I can’t write this poem
I can’t write this poem because the last time I opened up to someone artistically they told me it was pretty dark and I should keep it to myself.
I can’t write this poem
I can’t write this poem because I was raised in a culture that was anti love and pro meaningless *** I saw endless commercials about movies that glamorize a lifestyle in which your body is fulfilled but your heart is ignored and at that impressionable age I learned my heart came second but my allure came first and the less I cared that happier I would be and I carried that belief around with me the way I used to carry around a Bible as a child.
I can’t write this poem
I can’t write this poem because of the time that I opened my father’s phone to reveal a family secret I would hold to this day against my own moral instincts unraveling miles of insecurities wondering if I’m not a good enough daughter or if he stopped loving my mother or if true love was never real and although I had been taught marriage was my purpose, it was what I believed would make me happy, maybe rings aren’t enough to stay in love and maybe people’s feelings change and maybe no one actually has a “one true love” and that this purpose I had been taught was really an endless wild goose chase that only lead to broken families and lost souls.
I can’t write this poem
I can’t write this poem because sometimes I still wonder why I fell into an abyss of toxicity at such a young age. And when I say wonder I don’t mean a trivial ponder, I mean I contemplate every possible reason why the person who I once believed held the universe in her eyes would lie to my face, why she never kissed me in public and our love was always a secret, why she valued girls with blue hair but my blonde hair was not good enough, why I had to hide bruises from my family when I was still in high school or more importantly, why at the time, I thought I deserved them. These thoughts, this lingering paranoia that I am undeserving of healthy love, they muddy my interpretations of real life and distort reality and effect my relationships. My doctor would call these intrusive thoughts, my best friend would tell me they’re symptoms of PTSD, but I have come to realize that I’ve been burned and I am damaged and I hope to god I can recover.
But you,
Oh god, you
You can write this poem. You can be my safety net while I’m free falling in love. You can be the one to listen to my mental tilt-a-whirls, you can be the one that introduces my body and my heart, you can be the one that calms the storms in my mind when I’m questioning the love I’m deserving of. You are the one who makes sure I fall asleep in my bed after drunk nights, you are the one that still sees my value after acknowledging my flaws.
You can write this poem.
Jun 15, 2017
Jun 15, 2017 at 8:20 AM UTC
I have no wit, I have no words, no tears;
My heart within me like a stone
Is numbed too much for hopes or fears;
Look right, look left, I dwell alone;
A lift mine eyes, but dimmed with grief
No everlasting hills I see;
My life is like the falling leaf;
O Jesus, quicken me.
Mar 16, 2017
Mar 16, 2017 at 8:21 AM UTC
for Susan O'Neill Roe
What a thrill ----
My thumb instead of an onion.
The top quite gone
Except for a sort of hinge
Of skin,
A flap like a hat,
Dead white.
Then that red plush.
Little pilgrim,
The Indian's axed your scalp.
Your turkey wattle
Carpet rolls
Straight from the heart.
I step on it,
Clutching my bottle
Of pink fizz. A celebration, this is.
Out of a gap
A million soldiers run,
Redcoats, every one.
Whose side are they one?
O my
Homunculus, I am ill.
I have taken a pill to ****
The thin
Papery feeling.
Saboteur,
Kamikaze man ----
The stain on your
Gauze Ku Klux ****
Babushka
Darkens and tarnishes and when
The balled
Pulp of your heart
Confronts its small
Mill of silence
How you jump ----
Trepanned veteran,
***** girl,
Thumb stump.
Mar 16, 2017
Mar 16, 2017 at 8:19 AM UTC
"I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)"
Mar 16, 2017
Mar 16, 2017 at 8:12 AM UTC
"You can do this"- I tell myself
I gasp for breath,
I am amazed and dazed,
Let me rephrase-
"You can do this"- I lie to myself,
(Oh, what a compulsive liar I am.)
I rush to my desk,
And my hands wait to be knighted.
Take it, feel it- and run it
D o w n,
Your beautiful wrists,
What a shame of your personhood.
My desk has seen the unabashed,
People call me a ******
People call me a maze.
My mind sinks in turmoil,
And my hands seem like Calpurnia's dream,
It's terrifying.
But beautiful.
Mar 5, 2017
Mar 5, 2017 at 5:07 AM UTC
Let's make these fingers play,
Across eighty-eight keys of wood and ebony,
In perfect, scale, rhythm and harmony.
Decipher the dots and dashes,
And break all the rules,
once you know all the clashes.
You could learn,
From the masters of this game,
Probably Beethoven,
Who played it with honesty and power;
Or Chopin,
Who played it with delicateness,
And poetry;
Or even Liszt,
Who played without hesitation,
And to woo women;
Or Rachmaninoff,
Who used his sizely hands,
To the fullest,
Using clean moves and precision.
There are many masters of this game,
But I promise,
It's the only game which will keep you,
Entertained.
Till the very end.
Feb 21, 2017
Feb 21, 2017 at 11:56 PM UTC
Come, my love, let's sleep.
Not just for few hours,
Not for many hours,
Not even for some weeks,
And not even for merest months.
Let's sleep altogether for years,
Let's sleep for many centuries.
Come, my love, let's hibernate.
Not forgetting immortality,
Not practising immorality,
Not overlooking modesty,
And just sleep together holding tight.
Like we do when cold descends,
Let's go to our sleep mode.
Come, my love, let's snooze.
Not just for few more seconds,
Not just for some more minutes,
Not just for bit more hours,
And kindle the dream in the long night.
Like we did when curse worked,
Let's go to our carefree world.
Dec 20, 2016
Dec 20, 2016 at 5:25 AM UTC
I thank you for moving out of my life.
Nowhere else is my own happiness,
Or rather it is my self-satisfaction,
Winning the 7 Minutes of pleasure.
Greatness I see in me after she departed,
Red-faced she seemed purple with shame,
Equipped with a pump I see myself,
A pump of self-satisfaction and relief,
Tasked I am with my own happiness,
Looks interesting this lonely pursuit,
Yet I know that I can be easily happy.
Advancing alone on the road of love,
Demands of my own body I listen to,
Minding not that I require a female,
If I wanted to make strong kids, 'coz
Ravishing my body has always been,
Even before I ever requested you to stay.
Maybe you can get a better husband,
Yet I am going to be really very satisfied.
This is the life I have always been loving,
Hindsight is never going to be pleasing,
I am so aware of this fact I have known,
Checked fully is that one best gift to self,
Kingly is this feeling of self-satisfaction.
Enjoy information I do in my life alone,
Just like before you or the others came,
And I now realise that before all I came,
Chiseled is my muscly pump after pumping,
Up & down, round & round, up & down,
Laid before I did in Agra like a clown,
Awesome is the feeling self-satisfied,
Tremendous is my relief each time,
Ever happier I have been pumping.
Dec 20, 2016
Dec 20, 2016 at 5:25 AM UTC
Hair like sunshine dust,
Shining like a gleam of light,
I could play with them forever.
Voice so addictive,
Even drugs can't get me so high.
You set me free,
Free from the worries of the world,
I feel like an autumn leaf,
Flying from one place to another,
Not caring about the tree.
When I look into your eyes,
I see a blue lagoon,
Deep and peaceful,
Calm yet powerful.
The guitarist,
To my heart strings,
Is you, my dearly beloved.
Sep 11, 2016
Sep 11, 2016 at 12:45 PM UTC
I am anti-social,
I choke at social gatherings,
My breath feels nothing more than lies ,
The lies when people's words,
Sublime into air.
While everyone brags about,
The last time the Sapiens
Had a good time,
I comfortablly drift off,
Into my little Pluto,
Of words, poetry and music.
I am there,
Yet I am not there.
People think I'm a snob,
The Sapiens think I'm lazy,
But what do they know,
The happiness in solitude.
I am anti social,
And the last thing,
I could care about,
Is You.
Aug 25, 2016
Aug 25, 2016 at 4:03 PM UTC