What is your poetry, my friend?
Is it the cool spring day that bounces
off your clothes after a long winter mourning;
the spine-chilling defrosting session
you have when the sun finally rises
and the forward look to the light of a new day.
Or is it the morning silence of a library,
hot teas, and warm crumpets, that carries
your imagination far far away
after forgetting the chaos of yesterday.
Your poetry is your happy place,
your depressed face, your angry taste,
and an exhausted out space...
Your race to the moon and back
before mother tucks you in
and turns off the lights.
It's the bad blues news
and the good old days' anthem
that hums on long to the Sunday tunes
without a care in the world.
What is our poetry, my friend?
Is it a couple of pals laying waste
to the grass below our restless bodies
as we gaze up into the galaxy
and pronounce what is your and mine;
the grass clumping together in our hands
and spilling all over each other's hair.
Or is it the strum of your guitar
and the beat of my hands clashing
against each other to make a sweat
Yet miserable lullaby for our hearts
to pour our into the beach we set camp at.
The waves matching our irregular beat
with its own casual style
that loves to ride up onto our toes mid-chorus.
Our Poetry is what we make of it.
love letters dabbled back and forth
across the classroom get caught
just to share the love we have
with everybody else who doesn't have.
The glittering looks we give
when everyone bursts out laughing
because we know they know
they will never come close to us;
not even second place.
The tear drop memories of what was
and what coulda woulda shoulda been
but now isn't there for us to even cry on;
just cold shoulders and salty whispers
about the past, that should never have been
because it makes up too much pain for the present.
You can't not miss them, it's not written in your fate
Your fate's an unlucky champ, got pain scribbled on its skin
So yearn - yearn for the moment that is never coming again
For a sense of togetherness which is now uncountable fragments
And hurt yourself, feel the flow... from your heart to your scalp, your nails, your intestines
Wait until it disarms you, disembowels you, and finally drinks you whole.
A bright, blinding light glows
Above me with brilliance,
Contrasting the ambiance.
My eyes are fixed on the hospital room's ceiling,
While my facial expressions change.
I see instruments used on me.
I let wave after wave of pain
Wash through me
And wait for the agony to subdue.
Sadly, hitherto, there is no distraction of any kind
That makes me forget the unbearable pain.
At the moment of utter helplessness,
The lines of my poem
Come to my rescue,
The words slowly taking birth,
Take my mind off agony.
I think of ways to describe
The hell I’m going through,
Knowing only too well
That I might not be the best person
To paint the picture.
Yet, here is my attempt!
I have the mad desire,
Raging through me,
To somehow leave my body,
Take my soul with me
And run away from the room.
I just wish I had the powers of Doctor Strange,
So I could escape into another realm,
Where I can have peace,
Where there is no pain.
Lying down there,
I secretly wish for death to take me,
Which I believe is sweeter
Than the inescapable torture
I face as a patient.
But that would make me selfish,
For I would leave my people,
The people who love me,
With a void that cannot be filled.
So, I wait patiently for my term
As a patient to come to an end.
And while I wait for the end,
I am writing this.
This is the place where he lay his head,
When he went to bed at night,
And this is the place our demons were derived
Candles lit the room at night.
this is the place where he cut his wrists
That odd and fateful night.
This is the place where we used to live,
I paid for it with love and blood,
And these are the boxes that he kept on the shelf,
Filled with his poetry and stuff.
this is the room where he took the razor,
And cut his wrists that strange and fateful night.
I never would have started if I'd known
That it'd end this way.
His body didn't last forever,
It decomposed with time.
But the memories I'll always treasure,
Will last me until the day that I die.
All is left couple of hours before your train arrives.
We had the best summer forever.
It was our late spring love.
I wish we could stop here for some more time.
I wish we could press rewind and begin everything from the earliest starting point.
I don't need to hear those comforting words when I know you will leave me alone.
Promise me you will remember when the night comes.
The time passes by it is turning out to be hard.
When I know we can't do anything further.
Now it is all over.
Come sit with me,
Tell me you've seen my struggle,
Show me you're proud of me,
Your empathy is what I seek,
I'm sorry you have to be here,
And that it has to be this way,
I know high expections,
Often ,from reality, leave us astray,
A few hours from your clock,
And you asking me to be more responsible,
This is all I need from you,
Even if the sun shines and the sky is blue,
I know you're looking out for me,
But I'm not looking for you,
I may be here wanting your attention,
Oh, but there is no compassion,
I've seen you making the effort,
And hopelessly trying,
Always righting my wrong,
But one day you'll too, be gone
Isn't that what always happens?
We care, we love, we break,
Isn't everything too sudden?
Scathing us for our own sake?
So why does it matter if I don't love?
Live by myself, indifferent to my pain,
For aching, our heart is never too young,
So why you say happy ones are the only saints?
I tried to run away to a far away land,
where the grass was greener,
and the responsibilities leaner.
I ran from the ghosts,
I ran to foggy coasts.
I ran from the memories.
I ran from our mistakes.
I wanted a new me, whatever it takes.
But life, as she often does, had a different plan in mind.
Now I have to say I'm a little less blind.
I have discovered my god,
no not the one you're thinking of.
I found "it" in the history here.
I connected to souls I now hold dear.
I found solace in the here-after in the stones of cathedrals.
I found hope in stone glass windows.
I found peace in battlefields.
I also found pain.
It poured down like rain.
It took my breath away,
trying my best to keep the night at bay.
I no longer fear the ghosts back there.
I fear being stuck in the metaphorical here.
I've now been unwanted,
seen a love be haunted.
I've finally stood up for myself.
Even if they think I have totally fallen off the shelf.
I have embraced my flaws,
finding the power in their claws.
I have gained respect for those waiting for me.
I have learned a new definition of free.
I learned it isn't in the lack of responsibility
but in my magnificent ability.
I find freedom in the doing,
in the dream I'm pursuing.
Here I am.
Tired of fighting.
Tired of running.
he wonders if it will always feel like this.
will he ever feel anything at all?
it's hard to think about the future
when the past is so consuming.
he's drowning in it.
bad decisions fill up his lungs.
the way he died was the opposite of drowning,
however; his body is covered in scars
and he's terrified of candles.
she's young. she's two scared black eyes
and broken bones
and her small body torn apart
by someone she loved
for nothing at all.
she worries that her cat will be forgotten about.
she worries that it won't be fed.
at least then she'd have some company.
being dead is the loneliest thing in the world.
she's younger. she never even learned
how to read or write
and her crying echoes in my head sometimes.
she doesn't understand why
her family look right through her
as if she isn't there at all.
she can see them upset
but they ignore her
when she tries to make them better.
i see them all.
they speak to me
in the vain hope that something will happen.
i tell them there's a place after
but honestly, i don't know.
if there is,
no one comes back.
Life Death Hope Loss
A canvas of happiness and sorrow
The Aesthetic of existing
Beauty in the painting
Admiring the painter
Every stroke from birth to final light
We wake the morning
We die to the night
Wherever we go
The static plays a melody
The sound of increasing pretense
As the serpents die of their own poison
Drink from their own goblets
The play is over and the curtains close
Thank you for coming
We hope you enjoyed the show