Sadness – Festival King

I see nothing
speak nothing
hear nothing
My monkeys 3, in a state of Nirvana

Dwelling in nothingness,
Paralyzed by emptiness
Too tired to be angry
Could one be more sad?

It feels painful just to breathe
yet I hold it in till I am pale
Probably for the torture
Probably to prove I still exist.

I war against image and color
closing my eyes to lose sight
wanting them all to disappear atleast for a moment
those daily icons of life

I want nothing!
not to breath!
not to speak!
Not to see!

I push away all that is beautiful
From sight,
to sound,
to word

Turning off my radio,
Dismissing friends,
I become silence itself,

I want nothing
… Not even to feel.

Even a happy life cannot be without a measure of darkness, and the word happy would lose its meaning if it were not balanced by sadness. It is far better to take things as they come along with patience and equanimity.- Carl Jung

Its dverse Open Link night so come on over and show us what you’ve got! 😉

“Good and Sad writing, Sad and Heartfelt, Good and yet painful to read”…. These are a few of the comments born of my poetic seed. It makes you wonder the sort of woman I am, but I couldn’t agree more with these observations of men. My work is sad and yes, sometimes painful, still it gives me great joy when on paper I engrave them.

Though a good number of my expression is cast in shade, from a jolly heart it is made. Known to be quite witty, yet rendering no real “Laughable Moments” in what I poetically enunciate.

So what is my Muse and what drives me? … Call me a Back-Bencher if you will, but I have always preferred to blend with the backdrop of life’s scenes; I observe human interaction, and note response to emotional stimuli. From the outside, looking in, I write what I see.

Grim as it may seem, I actually find it easier to translate human confusion, lust and sadness; I resign to reach into the depths of others, probably because I am too scared to explore my own darkness. I stare through the windows of their emotion and create an impression of their feelings; the actions of even a stranger will give my words meaning.

Unfamiliar with the art of poetry, besides nursery rhymes I recited as a child I bear little interest in the works of T.S Eliot and Oscar Wilde. Happy as any surreal artist with words to say, more than willing am I to bear the title of “Sad writer” if to some accidental reader my literary inscriptions may relate.