Pristine

Sometimes I just can’t explain it

The words that I see in my mind’s eye

Are too vague to actually vocalize

My mouth opens but silent sighs exit it
like a spring summer breeze

I look at you, there’s a lot I want to tell you
but the wires that border my heart
prohibit every single spontaneous feeling

I hypnotize myself with the thought
that I am mature, I have grown up
to control feelings, master emotions
and most of all balance my life

But at the end of the day
as I lay in bed, amusing my eyes
with some movie playing for the sake
of visional movement

My thoughts start to knock
at my conscience door
Before I open, I look through the peephole
hoping they’d have flowers, but no
They have suitcases of the past,
that they want to unpack in my presence
and maybe leave some of two items for the future

I lay there, talking to myself
conversing with those thoughts
convincing myself that I have grown up
and I know what I want
but the truth is baby, no one knows
what he, she wants

It’s an illusion that’s been put in front of us
like carrots hanging from a fishing pole
move forward, we all do that, whether we like it or not
we move, be it big steps, or baby ones
but that’s the only way

But as I do, I do grow, mentally
but my emotions at night sleep in a fetal position
conserving all that is me
from the one who is subconsciously holding on to youth
to the lady, that is responsible, living in the city
in her flat, with a vibrant social life
and a wallet that will never let her down
Sometimes joining the bandwagon of
living for the moment,
and the next feeling guilty about
how reckless I am

What’s happening why does my mother’s voice
echo in my mind
why is growing up as glorified
as being busy
fuck that,
Age, what an unmerciful creature
what a judgmental creep
why do you inflict labels on us
each and every year

You are so meticulous that you remind us
that wrinkles are bound to happen
your body will change and yes, some even start
losing their eye sight

You color our hair grey
and mold us into adults
or so they call them

But, for me, as you do visit me
every year in March
I fear you, and the digits that you bring along

I always say, “I am aging”
but no matter how many times
you try to engrave
your stupid label that defines my age
for some reason it doesn’t seem to work

My energy levels surge
my heart beats better than before
my liver can out-drink yours
my lungs, well leave them alone
and my skin, I’ll let the bouncers
tell you how many times I get ID-ed

Your powers have failed in the presence
of a youthful spirit
I am sure many and not just me are finding loopholes
to cling onto their youth
many do succeed others
just develop a childish approach to it

It’s unintential, it’s a spirit
some even say it’s a blessing
“Don’t change” one half utters
while the other insults me with
“you’re at this age, grow up”

It’s not like I don’t want to
it’s just that as much as I do
it just back fires, it’s like
drinking from the fountain of youth
that feeling is consumed by every cell of your body
from your skin, to your hair to
that beating heart of yours

illuminating such a beautiful aura
that many want a bite of
And it all reverts back to those moments
when, you thought you’re all grown up
and have it all then….
sometimes I just can’t explain it
as verbal as I am when it comes to writing
I am at a loss for words
I open my mouth, but sighs
dance out to the music
that plays in my mind
when I see you
sitting there
with a cigarette in one hand
and drink in the
other

Chiara Bautista drink

Chiara Bautista

 

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