patterns
echoes
come back to me like a boomerang

I haven’t seen you in clarity
in a long time

a horse race track
and I am galloping, number 9,
with blinders on the sides of my eyes

running to run, not
running to win, just
running for running
away

I thirst for distance, yet
recognition
it’s easy to take one step too far away
it’s not easy to stay
it’s easy to regret anything

still, maybe I am barefoot at your door
when the neighbourhood is asleep
I dreamt you and my best friend fell in love
and she didn’t know about us
you drank lemonade and held hands
a perfect summer romance

I haven’t seen you in so long
but I saw you last week

your name is famous
to an ice rink,
to the sky I spoke to today
it echoes, even in a field

or perhaps
just in my head
brain, batting its lashes
at your name

it echoes all the same

"Shhh....
No one needs to know..."
The razor whispered
To her skin as
It violated her.

Caught in the act, trapped in the fact
I made my bed now I have to lie in it.
I wanted to win, but it was a sin
Now I have to confess to it.

Like a shooting star, I fell so far
In the tick of a clock I was in too deep.
Now I've been stained, I just feel drained
I've made too many secrets to keep.

"Let me out!" I wanted to shout
But there was nobody around to hear
And even if they did, I was no longer a kid
I've tightened my own noose I fear

This was it, I'm afraid to admit
I can no longer count the sins I've made.
I lie in wait, for a terrible fate
It wont take long for my existence to fade.

He has broken written all over him
It twinkles in the soft sad glitter of his eyes
Like the most miserable stars at midnight
Its shown in the restless bags laying beneath them
Painted in black resembling the empty void in his mind
Its seen in the vigorous shaking of his hands
Ready to self destruct like an earthquake
Its written the subtle curve of his lips
Positioned in permanent discontent
Its felt in his cold harsh exterior
Rigid and unapproachable
Its portrayed in his  bitter treatment of this callous world
Its written in his hatred  
He has broken written all over him and the pen him is smeared in discontent
Its seen in his undeviated response to a world that has shattered him more than once
It is heard in the broken exterior of his voice
Stuttered in anxiety and hopelessness
It is seen in the raggedness of his clothes
Hanging off his helpless limbs
It shines in the grease of his long uncombed hair
He is unkempt but does not care
He cannot care
Each detail adding on to his broken image

The wind is whistling,
out of tune I might add,
mistaking it for the kettle
I got out of
bad
or should that be bed?
shaking my head to dislodge the sleep
my eyes start revolving
the sugar turns blue and
it's me in the cup
wondering why I'm
dissolving.


Ridiculous is four steps to the right
I've been there
was there
sharing a night with the lamp
tightening up with the cramp
and have you noticed
anything odd?

if the door when ajar is not a door
where did it go?
how will you know where to exit or
enter?

When the day breaks
who covers up the cracks?

He
who cements commandments
to medicaments
and buries parliaments
in liniments
knows about the life in tenements
how to
fight from the battlements
He who
gives the final sacraments
on Sunday in the first aid tents

who is He anyway that separates the night
and makes the day pay ransom?

A handsome man I'll wager.

It is a basic question humans ask each other on a daily basis.

"How are you?"

Never have I ever seen the truth come out of their lips. Although, how could I tell? Maybe it is the fidgety hands or just the bounce they performed. Now, I'm describing myself. Aren't I?

If you ask me that question, I can hardly say "I'm fine" without having to take a deep breath and my throat would try to reach for that one glass of water, making a simple interaction a hundred times peculiar than it should be.

My throat stays dry for another two years or so.

It has been four years since my very first unconvincing "I'm fine"

I wonder when would be the right time to confess about this. Perhaps, I don't have to. I made my mother worried once I had my "first" panic attack. I can not exactly say that was the first one but my family hasn't really done anything about the lines on my skin.

Well, mom asked me about it. She pointed at it and said, "What is that?"
And then, I got annoyed and threw the topic back on to the shelves, hoping she had noticed something is not right.

It is not that I want my mother to feel bad. I'd never want for the woman who was blessed to have had the surgery of her cancer cells cancelled to frown. Why blessed, you ask? The thing is the first ultra sound was a gold digging snob. Blunt but true. Without the second option of a decent kind, I wouldn't be writing this.

I would have never got the chance to listen to music.

Hence, yes I'm fine.

Core of my being
center of my soul
the main engine of my existence

For years, a stranger
for years, ongoing, a mystery
black,blue,dark or bright
unable to establish
you rapidly seek purpose
through your darkness
you exhibit your eager desires
yearning for something new
while mourning for the old
plastered in limbo-
four walls blinding the world
from your true being
one window overlooking
a world of opportunity, people, and love
yet, the world wonders
what is peering about daily

A creature? An angel? A collection of energy?

The core
although still a mystery
I know you contain beauty