I cradle hurricanes in my ribcage
while words swirl around my head.
I try to catch the good ones-
but mostly, I wish I was dead.

I do everything too much-
the joy, the sorrow, the dread.
Yet somehow, I’m never enough-
what a curious truth to be force fed.

If I laugh, it’s always too loud;
my mouth too sharp to make anyone proud.
Crying is a dangerous game,
I could sob away a city, drown in the blame.

My rage leaves no survivors,
as if I line people up on personal pyres.
When I vent, they hear preaching-
a sermon no one wants, a fear of my leeching.

I don’t love, I dissect-
obsessively search for the trap I expect.
I can’t just leave; I burn it all down-
the bubbly, funny girl wears a permanent frown.

I do too much and my inner child feels seen,
She's acting out, we aren't this mean
I just get scared when the vibe is off, and ruining the mood makes the blow more soft.

Despite the chaos I still crave love, an equal partner, wearing fireproof gloves.

.
Someone is waiting behind an unlocked door,
peek around the frame and tell me what you saw.
I am a little bit too scared to take a look,
like turning a page in an old horror book.

You see it may be someone who likes me
and that is dangerous for stability.
The hands are motionless on a timeless clock,
it would be easier if they would just knock.

In theory there is nothing I want more
than someone waiting behind an unlocked door.
I've rehearsed this scene so many times before,
but here and now there is a storm at my core.

It ties up the insides like thick knotted hair,
the thought, the fear, that there is nobody there.
So the man in the corner whom most ignore
has someone waiting behind an unlocked door.

But the uncertainty has its own high cost,
as the door locks shut and the moment is lost.

© Pagan Paul (14/02/21)

The emptiness in my eyes,
The truth behind my lies,
The fall before my rise,
And the goodbyes;

It scares me.

The dark beneath my skin,
The light within my sins,
The voice that loudly sings,
And my broken wings;

It scares me.

The wounds I can't heal,
The pain I can't feel,
The loss I can't deal,
And when I am real;

It scares me.

The silence in my little talks,
The stillness in my moonlit walks,
The thought of separate ways,
And my numbered days;

It scares me.

The demons under my bed,
The words spinning in my head,
The blood in my sweat,
And my cold breath;

It scares me.

-Paras Bajaj #PoetrybyParas
Instagram : @mr.parasbajaj

No one asks you to accept life.
That is not a choice.  
You  must  accept  it. The  only  
choice  is  how.
Heaven on earth  is  not a place  
you  must  find,
but  a  choice  you  must  make.

Two primary choices exist in life;
to except conditions
as they exist,
or accept the responsibility for
changing them.

You may believe that you are
responsible for what you do, but
not for what you think, but the
truth is that you are responsible for
what you think, because it is
only at this level can you exercise
choice.What you do comes from
what you think

Every morning when we get up,
the first thing we should decide is:
What do i want? Misery? or bliss?
If we choose blissfulness it is because
it is your choice, it is your life.

There are no mistakes in life, only
lessons.  Love yourself,  trust  your
choices, and  everything is possible.

We choose only once. We choose to
be warriors or to be ordinary...A second
choice does not exist. Not on this earth.
                                                          ­                                   Jon York   2020

Inside you

is where I want to

be,

thrusting

within the folds

of your mind

penetrating

the sweet softness

of your soul,

throbbing

as I release my love

deep within you.
                                     Jon York   2019.