The sun was mellowing like a luscious mango
and a small slit on its zest,
poured out its savoury sweet rays in the sky
turning the never-ending space into a blend of coloured popsicles,
from the brightest orange to a chrome of honey like amber
reviving my dull loafing adulthood
back into a fanciful imaginary childhood.

I am reckoned to talk about rocket science
to see things like those of spacecrafts and satellites.
But all I think of is walking over rainbows
And riding on white unicorns
unlikely of a grown up with rational outlook
but promising to a dreamy child
wanting to fly higher and higher on the carpet of cotton clouds.

All through the years, the imagination of a child
sheared off by precise and wise reasoning,
the innocence of the heart uprooted right away
once it believed it grew to what it has become today.
everything turned from feathers to ashes
when we learned that we can fly without wings
swirl up high in the sky with winged machines
but still cannot touch and make cloud *****
like the way we imagined and dreamt
when we were naive and small.

Colors of the ocean marbled with fire
Blending like paint, like waves, like flames
Delicately adorned with glistening dewdrops
Clouds of white and grey crying softly
A dome of peace, life, humanity
A cage shielding us from the world which lies beyond
Undiscovered
Unlikely
Unknown

What is this?
Is it a dream?
Nothing changes,
Yet nothing stays the same.

Remember,
We’re not here.
We all exist,
As one elsewhere.

I wish to retire from this one sided love story..

The first time I contemplated suicide was at the age 13.
Sleeping pills. Just like mom.
I wanted to dream forever.
Many more occurrences followed that year.

The next was at the age of 15.
Cutting. Finally had the courage.
I took a broken shard of glass and I
Finally found the anger inside of myself.

Following that was the age of 17.
Self inflicted pain. Heartache seemed worse at the time.
I dug my nails into my skin.
Making scars seemingly physical now.
I finally found a way to release the pain.

Last night,
I contemplated suicide.
I promised that I wouldn’t go through with it.
But who cares?
Who could stop me?
Who would want to?

I’m happy.
I swear, I am.
You know I am.
I only fake it a little bit.  

But sometimes,
I don’t think I can do this anymore.
I don’t think I can live anymore.
At least not by myself.

I hated myself,
And time and time again.
The hate seeps through the bleeding cuts.

Sometimes I starve myself.
Sometimes I hurt myself.
Sometimes I hate myself.  

Sometimes I contemplate suicide.

But tonight
I cut the pen into paper.
Bleeding out my vulnerability in hopes to die poetically.