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A Jan 5
And of melodies & songs I find most comforting, soothing when a wave of sadness comes ashore,
There’s a laugh and a cracked voice, there’s that & so much more I’ve come to adore.
When the scratches ebbed into my arms weigh a ton, and the burden of living becomes so much that I want it to come undone.
And then I cry at night, shed a tear or two, or laugh until I can’t anymore ‘cause my breath left me and my lips turned blue.

Only then there’s nothing anymore, no songs or melodies or laughs. Only the light at the end of the hall where I spent most evenings weeping & crying in haste.

As I lie with my earth-shattering problems all carved into the lines of my forehead and eyes, the ground finally engulfs me, there’s no more disguise.
And then in melodies and songs I found so comforting, there was you. Singing your head off and sometimes humming, or in some cases throwing a shoe!
found this old one in my notes
A Dec 2018
I wake day after day with the same lingering dismay of what my life has become & of what is supposedly my fate

synthetic happiness works no longer
& I find the craving for death inside me growing stronger
old habits come again disguised as friends that like me better in cardigans that never let my scars show
this might all go away, maybe after one more blow?
songs and trees and mysteries are not enough to keep me intrigued and the bridge I walk by everyday is so appealing to take a leap and end it once & for all
The idea of living much longer makes my skin crawl
& so I am restless and I get into brawls & succumb to my sadness as it became my downfall
I can never quench it for I don’t have the gall as I hit my head against the wall

Artificial honey used to do the trick you see
a simple lick made me forget my misery
even though it sometimes made me jittery
it was also my only escape
It is my high and it leads me to my low but who cares! The tears always flow
wether I’m joyful or filled with woe
this illness sits on my shoulder like a crow
& I have to accept that I am shackled and it truly has me baffled that I can only set myself free by slitting my wrists or drowning in a sea.
Written in delirium under the effect of sleeping pills
A Dec 2018
I look at my dad and I know that he loves me in his own twisted, conditional way. I can’t help but refuse the love he gives for it is not true but can’t help but yearn for it at the same time.
You see, I’ve never been loved so I wouldn’t know how it feels.
And that goes for everyone I know as well.
We grow up and look and wish we were born somewhere different, somewhere less suffocating, somewhere we can love and feel freedom without lingering fears of getting caught.
Somewhere where our existence isn’t a sin.
Glimpses of said freedom is what makes us happy but at the end of each night we go back home and reality creeps in. We feel so trapped and restricted and all we can seem to do about it is cry.
We grow depressed, we dream of a day where our parents accept us. (For me it’s just the day that I leave this place)
I want to leave this place
I want to go and see the world and wear whatever and speak my mind
I want to feel as I am my own person
And yet I can never leave
And so all I can do is **** myself
Life’s a dead end anyway
I can’t seem to grow the ***** to take it back
And yet it hurts me immensely that it is in the hands of my father
In the hands of society
In the hands of family members and everyone else
Just because I was born with a ******* ******.
and so I will take my life someday
Not tomorrow or next week
But someday when I am brave enough and weak
maybe then my life will reach its peak?
I know for certain that even when I leave people will still speak.
i still can’t say goodbye even when I have nothing else to say
So until I finally do it
I’ll smile at you and tell you to have a good day.
I don’t know anymore
A Dec 2018
I’ve come to learn that I cannot pray
With a full heart that’s devoted, unsuspecting of faith.
And I’ve learned to accept that god might have mercy
But he also has wrath
And that’s what I see mostly.

Wars and death surround us so profoundly and yet we just pray harder
so we can sleep soundly

Uncertainty is deadly
I’m sadly inclined to believe so
At least in this place
Where it’s wrong to show ankle& toe.
Or have weak faith be the reason or your woes
Maybe God’s anger is why you’re not good at this and that
It’s also why you can’t find your ‘perfect’ match
Because your heart is tainted, and your mind too aware so they never fancy you as a ‘catch’
You’re not porcelain doll either, you’re full of scar and scratch
so start praying harder dear (there’s no future with Gyllenhaal or Cumberbatch)
and so you’re expected to bloom before you even hatch
because nothing matters more than finding a match
Or else you’d grow old and be trapped
with lonesome that kills and a reality that slaps.
“that’s what God intended”
Is what I’m forced to believe
so I can pray harder
and never have time to grieve

why would god mind if I *******
Or participate in a heated debate
About his existence (whether it’s real or fake)
And why he causes all this heartache
Because yet again
All I see is death and wrath
and sometimes I drown myself in a bath
To escape all I’ve come to hate
About this place and how people tell me my fate
Because anything different would make the Lord angry
Like raising your voice
Or acting ‘manly’

So When will he shed light
And make a child of war’s smile somewhat bright
Because he abandoned them
Or so it seems
I guess he’s too caught up with my wildest dreams
& the length of my jeans.
A Sep 2018
you feel until you can’t anymore and you hurt until your arms are sore
Just as you walk out the door thinking of what’s in store your sadness comes back up from the floor and you are helpless.
The sky is blue and grey and pink and people around you always sing , of money and glamour and bubbly things and you are merely a shell. something so out of place you think you mistakenly fell.
Into this world of hate and gloom where money is king and there’s no magic broom, or a high tower for you as a room and it’s all just about the surface.
You paint a face and fake an embrace and love the need to love instead, you love an idea you’ve grown to dread and it’s not so scary to be dead anymore.
It’s not that you want to be alone
But with time you start to turn into stone
And think that your actions can condone
All the blood you shed and hearts you broke,
& all the painful words you spoke
As you watched them cut and start to soak into everyone you’ve ever loved.
This illness made you have them shoved.
So far away that night and day became one to you with time, trying to scribble it out into a poem that rhymes.
It’s far for perfect and it’s never simple as the corner of your eyes start to crinkle into a fake smile for the world to see.
Because you can never turn into what they want you to be.
And you never got out so much of a plea.
For a helping hand or a saving grace because this illness was a disgrace that you should hold until the grave and that’s why people called you brave.
and you were the farthest thing from it.
I can’t write anymore lol
A May 2018
Why should I believe that beauty is not skin deep when everything tells me otherwise- it’s all everyone cares about- it’s all they ever advertise.

Why should I believe that this life is fair and that people around me don’t really care- for the shape of my face or the color of my hair- when all they seem to talk about is beauty as they stare- inside their screens and turn green with jealousy of a beauty they don’t think they behold- why is it always hard to love yourself? That’s not what I’ve been told.

Thelipsticks and the dresses never were pretty because whatever you do is never enough for people in this city- and as the days stretch out your meals shrink hoping your stomach would look flat when you took a drink- of that ****** tea that promised to make you thin as your bones grew prominent under your skin- and now you start thinking while throwing up in a bin- is this really worth it all? When did this begin?- it’s then that you realize it was the unintentional words of a friend- a magazine page- or a picture you pinned- on the wall of your room of a singer in Berlin-
does anyone care for what’s within?
Does anyone care for what’s within?
it’s all images and looks that define who you are- it’s what the boys look for when they go to a bar- it’s not the words or the beauty you hold inside- or the kindness you carry as you sit by a lakeside- wondering if you’re worth anything when all this beauty perishes  and dies.

It’s what’s inside that counts, no matter how many times you recount- the calories in your food or your weight on a scale-
It’s what’s inside that counts, even if you think it’s not and try to no avail-
To please all these people that only care about a sale- who are too scared of doing anything they love because they think they’ll fail- who are too insecure that they seek the approval of a male!

In everything they do they are mere copies of people they think are greater- ones that if you dared to criticize they’d call you a ‘hater’.
Actually proud of the rhyme in this :) enjoy
A Mar 2018
The ride to and from school would be the way I truly kept track of days, not by sun and light, but by the small construction site inside alleys in a city of fumes and dead dreams.
I’ve come to terms with the fact that I have no great destiny to fulfill, that I might die after a mundane life with a regular job looking for happiness I might never procure.
I’ve come to terms with the way happiness only scratches the surface of my exterior, that I never feel it as deeply as I do my sadness, that cursed sadness that sticks to me like a pest. I can never outrun nor hide from it.
I’ve come to terms with the fact that my life might be a speck, a blurry head in a crowd, a pedestrian crossing a street, an observer.
I might never be meant to create the art I crave to make, or sing to crowds as I want to sing, or write in books for ones to read. I might never be anything at all.
And yet coming to peace with all these things has not made me happier, it hasn’t made me feel deeply and appreciate. In fact, I feel it hardening the fluid creativity I might’ve had inside me, I feel it turning me shallow. I guess my sadness is not something I can live without. I guess it is some sort of a bittersweet companion that I’m chained with for the rest of my days.
I can say that I’m okay with that.
I can say that I can go on normally now.
But I know the life I’ll lead and live would day by day shatter whatever hope I had, whatever aspiration I would want to reach, it would **** me slowly but I guess that this is life and it’s all just tangible, temporary.
I guess I am the smoke I see, from the construction site in alleyways in a city built  on hopelessness, I guess I am the smoke and I will age as the building is being built and I will one day fly away from here. Like the pigeons I see everyday gathering around in a land so dry to eat bread crumbs thrown by sad, helpless humans, all stuck in a trance of pleasing a god in their actions and pleasing people who’d curse you for being different. I hope when I die I turn into one of the white pigeons that only come a handful of times a year, I hope I could come to observe these people but never become one of them.
I hope that one day I would really be free.
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