lost to ether rebound.

 

Echoes echo echo freely…

If you count freedom as an extra large cage.
And over time an echo goes quiet.
And we say echoes echo echo freely.

 

Stuck in a hole that they can't rise out of

dying slowly unless they hit the absent bell
getting quieter and quieter till there's no sound left;
would you say that echoes echo echo freely?

 

 

ISA

Snake Bite

I was  born inside a snake cage.
Only ever pythons or vipers
Cut to pieces or choked and swallowed whole.
So, so venomous.

 

Shadows on the wall without waiting

Serpents on the ceiling, baiting, baiting
Can't figure without being stabbed by odes
Drowning in the mood. Yet not so blue.

 

Dug the teeth in without regard for the victim.

Murdered murderers… if you can erase the meaning in the bitten.
Burdened by weight without legs to move forward.
Without arms to grab, you don't create. Not ordered.

 

Shadows on the wall without waiting

Serpents on the ceiling, baiting, baiting
Can't figure without being stabbed by odes
Drowning in the mood. Yet not so blue.

 

What  joke can hide behind a mask behind a mask

Hiding a symphony without the capability to ask?
A dead band without the potion to bring it back to life.
Would you ever want to when it's filled with so much strife?

 

Shadows on the wall without waiting

Serpents on the ceiling, baiting, baiting
Can't figure without being stabbed by odes
Drowning in the mood. Yet not so blue.
Not so blue.
Green and yellow and red and you,
Not so blue.
Not so blue.

ISA

Oh Sakura

When did I forget to lie again?
With dreams left seething
It seems to dissipate
Into the rainstorm.
 
Oh Sakura,
you left me breathless.
I'm so restless,
Cannot fall asleep again.
Oh Sakura,
You left me all alone.
 
Need to go away
Way back far in bus-less retrograde.
Walk a thousand steps
into the never-ending fall.
 
Oh Sakura,
you left me breathless.
I'm so restless,
Cannot fall asleep again.
Oh Sakura,
You left me all alone.
 
Timeless wastrels
Lyrical assholes.
Talking like lovers lost
dead in the long run.
 
Oh Sakura
Without you I'll be gone.
Oh Sakura
Dead like a raindoll.
Oh Sakura
You left me all alone.
Oh Sakura.
Oh Sakura.

 

ISA

 

 

Like a Knife

Like a knife,
I'm full of edges;
Rough edges, sharp edges,
cutting a strait through to inner meanings.
 
It's telling when your gaze leaves lines of fear,
and your words take them aback.
Of course a single cut can kill.
Every child is taught this when they're young...
 
***
 
It makes a child sensitive if they're treated like a knife.
Dangling from the hilt down,
Lacking affection.
Treated like a tool.
 
It makes an adult angry,
To be so carefully handled so segregated from their peers.
How would any knife feel to be left outside the box of forks and spoon?
No consideration, does a knife get.
Cowards.
 
It makes the old and wise sad
To see the same treatment given to others.
The same mistakes made,
The same days and the same situations.
They always want better for those that wouldn't be forced otherwise.
 
I'm none of these things.
I'm a weapon I myself use.
My eyes dig deep and leave scars,
My words leave gashes and furrows.
My hands destroy that which I touch.
But I control me.

I don't have to be a knife.
I don't have to hurt or kill.
I'm only like a knife.
To transform otherwise…would be unlike me.


ISA

P.S. from Mike: (Sorry people. It seems like this month is going to be used for Inspirationals with 'Metals' as the theme. Oh, and it seems like it may be a question to this, so... I don't write these. My friend, ISA, is the one who does. I only maintain this blog for him. I'm his editor. I don't normally leave these, but I've gotten more than one question as of late from friends offline, so I thought I'd answer the question here.

We're planning an AMA/AUA soon though. Please send your questions in. THANKS!)

The Needle

Pin, pin, push it in
-to little holes beneath the skin
(that are) left to bleed beneath their touch
till the pain becomes much too much.
They just dig deeper, further down
till the pin begins to drown
and the seas inside, they rise and fall
to keep the secret over all.
 
 Not the heart, not the brain;
You're much too focused on the pain
of a truth-ful needle poking in
And busting lies beneath the skin.
 
Boils, blemishes;
they're both diminishes
that the needle seeks to find;
little, tiny, self-told lies.
 
It's not enough that the needle may be right;
so were leeches in their time.
It may be just that you're feeling the burn
(of truth) before you're in the urn. The final turn.
 
Hello Death, I loved your poison prick.


ISA

Center of the World (Your Room)

The center of the world
is just a thumb on the palm of your hand.
It's plain and dry
without any complex meaning or color
and is as familiar to you as the sky is to a bird.
Yet there is a complexity about its growth, and the presences within.
 
Like your bedroom in your youth, a dresser or cabinet filled with clothes
or a bookshelf on an old desk
or even a computer (if you had one) filled with the comings and goings of your mind's quandaries.
Your necklaces and rings and jewelry in a close by box
next to another filled with your fondest memories
being just the tip of the iceberg of experience.
 
Really, going into such an old and fond place is nostalgic.
You remember intimately what went where and why it did and what caused this and that to happen.
The center of your world…so far away after growing up and leaving.
And you walk outside of that old room in that old house on that old street that needs to be repaved…
and look at where your family used to sleep.

They're all gone,
long since passed is the time you first decided to play the fool by pretending to smile through the pain
you carry always.
A sister, maybe a brother, more…
Your father, your mother, maybe even your grandmother and grandfather that lived in an old room with flowery wallpaper…
they're all gone.
Their children have grown up and have had children.
Your friends have all left and grown their own families.
Time really seems to change quickly.
In who knows how many years, you'll go too.
 
Yet this world is still pristine in where you left it.
You'll be fondly remembered by those you've loved more than life itself.
You'll die and your world will die with you.
It's fine to cry…
One last time.

 

ISA