Introspection

Overwhelming desire to escape
Stuck in place
Sadness and fear, paralyzing

I hate this feeling
I want to break through the glass ceiling
But something is holding me back

My inner tragedy, glorious
And beautiful I think
At its core it is my captor and rescuer

Circles are fearful
Never ending and repetitive
Drudging depression

Alienation and isolation
I am a foreigner in an unwelcoming land
But the cruelest thing
Is that for a second, it is inviting. Deceptive.

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Desolate hope

When I sit down and write

I think of all the problems I could write about

All the woes and all the worries

 

But I choose not to indulge

In what ultimately traps me

For inside me lies a glimmer of hope, or perhaps ignorance

That maybe all these problems will die in neglect should I not face them

 

Should they face the loneliness that consumes me

They would cower and wither

Oh so I hope

 

But it is crystal clear that they shall haunt me yet another day

And when this happens I sit down and write

But I write about a bed of roses instead

 

I realize not that each rose has thorns

And thus hurt myself in my blindness

And this adds to my woes and worries

That I choose not to write about as I sit down

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Letting go

To truly move is an art

To be able to restrain looking back

And taking one last glance and what could possibly be

 

To be a wanderer is to let free

Of desire of want and of need

To walk without commitment

To the ground

 

I am a wanderer earthly and sound

Knowing that I must never look back

To move and to hold every experience for a second

And to let go without fear or sadness

 

I will let go and run

And swim against the current

Because I know not commitment

For I am a wanderer free and detached 

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If you gave me wings, I’d fly away.

If you kept me, I’d drown you in a solemn pool.

If you released me, I’d leave you.

If you chained me, I’d torment you. 

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September 19, 2013 · 6:18 am

Scars.

Ten silver dreams coming after me

Telling me that I must take

The godforsaken path 

 

So I tread with caution and wonder

And my godforsaken soul

Craves another

 

I’ve lost my innocence

I found myself relief

In cups of sadness and I escape

 

You brought me up and let me fall

And this is my sweet destiny

To destroy myself in passion

 

You think you’re different?

You keep on getting better faster

But I’ve lost my innocence

 

I’ve lost my purity

I’ve lost my confidence

I found myself relief in cups of sadness

 

Bring me up and let me fall

Build me and destroy me

Because my godforsaken soul

Would rather live a life that’s not my own 

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Lasting Impressions

I left my heart on the sands of Venus

With a soft sorrow voice I left you

My last goodbye

 

Summer months come to an end

And my war has been fought

But the victory I sought

Is no where to be found

 

I left my heart on the sands of Venus

As I sang to you

And I touched your lips with song

Will I see you one more time?

 

I have grown very little

But to say that is a lie

I am still quite shy

Of what I have become

 

I left my heart on the sands of Venus

With you it lies

You my foreign prison

And I your solemn prisoner

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HAUTE COUTURE.

Haute Couture.

Elusive and exclusive but definitely not egocentric nor flashy, what haute couture really feels like only the wearer shall fully know. But any fashion forward person can and should definitely appreciate this dying art form. Pret-a-porter has definitely revolutionized fashion and the way people perceive fashion by sort of making it more available to more kinds of people but as a result the mysteries of fine clothes making, couture has suffered. This probably adds to its beauty and mysticism. If fashion is a religion then couture is its Bible.

Christian Dior

What is couture? Many don’t actually know. Couture is basically made-to-order specially tailored clothing that incorporates only the finest of the finest materials available on our earth. Specially crafted in ateliers in Paris passing regulations set by the Chambre Syndicale de la Couture, these clothes clothe only the wealthiest women.

“A designer who is not also a couturier, who hasn’t learned the most refined mysteries of physically creating his models, is like a sculptor who gives his drawings to another man, an artisan, to accomplish.” – YSL.

For me, names like Pierre Balmain, Cristobal Balenciaga, Coco Chanel, Christian Dior all evoke feelings of intrigue, fascination and wonder. I have a handful of favourite couturiers but at the top of this list lie Christian Dior, Ralph Rucci and Azzedine Alaia. Couture is more about the woman that lies in the clothing than the clothing on it’s own. Fashion can indeed transform but couture accentuates. It works like a megaphone through which the wearer dictates her personality.

Pierre Balmain

It may be surprising to hear that couture isn’t about money. In-fact it really isn’t. Money in-fact tends to tarnish the true quality of creativity by commercializing it.  This aspect of clothing is an art and always has been. Just like you’d collect a De Kooning or a Degas one would collect a Christian Dior couture dress or an Azzedine Alaia.

Just like an enchanting dream couture calls my name drawing me into its intricacies and deep realms.  Sometimes it would seem so wonderful if we could transport into the times when people like Cristobal were busy sewing away in their ateliers for secret clients.

 

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