do not bother,
for what is old,
once seemed to have a mind of it's own—
it existed, i can't let it perish
ought to bring it to life
even if it's just with a little—
melodramatic editing.
(...)
wrapping bandaids
it is in longing,
waiting—
deliberately staying
in the same old place
you're used to,
like being stuck in quicksand,
giving up every ounce of strength that remained—
to survive is to live,
when living doesn’t come as easy.
there's comfort in sadness,
recognition.
could almost write it down,
roll the paper, set alight the longer end,
smoke it for inspiration—
or even scribble on pieces,
add them to what i eat as dressings.
something so profound,
weaving through the everyday,
as they proceed to fake, to play.
paradoxical nature calls me to make believe
do they fight, or can they co-exist?
the world seems too new,
too raw,
and on days i try to leave
the shell i reside in,
it sticks like second skin.
comfort in sadness
offers a hug more real
than the raw embrace
healing puts up for debate.
but how do you feel safe—
right where it hurt the most?
in the same moments, watching them repeat,
like a sick play of whatever silver lining up there exists.
healing tells me to sit,
to wait,
beneath an uprooted tree,
in the same spot—
waiting for a new one to grow
or for dead branches to bloom.
the roots dangle
almost like vines leading to a maze.
you could pick one, pull it,
stretch it out, it will overlay
all the foundations you've run—
the feeling clinging like wet mud.
sadness,
in its truth,
speaks softly.
tells me it’s here,
an honest friend,
present for years.
new friendships—
they scare and scar.
healing feels like one of them:
raw, unshielded, exposed to everything at par.
ache lingers.
pain repeats,
the same dead days.
but they’re honest.
they’re known.
and i recognize them
as my own.
but why do i feel it entraps,
settling, coiling itself around me?
contradictory imagery put to test.
is this basic, too straightforward,
or will i ever find the healed rest?
(...)
dying dandelions
would you wrap a band-aid around a dandelion?
wouldn't it shrivel, and die at the softest touch?
would you still say— you aimed to heal and not hurt?
there’s been a stack of bricks on my head.
it’s been there since forever,
since as far as i could remember.
i wouldn’t know the origin,
or when i found them
placed neatly atop.
at first, they seemed a couple,
light enough for me to carry—
without letting my head down,
without showing them to everybody.
lately, they’ve coupled,
duplicated, throupled.
and they keep on adding,
brick by brick.
i can’t look up, can’t look down.
no longer the clean, queue-like stacking,
or the reasons i believed
when they first came around.
i’m afraid they’ll fall,
and without their weight,
perhaps i’ll never stand tall.
i tie weights to my ankles,
to keep myself grounded
to what never let me breathe free.
i need to own up to my stack of bricks
before they shatter,
and reproach me.
keeping my head up,
giving myself the hope
that all’s well,
and that i’m enough.
except it weighs down.
sometimes, it carries me around—
in quieter moments,
makes me drift, surprisingly lighter than ever.
is this the brighter light before the flame is put out,
or merely a lighter to my hope’s craving?
but then i look around
and notice people carrying these bricks.
except they seem to have a posture,
a stride that proves they have the tricks.
they use, perhaps, magic.
or even exchange, replicate,
commit the act of deception—
by getting rid of theirs
just to make it seem like they recovered.
i’m yet to learn.
can’t double-cross.
there are so many of them.
can’t ask for help—
the ones i call claim to have their own.
so what do i do, and where do i go?
this is like putting hours of work
into what never seemed to have a beginning at all.
you could term it a phobia,
but it isn’t as closing in
as often as i believe.
like dandelions barely weigh a finger—
you could blow, it seems to perish.
so on days when i look into the mirror,
i don’t pick up my phone,
or leave the room.
i rather opt
to watch my worth wither.
stay cooped up,
trying to leave this place,
this intricate web of neurons
one would call my head.
the weight of the bricks increases—
one by one,
but mostly in multiples.
and i’m afraid
i’ll be long gone
under their weight.
perhaps pressured
into not existing at all.
like coming crashing down
after a day too hard.
or falling over
just ‘cause the ground shook too hard.
canes, metaphorical sticks—
they help, but merely so.
so i watch it begin to rip.
and every time i take one brick off my head,
the stack only grows.
it seems like all along,
it’s merely been
a fallen, failed trip.
(...)
suffocating flickers
"how do you manage it so well!
it's so cold, and the earth swells!
i've been afraid
that you might be putting it at stake—
all these smiles you've got,
you seem to be awake!
are you truly being honest?
does the cold not make you shiver?"
(the flickers of winter
push you down in the sheets,
only to awaken what persists—
what has hibernated for too long.
i’d plead, do not scorn.)
when you’ve been cold too long,
you find and make your home last—
during when the world shivers,
and even beyond,
as the drought leaves behind sparks.
of the dry. of the unassuming.
i’m not faking.
all i’ve gained
is a warmer perspective,
and feelings.
maybe, i might be healing?
(who am i even kidding.)
some conversations remind me
of bits and pieces
i used to leave back in childhood—
in my plate, when i had my fill
(i still do, like habits)
and it was never to put them to waste,
and yet, when they went to trash,
it made me feel awake
(why'd you do something knowingly,
knowing, what it'd cause)
it was often bad,
termed so wrong—
i shouldn't have done that
(was leaving so wrong?
how can i do it still?)
i intend to leave them behind—
in conversations & in life,
in my plate and in my mind
bits & pieces
of what i can't hold,
of what i can't have to
all i need to give up, or fold
cause it took space, enough for it to cover up
a habit,
one that i wish i wouldn't have to face so often,
(have to. usually do.
do they realize?
or do they fear the same too?)
one i find so much—
in people i hold dear
for we've all been taught
we feed on the small,
when we've learned
that eating it all is the way
a problem occurs
(but shouldn't it be termed consuming,
before it overfills and leaves us wiping
what is meant to leave behind stains?
the irony of surviving.)
more so often,
it leaves us overeating
i find it hard to have a fill at once—
to breathe so often.
so i keep this habit.
bring it everywhere.
leave behind traces in my wake.
i carry it in bags,
on my shoulder,
in the clothed rags.
i see trails of the similar—
those left behind by others.
feels bad. distraught.
we’ve inhabited it so well,
i’m not sure we can move on.
(but we do, cause they do.
and they teach us the best ways
of how to cope, how to come along.
unknowing, we’re distraught, broken—
no matter the cause,
or the story of the forlorn.)
(...)
antagonized roughness
the tone is difficult to imagine—
for what i intend to go for.
it’s a mess within,
one that seems to burn me whole.
to be hopeful, to find love—
(hah. they can barely even exist,
let alone be heard.)
their screams fall into a void,
and i can’t find time to avoid.
what is an attachment
that only seems to annihilate?
and this persistent fear—
what if i fail?
i’m sure they have a word for it,
a neat little definition:
the feeling of wanting, of needing,
of requiring—
to breathe,
to live in peace,
to try,
to exist.
and yet— they backstab.
i don’t know if they mean to.
(if they didn’t,
would you be here questioning
whether they meant to?)
everyone’s at each other’s throats,
as life goes.
plotting cinematographies for those who don’t even give a ****,
they bestow their smirks,
wear scowls as if they've found
the answer to existence—
(they’re barely alive as it is,
why bother with impermanence?)
but to find something to hold onto,
something real—
to be hopeful.
love
love
love.
(oh, for the lord’s sake—
could you shut up?
why pretend it’s there
when i’m barely myself here?
do you know what simmers
right beneath the surface
you claim to raise up the stakes
can barely flip the dinner?
(...)
fragile similarities
and they’ll pretend they don’t want it,
as if the similarities don’t bind us all.
hiding—i ask,
_what’s so enigmatic,
i’m zoning in and out
of places and people,
through the noise
and the weight
of all the **** they preach about.
it’s as ghastly
as their broken hearts speak.
i’m no god,
no human—
why do i still seek it out?
how do they do it,
the ones who seem to have it all?
“find me, seek me, hold me.”
“break free, tie me, ignore me.”
i’ll cry,
i’ll beg,
i’ll ask for redemption—
only to end up mad.
it’s a plea to the silent:
voices unheard,
screams swallowed by the void.
let my fears tie me down,
because what is failure
in front of a hopeless case like—
i’ll end it here.
did you really think
it’d end on a sweeter note?
if i go down,
set myself on fire
just to watch the world expire—
know it’s only what they made me be.
for what is hope?
what is glee?
when nothing could ever—
has never—
satiated me.
and i wish you’d let me lay still,
stay still,
hold still.
make no face,
need no smile,
don’t need an expression.
let me sleep through this night,
for it’s been hard—
a couple of days.
it’s been difficult,
more so,
to go without
coming crashing down.
been trying,
been willing to—
do not know
how long this stays.
the longing,
the yearning,
the hoping,
the earning
of my own actions.
i do not know
which one of them brought this on,
but i wish you’d let me stay still.
sit down,
let me breathe,
let me hold this close,
for i do not have the strength
to speak,
to express,
to tell you what i feel
is beyond and all,
it's a ghastly mess.
and if i don’t,
my eyes cross,
this head swoons,
the heart palpitates,
the blood freezes in my veins.
ought i cry to flush it out?
i have to lie down,
to wait while the bad days
are long gone.
as a reminder—i’m totally alright.
been fine for a while, before the seasons,
the month, the week,
the day, the hour, the second.
for multiple complicated reasons.
and yet,
as my vision fades,
as it blurs,
as it doubles
through the words i write—
i wish you’d let me lay still.
turn all the noise down,
put me out in the dark—
but do not leave me alone.
they get louder the moment it gets quiet,
sometimes i fear i won’t hear myself
over their noise.
do i—
how—
why would i—
hold me down,
keep me close,
remind me to breathe.
remind me i’ve done this before,
and maybe,
i wouldn’t have to be so still.
i could move—
but i’d need you,
one too many,
a lot more times.
i do not know.
i’m afraid of fading,
and yet,
i can see it approaching.
the same feeling.
i can do this.
remind me.
for i seek peace and pleasure—
not in lust,
but in humane treasure.
i wish you wouldn’t make me talk,
or ask the why and the whats.
hold me close.
keep me enclosed.
let me stay still.
need no waltz, no dramatics.
simplicity has always worked for the affirmative.
you lie, rest, suppress and give in—
i’ll be out and about,
pretending i’m making
the perfect living.
(...)
drafting the lonely
flickering
like a lamp does
on a deserted road,
there’s this feeling—
raking me up whole.
could i ever be of good use,
with the way i’ve been hollowed out
by all the pleasantries of the world?
shattered,
the echoes of these woes—
been so long since they mattered,
this might just eat my soul.
withering
despite trying to stand tall,
drowning
despite having swum through it all.
they claim to linger,
and i see their steps,
but what do i do
with this anger
that has me broken,
dead?
the urge,
the urges—
they claim me theirs,
frustration of the past,
this present, this future.
all of them whisper
to me
as the dawn arrives
and the dusk fades.
my words forgotten,
lingering on my tongue.
the shadows—
creeping smiles
and heavy echoes,
in my mind,
of the past,
of all that’s made me alike.
i try to write it down,
but the pages crumble,
down the bin they go,
leaving me as restless
as i was to begin with.
unfinished stories.
i’ve been feeling so lucid,
can’t make sense of the illusion.
maybe it’s only
a parallel reality.
been taught
sorrow doesn’t last long,
but it’s been weighing me down
like their hollow egos.
every door that opens
ends at a dead end.
every time i stand
before a closed one
all i can do is pretend—
that maybe i’ll know the words
to mend
what i’ve broken,
what i’ve left behind,
as i go on
living for an uncertain end.
i’ve got stars on my ceiling,
turning red, blue, white.
i’ve got them on golden,
but never
the purple in sight.
i was promised
they’d glow that hue—
but who even buys stars,
personal ones at that?
the sky’s not mine,
so neither are they.
then again,
what do i own,
what is even entirely my own?
(...)
intents calcified
i’ve got an unfinished book,
a candle untouched, set aside.
locked up
for that one special moment—
but who knows
when that will arrive.
got fairy lights,
waiting for something yet to be lit.
same with the lamps,
the bulbs,
all of them waiting,
all of them dim.
they’ll only glow for something bright,
maybe just at my funeral night.
my power bank is dead,
so are the headphones.
the laptop blinks a faded red, white, blue.
my phone’s close to the same,
but i haven’t charged it—
what’s even the use.
barely opening, barely checking,
the only help
is jotting down thoughts
in the mainstream.
can barely gather the energy,
so why should they have plenty.
and i’ve got a smile on my face,
though the night is heavy, late.
fresh tear stains still remain,
but i breathe them in,
let them stay.
instead of crying more,
i hold the smile,
cracked yet sure.
i should sleep,
and i will—
but one more song,
just one more thrill.
a bit more up on the dose,
maybe the night will sit still.
drop by close,
someday
i’ll sit like this again,
edge of the bed,
still listening in.
and maybe then
i won’t have to dream
to outrun nightmares
in my sleep.
maybe peace will come,
soft, bright.
and i won’t need
false stars
or a nightlight.
i just feel too much—
wrap my hands around my knees,
cover myself in blankets,
weep the extremes out
until finally
i feel a little less
of everything that is,
and has been.
they whisper—
stop giving so many thoughts,
as if my limit is endless.
but how do i tell them,
when that limit breaks
i give away parts of me,
like the fool i’ve become.
need not lie—
== you don’t.
i do it plenty,
to myself, to the ones i consider my own.
how do i go on
accepting myself
every night
when i find comfort
in what is bad?
revel in it,
like it were
my eternal match.
and i fear—
what if this ends?
no,
it isn’t some illness.
maybe a little,
maybe a few things.
but even so,
it’s this feeling—
this feeling of feeling everything—
if it were to fade,
if it disappeared,
what would i write about?
love is already preached enough.
what would i even say?
would i still pick up my phone?
my diaries would be empty,
my feed nonexistent.
i wouldn’t be who i am—
and could i stomach that?
the thought alone
makes me sick.
grief is what makes me, me.
and hope—
contrasting once more,
speaker of the unspoken.
grief is a stopper to suffering—
it dulls,
settles like an ache
in the pit of your chest.
hope is the virus—
won’t let you heal.
just when the wound
starts to close,
it rots.
bleeds and bleeds,
death while living.
perhaps it’s wrong of me
to seek places,
situations,
to throw myself into aches
that tremble my being with hurt.
but still,
it’s what makes me feel alive.
my one drug.
love is easy to live by.
but to exist
through the sad,
the ache,
the pain—
to feel everything
all at once—
it’s the only thing
i excel in.
i can’t let anyone
take that away.
so i write more.
every day,
every night,
every hour.
because it’s never enough.
there’s always something
up here.
not sorry for it.
it makes me happy
with myself.
accepting comes easy.
at least this
i can do perfectly.
(...)
bleary hues
the world’s ending now,
going down in flames.
my insides flooding
with shame.
as i look around
for everything i meant to pack,
everything
that was to come with me—
somewhere far,
they’re caught in flames.
the tears blur my sight,
all i kept locked away,
stored behind locks,
keys never to be found again.
unused things
that mattered so much—
the candle i bought
for my 18th,
the journal for stories
the ones that never got told.
bracelets, pamphlets,
perfect occasions.
shoes, letters,
gathering dust
in my closet.
all going away.
i could find similar ones,
but they’ll never
be the same.
as the last one burns,
the things i kept for later—
for someday—
after all these years,
things i wished for,
simply put away.
“one day,”
but why would you wait!
foolish ones
i had promised.
i could find the keys later,
save the list—
but what of me?
what have i become?
will i ever come back
to this time again?
i am melting with them,
everything that mattered,
leaving me nothing
but one among them.
this isn’t the peace
i preached for.
why did i let
those unused,
simple joys
wait for someday—
after all this time?
i was the one who conjured the fire
let it rake, for what remained to hire?
down in flames, i watch it go—
this is a lonely setting,
the ones who seem like it, don't always have it all.
(...)
_ so dimmed—
where’s the sunshine’s bright?
who stole it,
and took all the light?
how this monsoon rips
through the skies.
i wake up to a dark room,
even though it’s high up in the noon.
everything dipped in melancholy.
how this silence—how this quiet,
how is it settling, yet unnerving?
and how do i go ahead with the sad
that’s seeped deep
and etched itself into my veins?
my bones flit,
trying to spread around.
i raise my arms up—
wings, surrendering.
if i jump off the 21st,
would i fly for a while,
even though the end lies
at the end of my flight?
i wish you could see
the situation,
the surroundings,
the settings
which i camouflage in.
(...)
wishes upon falling stars
like fiegning innocence upon broken hearts
sins of the sturdy, raw & brutal
basking in brutal, claiming plurals
i read upon the old confessionals
they're too pure, too childish
for someone whose grown out that lining
how did i grow through the silver lining?_
the drafts are like years' old up there
the amount of 'sad' is seriously concerning and, at times, misleading.
