Mama

Mama, I've found the truth
She's beautiful.
I've grown up
And grown strong
I've been hurt
And I'm in pieces
Mama, the world lied
But she doesn't
She wouldn't
And she's beautiful.
Mama, I'm patient
And the truth needs it
And I'm alright
I'm hungry
And I feed on myself
I can't feed on no one else
You didn't raise me that way
And you're beautiful.
Mama, I'm fine
Send Father a hug
Tell him I'm a man
I hug the child inside me
Each night and sleep
He's restless
He'll be that way.
Mama, I’ll be home soon
I won't come empty handed
I'll have her memories
I'll tell you how beautiful she is
And I won't be the same
But I'll be the same for you.
Mama, I've found the truth.
She's beautiful
She still is
And she will be.

Strange Stars

You and I
We met under strange stars
We loved
We lived
And now we leave
Under stranger stars
They're still above us
And now it rains
I'll hold myself over you
I'll soak the drops up
And you can leave home dry
Say goodbye
And the next time it rains
I'll be a wet pebble toss away
Under the same stars

Beautiful Lie

Beautiful things are not always beautiful. Something you can't say about ideas, I guess.
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You're a beautiful lie that I tell myself
Few times as the day goes by
And I try that you don't bring me down
At least I can say I try.
"Please don't"
And you still come back
And I can't think no more
And lost, I lose my track.

You're a beautiful lie that I tell myself
And I try burying the truth
It's stench lies at the back of my head
And reality digs it's tooth
Deep, but I'm numb
And the you're the one that stings
And the heart that bears you
Will sit here jolly, and sing

You're a beautiful lie that I tell myself
And beautiful things cut
Lies may heal for a while
Things pretty and bright are but
Ugly on the inside it seems
And for a moment you make me believe
That these thing might be true
But I guess I don't care, I'll smile
Cause you make me happy out of the blue
Don't you?

Hazelnut Latte

This one's for the loners. Although I hope you get that I'm trying to convincing myself a little and there's some angst to it.
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I'm at a cafe and I look like a guy whose date didn't turn up
But who is also at the same time not bothered about it
And it surprises them
For its odd to find someone completely on their own these days
For solitude is rare
And so the people stare

The waiter comes to take the order
And he questions the singular nature of my hazelnut latte
And I reassure him with complete contempt
"I will be here for a while and alone
And it's nothing bad, or sad
For this is just the way I like it
And no, I won't fight it"
And he brings me complementary chips.

I hated the chips  
They were dry and over-spiced
And a speciality commonly ordered in the cafe
And I hate specialities and commonalities.
I don't sympathise or conform with them, you see.

I finish my latte with the express understanding that people will always judge,
And no, I won't budge.
I just won't.
I finish my latte, glass dry
At least I try.
And the waiter as he will, brings the bill.

I pay it all and get my change
And I leave a tip.
A tip good enough for two people.
I walk away alone as I came.

The Weakness of a Man

I haven't written in ages. I mean I have but haven't posted my work. I had my reasons. I was convinced I'd give up blogging completely. And now I'm back. I have my reasons.
This goes out for men, a day after Father's day.
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Whoever said 'men never get weak' in his own confidence,
probably never let a butterfly rest on his hand
Probably never stared at a flower for a long while
Probably never let the night sky overwhelm him
Probably never gave his heart away
Probably never had it tossed away
Probably never let it hang on a string
Probably never shed a tear for love ironically

All those things don't make a man weak
But makes a man, a man no matter what they may tell you,
Or feed into your brains,
Or over the ages yell at you.
But men have to get away with it all,
Hide it somewhere very very safe.

For a man is erroneous.
A spawn of his errors and of the others' before him
Barely complex. Simplest machine
And stuck with the question:
'Can he afford to make more errors?'
And so hide it all, for chances are you'll make a mistake,
And lose everything at stake.

And a man is often a 'dog'
Dirty. Feral. And despised for the way he is.
Or what he becomes, to his tragedy.
But a dog can paint euphoria with a wagging tail.
Men don't have tails.
Maybe we were born with one but they chopped it off.
For a man can't show sorrow, love or hate
So a dog is better than him.

And a man is often stupid.
For he let his heart beat more.
An idiot is better, for he is lost in his idiocy too much to care and use the heart that way
And a heartless man is unfortunate and wasted.
And so a man is stupid and may always be one.

But a man, I suppose can be trained. Much like a dog
For even though a dog may seem better
A man basically has the traits of one
He can be wild and rabid, and bite when he wants to.
And he can be too loyal.
He can love too much.
And can be left to strayed too.
And he is.
But that's alright.
For a man is erroneous.
A spawn of his errors and others before him.

Whoever said 'men never get weak' in his own confidence.
Probably never gave his heart away.
Or maybe he did.
He sold it.

'Elliott'

This one is kind of a follow up to the poem I wrote about Elliott Smith. Since it's his birthday I figured I probably should write something about it and I wrote this piece a while back. It just really kicked me in the heart when I stumbled upon his music and then found out almost immediately that there wasn't gonna be any more of it. I refer to him on first name basis because he feels like one of us in a very warm way and is relatable. His songs really are an addiction, it can go out of hand. But I'll always love his music and his words will always be there through my worst times. Here's to Elliott Smith, a friend from beyond the grave.  
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I remember the first time I heard Elliott’s voice. It was in a movie. The Royal Tenenbaums. The song: Needle in the Hay. Up until then I hadn't heard a song which showed pure beauty in melancholy and misery like it did. The song was originally about addiction but it made me believe it was for every other sorrow I held. It haunted me to the point where I couldn't listen to it again for weeks. It held a mirror. It showed me the part of me that adored misery. It took me back to a dark past.

It’s hard enough to accept that you’re different from others in not the most acceptable way. It’s harder to accept that you absolutely don’t know your way around it. It’s amazing how society changes you to the point that you can’t come back. It’s a strange sort of irony that it changes you enough to alienate yourself from it.

Elliott wrote for us ‘strange kids’. He was one himself. For he came from shyness and social awkwardness like we did. He knew how we hide our sorrows behind smiles. He knew our endless secret heartbreaks. He understood what we went through. Actually, we understood what he went through. We could relate to the ache in his words.

They called him 'Mr. Misery'. They called him the ‘most depressing singer ever’. They never knew sorrow like he did. They never understood him. They never understood us, who did understand him.

They blamed it on his heroin. They never took the blame. They called him names. They called him different. We called him one of us.

His songs promised us he’d keep us away from all of them. He told us that it was okay to be ourselves. That it was okay to feel different. That it was okay to be addicted. That it was sweetest kind of sorrow to have one’s heart broken. He made us love our misery. But he wasn't ‘Mr. Misery’; he was plain old Elliot Smith. The one who wrote for the underdogs. Moreover, the one who wrote for himself. The on who wrote the truth.

And then he went away. Just like that. He gave us warmest hugs that turned colder than the winter’s bosom. They said he took his own life. They said he fell too much in love with the misery and confusion he taught us to be in awe of.

I discovered his music rather late. Years after his demise. Yet it might sound rather unfair that I sound as if I knew him so well. It’s because his songs talk to his listeners. His voice comes from beyond death, whispering forever and ever more.
But in all fairness, nobody knew him. Elliot hid behind is words. He hated being termed ‘shy’, ‘dull’ or ‘different’. Much like we all did. Because it never let us go beyond that.

Elliot killed himself many times before. Every time he broke up. Every time he fought with those horrible ones who thought they knew it all. Every time they called him weak. Every time they called him different. Every time he drank or injected himself with the right substance that could ‘make it all okay’ and ‘drive them away’. But not that day.

You see, that day Elliott didn't kill himself. He was murdered

One might think of the theory that suggests that his love, Jennifer Chiba stabbed him to death. That she couldn't take all the mood swings and the drug use, and she placed a cold knife deep into where most of Elliott’s thoughts came from and reached. I want to believe that she did, for our heroes never die like that. They don’t die a weak death like suicide.

But this was Elliott Smith. He made sorrow his best friend, depression his estranged lover, death his mistress. But was he capable of taking his own life? Was he capable of such violence? Was he the ‘Roman candle’ he said he was? We’ll never know

But he was murdered. He was murdered by everyone else. He was murdered by the people that surrounded him. The ones that never found the depth in him. The ones who were quick to judge him for appearance. The dreaded society that Elliott despised.
Yet he did nothing about it. He just floated through it like a balloon, avoiding it all. But balloons ultimately pop. And the one who was Elliott did too. The streets are too ‘sharp’. As sharp as a needle in the hay. Except it seems more like hay in the needle. Carefree balloons don’t belong there.

I don’t know if Elliott could've been better. I can’t really imagine how it would be if he was alive today. He was too beautiful for this world. I do admit his songs glorify the grim sorrows we all are bound to feel. But they all have a certain hope to it. A certain warm positivity within them. It’s almost as if we wanted us to feel alive with each lyric. Elliott did have an ironic sense of humour. 

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XO

Call the Cameras

I've been addicted to Elliott Smith...again. I seriously love the way he wrote his songs. His story is one of the most interesting ones I've come across and it makes me really sad and obsessed. His music is seriously addictive. Here's to Elliott.
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Baggy clothes and shabby hair

He holds a balloon of his heart

His mind holds not the slightest care

Yet his thoughts could take him apart

Call the cameras, they'll make up a story

They won't care, they'll spell his name wrong

He'll be the last one to notice it all,

He'll be gone by the end of his song, by the end of his song

His mind a Roman candle that burns with the sorrows he holds

His heart broken to bits, held together forever by cold

And his feet tired of dancing and dancing on pots of gold

Inside as beat up he may be, tries to appear bold

Call the cameras, they'll ask him to be there

They'll push him away out of their way

He'll move aside like he always does

And avoid it for he knows he'll be gone away, with nothing to say; nothing to say

He sang the songs of a tired soul,

His words put us in the warmest black hole,

But his peculiarity took its toll

They said his own life he stole

Call the cameras, they'll call it tragic,

And say it was all for the best

He'll be alive as if by magic

And we'll forget about all the rest, about all the rest.