When you’ve been with someone you love for a while
They leave these marks on you
Invisible, but seared onto your skin, your brain, your heart
Try as hard as you can, to wash or scrub it away
The truth is that they’re here to stay.
When you’ve been with someone you loved for a while
When you’ve breathed the same air, shared the same space,
Dreamed and lived and cried together,
Try as hard as you can, to break away
These memories are here to stay.
When you lose someone you love,
In the cruel ways this universe toys around with our lives,
How do you breathe,
How do you exist,
How do you tell yourself that you’ll become whole again,
That you’ll reminisce and smile
And not remember and cry and cry and cry?
Jan 26, 2022
Jan 26, 2022 at 7:28 PM UTC
I look at her,
her sad eyes and juvenile wrinkles.
A face riddled with scars and red bumps,
interweaved with healed and unhealed flesh.
I wish I didn't care about what I see in the mirror.
I wish I didn't care about how my skin feels against my fingertips,
or what I see when I search for my reflection.
They talk about loving yourself
but how can I,
when all I see is a hideous monster?
I know,
I know.
There are sorrows much painful,
woes more pertinent than mine.
But how do I tell my mind to stop crucifying itself?
How do I diffuse these electrical impulses,
from my eyes to my brain,
carrying an image of my face and interpreting it as
unnatural,
ugly,
pitiful?
I wish I didn't spend so much time,
trying to wash this dirt off me,
trying to pick and probe at the scabs,
when I know it's a part of me,
arising from me.
How do I stop myself from judging my worth
as the sum of these scars
that lie skin deep?
Jul 1, 2019
Jul 1, 2019 at 10:12 AM UTC
Of nights spent awake, blank pages, empty thoughts.
Of dreams misconstrued, eyes wide open, staring at the wall.
Fear holds me prisoner, silence grips me tighter.
Words were my ally, now they have failed me too.
Sundays spent in the dark, probing memories,
Pleading to be left untouched.
Of hurt and regret, my constant companions,
Once upon a time, helped me write songs for my broken heart.
Of the moon and the stars,
The serene night sky,
Back when I could serenade them endless,
Now I greet them with empty hands.
Of days when words spilled at the brim of my chalice,
Now parched and dry, soulless and wary.
Aye, my misgivings keep me company,
As I ironically write an ode to my writer's block.
Oct 21, 2017
Oct 21, 2017 at 8:07 AM UTC
I'll paint my skin black
In every spot, in every crack
When a happy moment
Was tainted by a touch that lingered far too long.
All those days under a burning sun,
Running, hiding, from eyes that incessantly follow
Looking over my shoulder, with feet that fumble,
Praying not to fall,
Quickly dashing down a hallway,
Hoping four walls of a home will keep me secure.
As my breathless body is reduced
To a mere statue made of stone,
You run your gnarly fingers over my decaying flesh and bones.
“Smile a little more”, “Here,see what I've got”-
I cower in fear, powerless,
And they wonder why I don't speak out soon.
So instead, I'll pen this down
To stop myself from counting,
Every memory seared into my brain,
Every time I've felt less human,
Every time I've felt disgraced.
Maybe tomorrow, I won't wake up screaming.
Oct 20, 2017
Oct 20, 2017 at 3:03 AM UTC
I want to meet you between the pages of a book you can't put down
Maybe under the stars on a night as lovely as this one.
Create dreams that you can never dare to forget
Stir hearts with great stories of lovers lost at war.
Paint poetry with colours that are ineffable, indescribable
Lock lips at dawn and then at dusk.
I want to walk on a bed of exquisite flowers
Touch the skies and feel the earth.
But here I'll lay, among my thoughts and words
Maybe tomorrow I'll give reality a chance to impress.
Aug 15, 2017
Aug 15, 2017 at 3:37 AM UTC
A solitary house stands steady against the howling winds deep in a long forgotten forest. A lonely figure sits inside, hunched over a book, with a pen in hand. Gently rocking to and fro, the mind pacing back and forth, her heart bleeds onto empty pages, scripting a story in a bright crimson hue, slowly taming every wayward thought.
With incessant scribbling, the rebel of a silent night, she tears into the paper with the strength of a lion's jaw. The organized chaos in her head, breaks out like sweat on a blank page. Take note, she dances ethereally between her web of words, lightly treading between fire and ice.
She purges herself in the deepest realms her words can take her to, traversing scapes of wary prose that barely sparks a fire, eloping from a conference of cluttered minds.
Jul 30, 2017
Jul 30, 2017 at 3:15 AM UTC
Days on end I have seen you hurt,
Waging battles alone, against the world.
Poised, gentle, barely holding it in.
Fiery, brave, but scared and tainted.
I come closer, you fly further.
My fingers reach out, you slip away,
Forever running,
Forever hiding.
I realise you don't need me
But it breaks my heart not to stay.
Some days I dream of tearing down your walls,
Maybe break open a window into your soul.
"Let me in", I say, "Let me hold you even if the pain resents."
"How can I let you love me", she says, "when I'm only learning how to love myself?"
Jul 9, 2017
Jul 9, 2017 at 7:19 AM UTC
My thoughts weigh me down
In the middle of the night,
When distant rumbles
And flashes in the sky,
Wake my dreaming mind.
Tyranny rules our bleeding hearts
And this song is all I have.
A touch of humanity lost to a war cry,
All our words, forged in fire.
You strike, I retaliate,
And now we're falling apart.
Can you sleep? I can't.
I lay awake listening to the screams
That drown the silence of the night.
I count the stars that dare to shine
Even through these dark clouds.
We're lost, in time and space,
Waging a war we don't understand.
My kindred, my blood and flesh,
What are we fighting for?
Jun 4, 2017
Jun 4, 2017 at 8:53 AM UTC
I keep my words to myself.
Hidden, locked,
Buried under the earth.
Quiet, they say.
Don't you ever want to talk to us?
Open your soul to us?
I do.
All
The
Time.
And in moments like these,
A few may escape.
As poetry,
That barely tells the story.
As poetry,
That rarely makes sense.
Dented,
Tainted,
Stuttering,
Like a broken record.
But are you listening?
May 29, 2017
May 29, 2017 at 4:28 AM UTC
Sometimes these whispers grow strong, almost to a blaring cacophony, of an endless discord between the heart and the mind, laying waste to my sanity that was once revered, so, so long ago.
And as the mind drifts over the edge, overlooking a bottomless chasm, there is little light that shines from within, battling what is left of a person that was whole.
But you watch from your safe confines, tucked away in your niche of pretentiousness, as I fall into a fathomless hole, a tut-tut for the 'poor soul', words that could mean less and for you, life goes on.
But what was lost was that what could be found, but you let it fall.
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 2:42 AM UTC