518. Underground

help

How am I supposed to live,

When no one is willing to accept,

The entirety of my soul?

Every piece of me, broken, is swept…

Under the rug. I’ll never be whole.

How am I supposed to feel,

When society calls me a lie?

And says the face is what is real,

And not the inner voices who cry.

How am I supposed to trust,

When there’s no one fighting on my side?

I’ve learned the judge is far less cruel,

When the truth is denied,…and we hide.

I may be insane, yet I’m no fool.

How am I supposed to live,

When condemned,…buried,…forgotten?

One cannot live when they’re not free.

So I spend my days with paper and pen,

Writing my own wistful elegy,…

That no one will understand.

K. Aldaya, 6/21/20

Picture: https://www.inverse.com/article/7543-how-do-you-die-when-you-re-buried-alive

517. Empty Graves Without Name

mask_bw_monochrome_124766_3840x2400

There is a tall castle,

It looks lovely from the top.

The tower is inviting,

So passersby often go up;

To see the sea of green,

And to the fae, raise bounteous cup.

However, this castle,

Is a most sprawling domain,

With levels and rooms galore;

Though no one wanders without aim,

As each window and door,

Is locked with keys of their own name.

And each key rests below,

In the haunted dungeon halls,

Where the screams of yesterdays,

Still echo through the walls themselves;

And the terrors from those days,

Remain undusted on its’ shelves.

Thence, who would travel forth,

To seek out the truths within?

When blue skies are so pleasant;

And nature moves in expansion,

Adorning the present….

Burying tales without description.

Empty graves, without name.

K. Aldaya, 5/18/20

Picture: Originally by Evan Mitchell on Flickr;
https://wallpaperscraft.com/download/mask_bw_monochrome_124766/3840×2400

301. Haunted

I know you will not understand,

When I say he wants me dead.

You will never understand what it’s like,

For another to live in your head.

To cut into your flesh so deep,

They bleed into your blood;

So violently invade your skin,

That they form a crimson flood,

And break down all the barricades,

Built to protect the spirit.

And barge inside so loudly,

That it frightens all who hear it.

All the parts of you, they hide,

In other rooms and floors;

They hide for fear of being found:

Cowering behind locked doors.

For the intruder walks up and down,

The corridors and stairs,

With his knife scrapping the walls, he walks,

And through each keyhole glares.

If anyone gets out of place,

And tries to run or sneak.

He’ll hear, find, and punish them,

At the softest of a creak.

Some parts of you will try to fight,

Yet it always ends the same.

A blood-bath; as a mortal can’t win,

An immortal at his game.

I know you do not understand,

When I say he wants me dead.

That he hunts the halls and that he guards,

The prison in my head.

No one can escape or leave.

No one’s allowed freedom.

Some live in fear, or plan escape,

Yet most are simply numb.

Please try to understand me,

When I say I cannot tell you.

To open up those locked doors,

Is something I can’t do.

To open them I risk my life,

And all the parts of me.

He’d kill body or mind to hide,

His crimes against sanity.

Hush now. Hush and be still,

And believe what you will.

For I know, yet cannot fully say,

Why my mind is haunted still.

K. Aldaya, 4/23/15

Picture: The Haunted Mansion Corridor at Disneyland; http://www.haunt1000.com/publishImages/MyHauntedMansion~~element27.jpg

299. Star Crossed Lovers

No matter how far we reach,

Our spirits remain distant.

We long to meet…reach…and reach…

Yet our skin is resistant.

Our skin and bones detain us;

Hold us under lock and key.

On and on our sentence drones.

In death will we be set free?

Or is this a death sentence?

Life in prison. No parole;

Without recourse or defense,

Then shot dead through the keyhole?

Someday if our deaths’ pardon.

If souls traverse the cosmos.

Will we finally meet someone,

Discern and draw in so close,

That two souls may become one?

K. Aldaya, 4/7/15

Picture: By kelsey-makes-you-smile.xanga.com; http://favim.com/image/54089/

276. Bloody Hands

Red as sun-lit roses in the budding-Spring,

The pavement glistens with fresh blood,

And in my heart a piercing thorn bears the moments’ sting.

In my hand is an old-withered rag of white,

And in my soul a battlefield,

Plays a ghostly reenactment of the costly fight.

–Bloody is the rag which tries to hide a guilty soul,

Yet bloodier are the hands which clean without a rag that’s whole.

Red are these hands and the only I have known,….

Are these hands with fresh-blood dripping…

Dripping, and dripping guilt and pain; scrubbing all alone.

Blue as restless oceans crashing to the shore,

Are the tears which crash to the earth,

Never enough to clean the hands of an old child-whore.

–Red as sunlit roses in the budding-Spring,

The pavement glistens with fresh blood,

And in my heart a piercing thorn bears the moments’ sting.

K. Aldaya, 8/19/14

Picture: Inspired by American McGee’s Alice: Madness Returns; Artist Unknown; http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_maly49hnQp1qkuk8lo1_500.jpg