hereby i announce the signs
the tell-tale of how i met the monsters one random night
and no, i don't remember when exactly
hello! they didn’t appreciate me

i saw them in people first
shadowed creatures looking over their shoulders
creeping inside from the back
i watched them take place in their head
and in their eyes—every time i saw myself
what if—what if—what if—

they know who you are!
they know what you hide!
they will see through you, you need to disguise!
hide! mask! they'll come in the night
despise—despite everything—you need to run and find cover
you can't be bare—not in front of this world
they'll hurt more—seeing the scars you carry
blame it all on you, for the past—when you weren't so merry
they'll see through the false hope and the desires to live
they'll make you hate life more, you need to perish

then they entered my head
from people, to me—within deep—etched to the core
they haunted all my memories
they stared and made me feel obnoxious

i don't even know—why, when or how
or any of the other questions you could ask around

i have a head full of monsters and i killed them one by one
alas, only if i'd known—they replicated, gave birth to new ones

and so i live
with a demon on my shoulder
a mix of all those who brought me up altogether
and it reminds, and reminds and reminds and screams
it hollows me out, every bit from within

and sometimes i hope i'll find a way to silence it or even a simple meaning
but then i look into the eyes of others, see the mirth—the silent sly creatures—the humans that walk on this earth
and i lend my ear to the demon, let it whisper, let it carry me forward
for who am i, if i can't be scheming

and it wasn't to hurt
but to protect
no one did it for me
i learnt and played myself

never to be just a pawn in their games
the monsters ruled me out, splashed me with blood
as i walked and cut across every other piece on the board
they cheered, screamed and haunted me with all the gore
and i never laughed, only cried
all my tears, my eyes dried

i'd tell you to beware, wish you never see any
for they hold over and ensnare
everyone who's watching, they've had their own
we weren't born with monsters
but now we're the ones that are shown
bright in the light, not simply in the nights
we walk during the day—
i hate my brain.

it sneers, you know?
every time someone tries to get too close
it mocks—my reflection, i see it gripping my nerves
watch it sipping on my blood
and every moment i'm told, i’m here for you
the demon sips on my feelings
drains the word, they’re left with no meaning
and every chance i get to feel the warmth—opposite to the usual cold
it leers, peeks over, curses and takes over
it's not me if i push you away, i'd want you to know and understand and for you to stay
please get rid of him for me, for i lose strength day by day
i do not know how longer i can carry
i've got a demon on my shoulder, and it rose from all the ones i walked across
it is cross with the word, an angel at first—it just wouldn't let me be merry.

i knew it — something was here
within me, beside me, around me.
being woken up by fire isn't so surreal.

stepped down on the floor, felt it through my bare feet,
watched the skin glisten, brighten,
turn red and burn with such an intensity.

the heat was unbearable, so were the surroundings,
and yet — yet i found myself going down the lane of memories.

the pathway, a tunnel — almost like a water slide,
bleeding with my tears.
i fell and fell,
found it impossible to reconcile

with everything and the no-longer-supposed-to-matter things of my past.
felt watched, looked around,
remembered the concept of “nazar” in the background —
someone’s always watching, always picking, always hoping
for me to fall, to go down, to enter the lows and never get back up.

i hate the color orange. it just messes me up,
reminds me of all the times i hoped it wouldn’t come true.
i stand amidst the burning flames, watch their color blaze,
see it in my own eyes, stand tall watching myself smile.

am i sleeping? why do i sense no meaning?

the embers rising from the hearth could melt gold — make it blood.
i feel it through my veins and my bones, my muscles and my soles.
the lines are blurry — so is my vision.

i intended to wake myself up, but i can't stop sleeping.
i watch her — and him — and myself — and my dreams.

the final line loops back to the same question:
was i ever awake, or was this fire the irony to hire?
was i up at stake, all this while?
i did truly forget how to smile.

but then i inhabited,
held it close, hugged it.
tiny little sparks emerged from the cacophonies.
i dreamt with meaning, slept with a feeling.
the fire was an old friend —
the memory lane one lost, but remembered quite a lot.

i found a water jug at my side table.
the floor didn’t burn or sear.
they still watched,
but i had the evil eye pressed up close —
sleeping and dreaming of lying with my only 'gold'.
it sparkled, it shimmered, it brightened, and my heart glimmered.

perhaps i was never awake.
it wasn’t no nightmare.
i’m happy where i am.
wouldn’t want to bargain —
not here or anywhere.

i drew a few hearts on my bedding
when it was bare without any sheets
perhaps i shouldn't have — it's bad manners,
what you're taught as a toddler to preach in.
but then i wondered —
who would ever notice?
i'd like to mention, the art of noticing.

i went to fetch some groceries.
while returning, without my headphones,
i took notice — and the world seemed to hold me in.
a woman was talking to her husband,
chatting about how the war drills cancelled.
two brothers were playing cricket —
i passed them by and heard the younger say,
i'll learn to throw well in time if i grew bolder, yeah?
the older one smiled —
a smile i've done many times — and chuckled.

it's not always the best place to be,
the world i mean — when you wish to fit in.
i'm almost always with my earphones — wired or the other ones,
trying to fade it out: the noise, the surreality, almost all of it.
because it's just so hard to seek the peace i intend to live with.
but then, on a few random days where i feel like the chosen,
everything feels a bit better —
like it's not that bad to be broken?

they function, yes they do —
but i notice the way they lag,
and sometimes choose just not to
show who they are.
so they wear masks:
ones that hide, ones they despise,
and sometimes don’t even realize
until it’s too late — and the mask melts into their skin.

i feel bad sometimes —
this empathy just carries my soul,
brings it to absorb every ounce of pain i can
from the one beside, and the ones i cross.

but on other days like tonight,
i walk, almost free.
there’s good winds, myself carefree.
there’s a lot of work pending —
i won’t deny i’m procrastinating.
but for once i smile,
and i smile at the thought of myself smiling —
for no cause, probably seeming delusional
to the one in passing.

but how do i tell them the moon’s following,
and there’s the hint of wet mud after the evening shower —
the sensation filling up my blood —
and it’s nice for once, easy to exist,
almost easier to fit in.

my thoughts are like string lights,
almost always entangled together.
not one single shines bright —
but sometimes they glow,
like when i'm hit with a current of emotions.
they glow bright, almost enchanting —
and on nights i'm able to sort,
sort through the flickering ones,
the ones that died, and the ones that hold the right light,
i pour them out, let the candle-like wax from my brain transcribe
words and feelings into the right imagery,
hoping it'll make sense by the time i'm done with it.
and this right here is quite one of the examples
of same cord of fairy lights
(i'm to believe i might be magical in all my might).

but then i look around
and see the way they look in return —
and even though i stand out,
stand out in a way the odd one does
in the system of evens —
it’s not the best thing, not the flashiest.

but i continue to walk
with a silent acceptance.
maybe the world is like this.
sometimes i notice the good,
often the bad,
mostly the in-between.

and the greys are a nice position to be in
when the extremes have taken you and thrown you.
for not all magnets hold together —
the like ones just never really go well together.

we're all simply misfits —
and yet the word holds the fits.
so i guess in the end,
we all really do miss the irony of it.

i don't consider myself much of an author
though you could call me a poet
i have a book, turns out
i guess i've been living under its illusion
but today, after three months of it being public
i held it in my hands and went through the pages

i'm not super proud, i'll admit
it's not perfect, barely anything
if i were to compare my current writing with that of the book
i'd call myself childish when i thought it could look
poetic or pass off as poetry
i'm no professional, barely perfection
but the title does say perhaps we could be anything

so here i was, reading through, found a good few
but most seemed to lack the fervor that i thought
when i penned down that thought
and once again i wondered, am i supposed to be proud of this thing?
thing, huh. really low of me to put it that way
when i started writing and it was a beginner's sake
no plans, thoroughly unrequired

i know many creators
ones who are artists, and they almost always mention
“i'm not really proud of that one” —
the particular one that marked their beginning
but i guess the beginnings are the time capsules
that lead to more such evenings
when you finalize a draft, finalize a piece,
put it out there wondering maybe it still lacks it
but the heartbeat — of that moment when it's passed on and upon —
maybe not everyone would critique
are we ever really proud of all that we do?
do we really accept it?

then this particular vision erupted in my head
i held the book, held it in my hands
and it was out there, and anyone could peek into my head
it escalated — vibrant imagery indeed
i was left to accept that if anyone wanted,
they could have had parts of me
the specific ones inside the book
and the ones in the title
and in the words
and in the emotions that led it on

and even though it wasn't everything, not as i'd desired
maybe someone could find a piece they loved in there?

perhaps it wasn't that bad of a choice
not super proud again — but hey, i'm a poet!
i've been writing more, learning better, and listening loads
i think i might be onto something
like let it enfold you by charles bukowski
god, i don't know the man
not his works or of any other plans
but i do know that words stick
the meaning they carry does too

and if i say i love the book (yet to like it)
will you read it for me too?

someone once asked me
if i were to describe how my heart looked
in words and not through science.
it left me wondering for ages,
finding the right words—
i realized metaphors worked,
kinda like being tangled in lines,
woven outta feelings i can't describe.

my heart is perhaps a lonely, lonely setting
in a space—void of any lighting.
there's glitter on it though,
and whenever it gets a signal of the memory,
cursed even if it was,
it glows like a broken lamp
flickering to light on an empty road,
like an old cd player stuck on the same song—
or more like, stuck on the default,
going in a loop.

the member of the family
stuck in a guest room.
the little kid, trying to sleep—
waiting for a lullaby or a nighttime story.

a black hole, absorbing its own self,
it's been far too alone, on its own.
a long, long night, waiting for a sunrise—
something the world despised, but not anymore.

a dead eulogy with rhyming words.
a piece of broken ceramic, held up by mud.
pieces of fabric cinched together
with needles and stitches,
pinned across words that once shattered—
on a corkboard, decorated in a fancy manner.

a building that collapsed once
during a 5.5 magnitude earthquake—
rebuilt, but never been the same since.

the perfect interpretation is hard to find.
my heart is like a glass toy
in the hands of a child,
a burnt forest that symbolizes ashes and rebirth,
an old woman close to taking her last breath,
yet smiling to the world.

a home to those who didn't belong,
race of the misfits, who all won.

it's just an *****,
something i need to pump blood and to survive—
and yet it feels like an ironical mess of words,
philosophical in its own existence.

i love this heart of mine.

i see a mass standing in front of the mirror—
a human, perhaps.
i can't call her a girl.
she doesn't have the attributes—
enough to be called all that.

it's a reflection,
undeterred,
simply wretched.

there are marks on the mirror—
proof it hasn't been cleaned.
i wonder if they're on my body too.
i hope the glass has enough cracks
to hide and tell
how it feels every time
i discover the same wrecked look
staring back.

the skin is loose
around a few different hooks,
feels like it's sagging—
i pull so hard,
hoping i'll tear through.

i feel nothing but pain
for her,
hidden beneath all that disgust—
the turmoil i'll put her in,
the self-hatred.

and to think—
she’s just become
a black mass
of everything and nothing.

a loathsome, foolish little being
that can’t fit,
can’t talk,
can’t sit.

she’s not the ideal.
and sometimes i think
her existence
isn’t for the world even—

she’s just a scandal.