WHAT IF THE MIND BLEEDS?

 He sat staring at the horizon, burdened with the discretion of his broken heart. A scenery of the prelude to his problem made a tear escape the bank of his eyes. Mid air he caught it in skillful motion.


He stared at the tear, coaxed by the thought of the possibility of a bleeding mind, he smiled. Melancholy has always been the threat to his comfort.


Again he was left alone, burned, scarred, and left to yet again another uncharacteristical flow of questions of his odd nature.


But somehow he felt nothing, till his mind replayed events passed that brought nothing but sorrow. A stigma of pain planted in his mind, memories wished to be forgotten but burned to the brain.


He wished his mind could bleed, maybe he would forget and finally breathe, or the blood from his mind will bring releaf just like the tears of the eyes. That's what they say.


But his stubborn mind seemed to find Joy in such lousy alternatives it provided. So he drowned himself in liqour, numming the mind, temporarily washing away his problems. 


He sighed, running away won't cut it now he thought to himself. Until he finds away to make his mind cry, his fingers remained crossed till infinity. 


M¿ster¿***


Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

My Soft spot for Sorrow

 In many ways I tried to hinder The very pain felt inner, In dier need of a break through Another definite feel, but it wasn't you. What is true? A burst for Joy Or a tear dropped in sorrow Or is it love that destroy Maybe the one we borrow Listen to yourself, correct the movement of the hand that guides the workings of the innermost touch of thee. In every workings of humanity, the abnormality hidden within define us brutally. Our beauty laid in our inperfection dissected and kept in a place... Mine is my soft spot for sorrow... M¿ster¿°°°
Read more

Paralleled Mysteries 1: ‘The cold marble floor’.

  Sunset, caressed with the evening star slowly the moon comes into light. An in subordinate view of the melancholy of a broken mirror. But you see yourself in many hues. Alone in the castle of your mind, what we see is how we see it, our own view point, our mind a chaotic yet peaceful comfort, our true home. In a house of non verbal communication, speaking in signs and language a repertoire of gestures, occupied by those who haven’t lost their voice, but seek their soul. She sat in the middle of the marble floor, the cold sending tendrils and chills down her spine. Her eyes closed, her face devoid of emotions. The uncharted part of her mind beginning to get foundation as the riddles of gestures where brought to light by the cold marble floor. The insurgence of her curiosity laying depths to the timeless void of her questioned purity and purpose. But not questions of the cold marble floor as it surged even deeper. Communications made without a voice it spoke. With signs that look...
Read more

Strings of Melancholy

 Intoxicated by the twist and turns, a tight grasp of the strings of the heart, the tuning process of the melody inspired by melancholy. The bitter sweet feeling, the sad but peaceful perception, an understanding assessed and clinged to by the heart as the tunes grip and reopen fresh wounds. If words could explain, if words could simply create a sentence, identifying cryptly, indicating pricisely the cunning and deceptive nature of music to a bleeding heart. A direct relationship where the heart surrenders it all, the brain, the ears, the mind. A strike embarked by the heart to clench its desires firmly from the caressing sad symphony of the strings of melancholy. M¿ster¿°°° 
Read more