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Sombre verses bled in vain;
of voices constricted
in cryptic rhapsodies,
brimming with insanity,
no depth could conceive.
#grief
#poetry
It's almost sad,
Almost sad when they sound
different around others,
When you'll notice you haven't
seen this part of them.
It's almost sad,
When you know it's because
they're not comfortable around
you,
Or perhaps you don't give
them enough reason to be
themselves.
~Myra
You inspire me in every way,
The way you shatter infinitely,
Yet stand tall each day.
The way they hurt you,
but you still show up with a smile,
Facing your struggles with grace all the while.
The way you go through the same thing always,
yet, giving it another chance,
The way you never seek reward, just love you share,
Oh! The selfless way you care.
The way your selfless love is a beautiful thing,
For those who matter, you'd do anything.
You inspire me in every way...
Yes, you do...
My heart.
In the month of November,
when you bought that white blanket for me so dearly,
I felt loved and adored, purely and sincerely.
This gift of yours keeps me warm,
shielding me from all harm.
The chilly winds can’t reach me,
because this white blanket protects me.
White like a swan, soft like snow,
it speaks of your love each time I wrap it slow.
It taught me what warmth, comfort, and coziness mean —
I never thought, even after you left, I’d still feel this serene.
It reminds me of your gentle, steady presence;
the fabric always feels so delicate on my skin.
Your love is here, still with me, in this white blanket —
I never got to say this, but thank you for gifting me this warmth, I'll never forget.
– Iris
Words lay heavy on my ribcage
And I’ve tried pouring them on paper yet the heaviness is still the same.
It’ll only disappear once I pour them into you.
But I can’t.
So I hope you’re reading this.
I’m sorry how things turned out between us.
I’m sorry I never gave you a second chance,
I’m sorry I jumped to conclusions,
I’m sorry I misunderstood, and rushed into deep thinking.
I’m sorry,
but my bruised heart,
fears being given back to the person who punched it.
Wether you meant to or not.
Breathe into this dead air and you shall know the desperation of acceptance,
Breath into those delicate eyes and you'll forever instill the agony of a slow burning dance,
Breath into the heart that was raided and you'll know your hands can't be a steady balance,
Breath into your intoxicated senses and you'll know the taste of a longing trance.
-so don't breath in, breath out.
The world is too cruel
to allow no mistakes.
The margin of error
is where I survive,
where I learn to forgive myself
for being human,
for needing more time.
A very loud scream from the vocal cords can be heard by everyone,
But a very loud scream from the soul can be heard only by a few, if any at all.
It is a sad reality, isn’t it? That a thousand of silent cries for help go by unnoticed, not because people don’t want to listen, but because they can’t hear them.
But sometimes we are unable scream because we are drowning in our own pain,
Sometimes we are unable scream because we have lost our voice to inner demons and can’t seem to find it again.
And sometimes we have been silent for too long,
that we have forgotten how to scream.
Our soul tries to compensate through small, silent signals and expressions, subtle signs of our inner pain.
But if these signs are a scream,
shouldn’t everyone be able to hear them, then?
Yet many seem deaf to these inner cries, blind to what is invisible but damn obvious.
So when our signs are not enough and our silent pleas for help do not reach anyone, we are forced to turn the mental pain into physical.
We press our body against the inner pain, a bush of thorns that pierces through our skin. It’s as if we have to break through our own skin just to get the help that we so desperately need.
Our agony,
Now visible for all to see.
We thought we had chosen to show these signals,
But when we no longer can eat, no longer can talk, no longer can sleep;
When we become utterly exhausted, with dark circles beneath our eyes and our skin pales, our body shows signs of fatigue, it eventually becomes clear
that it was never a choice to begin with.
- Original in Swedish
He sat by the window,
looking out at the empty street,
feeling a heavy sadness
that he couldn’t explain.
People said,
Tomorrow will be better,
but every day felt the same,
and the sadness wouldn’t go away.
One night, a soft breeze came in,
whispering gently through the dark,
cool and calming.
What’s wrong, little one? it asked.
The boy sighed and said,
“I feel like nothing good will ever happen.”
The breeze rustled the leaves,
and replied, I know it feels like that now,
but nothing lasts forever,
not even sadness.
The boy listened,
not sure if he believed,
but he opened the window wide,
letting in the fresh night air,
hoping that someday,
his heart would feel light again.
~Thoughtless
A choco pie
That evening's memory still remains
as fresh as the day itself.
His mother had locked the door,
held his soft palms in her
defeated ones.
He fisted his fragile innocence
and flavoured playfulness
in his left hand tightly.
As they headed out
his eyes caught the sight of
empty playground,
he would be the first to arrive today.
And finally asked his mother—
'where are we going?',
his mother mumbled: 'To die.'
In that moment, his body weighed
more than the universe, yet
his feet carried the same pace,
his hand still glued to hers,
bound in faith.
He knew what it meant to die
‘he'll forget everything he once cherished, his memory book will no longer have fresh pages to doodle but he'll still manage to make it in other's memories.
Nothing big! ’
But the unfaithful destination
never came in sight.
His mother turned her feet,
to head back and unlock the door,
behind which her laughter was flushed
and her dignity was trod on,
yet it was an easier decision to make.
On their way back,
she bought him a choco pie.
And everything he held dearly
in his hand—
his innocence, his playfulness,
his eagerness to go to the playground
slipped away,
only to be replaced by a sweet delicacy
that costed no more than ten bucks.
And once I knew
your favorite color was blue,
I envied the sky and the sea,
and the blue butterfly pea.
And I wished I wore it on me—
a scar, at least, to remind you of me.
Your tears are not wasted,
they are the ink of a midnight letter,
written to yourself
on the pages of tomorrow’s dawn.
And soon, you’ll read it back
and understand why it had to be written.
Caged men who write
In his confinement, the caged
man sat at his desk, coupled
with crumpled papers and ink,
for he is a writer, and
he writes of the things he sees
through his shrouded window that
sits across the vast ocean.
The pictures he paints are of the
enormous ships filled with people who are
bestowed the will to still move about.
He captures their laughter with
captivating words.
He tells stories of their dresses, faces,
kisses, glistening shoes, ebony
and ember hair, of their beauty
and the birds that rove above them,
all, behind the walls of his bars.
I am a free man; I tread the earth
with my feet. I go places I please,
meet new faces, and always have
a different story to tell.
On my desk are crumpled papers
and ink. I write.
I write of my past, pain, and this
meager life.
I paint pictures of the things
that haunt me but are yet to devour me.
My sorrow hovers over me like
smoke from a burning flame.
I know what I must do, yet I do
not do what I must.
I know this world itself is a cage, yet
within this cage, I built an invisible
cage that grows smaller with
the passing seasons. I find it hard,
to breathe.
He is a caged man,
but in his confinement, he painted
freedom.
I too, am a caged man,
for in my freedom, I painted bondage.
~ Myra
Nothing of what I am belongs to me.
If I exist in what I know of myself,
Anything that I overcome,
Will soon overcome me.
Nothing of what I am interests me.
If there is, within my heart,
Any fervent feeling,
It will be a fervor in vain.
Nothing of what I am will I ever be.
I dream, and in my being,
Only a dream exists of what I may attain,
Only I know I will never attain it.
I was told to be myself,
but not too much of myself.
they love authenticity
just as long as it’s
tailored,
palatable,
wrapped neatly
for easy consumption.
Your soul is a gift that keeps on giving for eternity. I tried for the longest to wrap my head around the makings of you but there aren't complex prose in which I could write without trapping some side of you inside a box, shadowed behind the sparkles of your other qualities. And this dilemma you craft from nothing makes all the witches and magicians doubt their sorcery.
Читать полностью…
You tell me “I am too much”
as if your heart were a forbidden place,
locked away,
as if feeling deeply were a wound that refuses to heal.
But sweetheart,
I crave the storm in you,
the tempest hiding in your chest,
the wild, unbridled surge of emotions no one else dares to face.
Let me drown in your chasms, wade through the shades of silence,
trace the flimsy map of your contusions,
run my fingers over every indented rim, each splintered shard
where the light has seeped out, yet somehow, beauty outshines despair.
If your love is a battlefield, then call me to arms.
If it’s fire, let me be consumed until I am ash.
I have always craved for a place fierce enough, raw enough,
to measure the depth of what I feel
a place that dares to test if my heart can stand unbroken,
even in the heart of your storm.
It isn't a place on earth but a moment in time I wish to escape to.
The silhouette that a cactus tree casts on a red car with the sound of flute filling a room like an incense floats and conquers a space. It transfixes my gaze inside the black like a black hole absorbs all.
And though nothing exists for the pleasure of my sight and the reassurance of my mind I know there lies beneath it a sense of wonder and calm that can subdue the most chaotic of voices.
I have a question that keeps pressing on my heart,
gnawing from the inside.
What would you do if a wall suddenly rose up,
between you and someone you love?
A wall with no doors, no windows,
that shuts out your voices
where neither their call reaches you,
nor yours finds its way to them.
Would you stand there, waiting,
holding onto the faint hope
that somehow, you’d hear their voice again?
Or would you start breaking it down,
bare hands against the cold stone,
not caring about the cuts and bruises,
not worrying about what it might cost?
Crying in the Night
I cried in the middle of the night,
alone, where no one could see,
wondering how I became so lonely,
how my heart felt so empty.
I blamed myself, over and over,
thinking maybe it’s my fault
that no one holds my heart close,
that I’m here, waiting in the dark.
I still cry for someone to choose me,
to see me, to say I matter.
But I know, deep down,
tears can’t make love appear,
tears don’t bring someone near.
Yet I let them fall, quiet and slow,
because even if they don’t change anything,
they’re the only way my heart knows
to say it’s hurting and alone.
~Thoughtless
I dreamed a dream,
That might have flown away anywhere,
I threw a web stream,
That might have torn from somewhere.
I stared thoroughly,
To get through it all once again,
I kept my eyes steady,
To make myself remain there.
I aspired to an aspiration,
That might fade away,
I stumbled on the path,
That might keep me far away.
I stepped into the world,
hoping to fill the emptiness inside.
Yet with each step forward,
the void grew even deeper.
Once upon a time, all I saw were sun rays brushing the golden of my dwelling but now I know all faults, all indiscretions, all failures are magnified. The perfect masterpiece is in my view, floating lights in my vision as it covers the flaws and what changes every fortnight you might ask, wondering if my lens is jaded. All I can say is, I have started noticing flaws, found the shades of the shadows inside of me.
Читать полностью…
As long as you see what you choose, you'll skip the prizing eyes skimming your skin appraising you for their delight, you'll take the gaze as an admiration.
As long as you comprehend what you choose, you'll take those who linger in their pursuit to be ones who adore you.
As long as you decide to ignore the intent you'll live by crumbs of pretty word and suffocate under hidden malice.
I found your brain on my kitchen shelf today
and took it out of the few other ones I was left with,
it came with a thick shell over it, I'd find no other way to tell you are thick headed.
so I had to make an effort to crack it open
pop your brain out and feast upon it.
Oh and my friend, it's all nuts.
#humour
#satire
Who Had I Been Fooling?
I sat at a table across from sins.
I watched all that was done and displayed,
in the acts of things I said I could never be,
I was the great spectator.
I told myself that as long as I kept my heart right,
it didn't matter what my eyes saw.
Across the table from sins I sat.
I heard all that was spoken,
in the words that had wounded my ears,
I was a keen listener.
I told myself that as long as I still could
discern from right and wrong,
it didn't matter what I heard.
I sat at a table across from sins.
I participated in the laughter and
words that were spoken,
in the sight of things I disagreed with,
I was a distinct participant.
I told myself that as long as I kept my composure
and only said a few that were right,
it didn't matter where I was.
What had I known to have been certain
I knew right from wrong?
Who was I to have said
it hadn't mattered?
How long had I lived to have believed
I was already who I could be?
The moment I proceeded my way out,
that which I experienced
was all my mind began playing.
And when I spoke,
the words didn't sound like mine.
And when I began to think,
my thoughts were stringed to all
I've seen.
And when I began to act,
it was the things I never thought
I could do.
The truths I knew became blurred with uncertainty.
I became certain on perhaps
and probability.
Only I knew how much I had
been affected.
But I had to go on pretending
that I hadn't become the things
I was surrounded by.
I told myself that as long as I didn't have to show it,
it didn't matter who I've become.
— Myra
You never fumbled for words
like I did, it never bothers you
what consequences your words may yield,
and though I envy you
for this straightforwardness of yours,
I'm not actually proud,
to know I could have been kinder,
I hurt someone anyway,
it wouldn't hurt after all,
to pause, consider the state of their heart
and rephrase my words.
#love
#heart
#toxic
#words
One day, I want to go on a quiet road,
just me or maybe someone who understands quiet.
I want to leave everything behind for a little while,
letting the road carry me far from home.
I’d stop to look at empty fields and small, lonely places,
drink coffee in tiny shops where no one knows my name.
With an old camera, I’d take pictures of soft, gentle sunrises,
and shadows of myself, so I remember I was there.
I’d run through forests with no one to chase me,
follow the fog like it’s a fading dream,
make crowns from flowers that fade by night,
and feel the wind tangle my hair, taking pieces of me with it.
I want to find little things I’ll leave behind someday,
meet people I’ll never see again,
and in the quiet, feel the soft ache of time passing,
wondering if these memories will keep me warm.
~Thoughtless
I now have a taste for bitter words
and half baked lies;
those stories with crooked ends
I'm their screams in silent sighs,
for I've been a person of storms,
hoping for more sunrise
and dreams, so ardent,
yet on my lips
I've had them die.
#silence
#agony
As she twirled on the floor of the future, non existent on the contemporary moments that determined her morrows, she jabbed and stabbed her way through untouchable fullness of time until it became one with her present.
~and now she likes to say she owns her moments not the clocks