I’m doing fine.
I hugged an actor I like, and for some reason that stirred an emotion that I would classify as Foreign to me, happiness.
I am a passing fan and I know he forgot all about me by now, and yet meeting him made me feel like I could accomplish anything I’ve ever wanted. It’s silly, I know.
My cycle of self loathing is breaking and mending itself, and I’m stuck dealing with the shards and broken pieces that I pick up after myself, after my own destructive mind manages to break me.
I am scared- no, terrified, of the future. I’m scared of becoming a failure and I’m scared of becoming something I’ll end up hating. I’m scared of a stable life and a nine to five job. I’m scared of leaving my dreams behind in a desk drawer and continuing to live as a copy of everyone else.
Safe, in my comfort zone. Locking away my passions and dreams as phases of youth.
I’m doing fine.
I keep doubting every single decision I ever made. And I keep trying to cry out my fear and confusion to no avail. I keep drawing lines upon lines on a blank paper, somehow trying to see a meaning, or a sign, in between for me to keep going. To keep living.
I’m doing fine. I’m doing fine. I’m doing fine.
There’s a roof above my head and food on my table, there’s a bed for me to sleep on and I’m financially stable. So what is it? Why am I up at night feeling sorry for myself? Why am i complicating simple things?
I wish my brain would stop working. I wish I could play silence as a song. Loud and deafening. I wish I could stop my own mind.
I’m doing fine.
My friend is miserable and I am of no help, everything I try to mend ends up breaking. I’ve never felt so helpless. I love her to death. I love her more than I could fathom.  
I’m doing fine,
But
My soul is decaying.
I’m rotting away.
I need help.

I wish plants could speak
They’d tell me of  horrid things they’d seen
Above them and next to them
Left and right
They’d speak of the rain that came after drought
And the joy they would have at that
They’d tell me about the loss when a flower got picked
and the fuss of it if anyone cared enough to get it fixed
for a new plant in its place
a new life replacing the old
a decade of silver instead of gold
With new existential questions (some are very bold)
would the sky get angry then and start raining coal?
for how dare a simple plant question the mighty clouds?
and have a voice to speak and make sounds?
while it is inferior, sickle, stuck in the same old grounds,
as it’s quiet predecessors

I wish plants could speak
they’d be full of wisdom I’d reckon
They’d be melancholy
they’d seldom speak
and sometimes,
Of hope a beacon

you’d think they might know the most of this earth
as their roots are intertwined with it
I’d say It unravels it’s secrets to them
For it knows for sure
That plants never speak.

I'm afraid.
The sky is the same color as it was the day before and night is never bright, the stars are not visible too.
It rained today and its unusual, it only rains a few times every year, most think of it as a blessing, it makes me feel blue.
I hate thinking about the future because it's terrifying to me, as all roads lead to Rome, I feel as if  every decision I consider or end up making will lead up  to me becoming a failure, I bring upon myself my own rue.
I am so scared and my opportunities don't vary, I have yet to discover the meaning of life and with every day I feel myself getting older and older, getting by aimlessly through life, breathing stale air and eating and sleeping, just stoic.
I feel myself getting older day by day, and I worry, I worry so much and live in the torment of my worries, my mind won't stop. there's no way out, I live in a prison of my thoughts, and my dreams are not of console since they die and rot in this place as I type.
What of beautiful life? What of music? what of joy and love and hearts being full to the point of combustion? what of smiles and arms that hug you and lend you comfort? Am I not worthy of them? Does this place take everything that makes me human away?
I am nothing, my destiny is like that of everyone else, and that's what makes my insides quiver and sends a chill down my spine.
It's not being different that concerns me, but being like everyone else makes me feel like I'm slowly killing myself, destructing and crushing whatever wild flower that might've slipped and grown through the cracks of my sculpted mind. I can't be like everyone else.
I am afraid.
This place feels too small and yet it feels so big, my everyday life is a big deal to me and yet it is a segment that will never occur again in somebody else's life. A waiter, a stranger, a passing account on the internet. Isn't that crazy to think about? How you mean so little to a lot of people and they won't ever know your name, and how important it is to you and vice versa.
I can't comfort myself anymore and I am so afraid, something within me wants to be immortal, and the other wants to be forgotten.
I worry a lot, I seek comfort in anything and yet nothing does the job.
I'm afraid.
Of my mind,
Of my worries,
Of my fears,
and yet I know that they will take over eventually.

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!

It gets hard when I wake up, and the reality I've seemed to create in my head starts to vanish.
It gets hard for me to pull myself out of my bed, when sleep is the only comfort I find in life.
It gets hard to smile, it gets hard to breathe,
when your dreams get crushed and torn at the seams.
It gets hard to write words that explain, the turmoil in my heart, soul, and brain.
It gets hard to simply exist, when you become aware of your surroundings and all the hope you've managed to conjure up seeps outside your being. In helpless whimpers and cries of unfiltered despair.
It gets harder and harder and I'm tired of trying.
If this is my goodbye to you then please understand that I was dying.

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.

what is life then?
If not *****, scarlet nights and cigarettes
Can it be music so loud that it vibrates within me? pumping through my veins,
Harmonizing with my pulse

isn’t life just one big song?
I hope mine isn’t mellow and quiet
I’d like to see it end with a Big Bang
Like the build up in a rock song that leaves me heaving

And yet I’m stuck in the beginning
Repeating every day
over and over
Like my life is a broken record
And the song doesn’t play past the opening sound
And so I find myself in a hospital gown
wondering why my song isn’t great
how it’s not getting better at any rate
while I ponder my worth under a fluorescent glow
******* to a bed watching my favorite show
grasping at straws with hopes of ‘you never know!!’
life passing me by at lightning speed while I’m going slow
Dragging my sadness that never seems to leave
and all existential crisis in tow

the maid in our house raised me
and she loves me like her own I see
but when she asked for a raise
my father said she wasn’t worthy of such praise
And it kind of put me in a haze
for I see her working 16 hours a day
in freezing winters and in the middle of May
without so much of a complaint
no matter what she’s going through a smile on her face she’d paint
I’d come to see her as a saint
For she ironed my clothes and kept me fed
& didn’t mind my temper and some lousy words I’d said
She forgave everyone before going to bed
and never had time for a tear to shed
long mornings and short nights
She lived separated from our world and it’s heights
Thinking of the mouths to feed millions of miles away
So she worked till her feet ached without any dismay
My respect for her was always great but my anger is greater
Because what is this world where money and wealth kills us sooner or later
and we are never equal
because someone is a pheasant while others are regal
my paper planes don’t equate to your steel ones
and yet I should smile I say that money isn’t everything
While someone starves eating mud while you some show off their new diamond rings
so tell me how is that fair?
can’t god give everyone their decent share?
Or does he see their suffering and simply doesn’t care?
call it blasphemy, but I can’t bare to see despair
on the face of millions, because it’s something we can repair
Yet no one lifts a finger or gives a penny to spare
Because god did not make us equal
& that’s the truth when it’s bare.

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.

The sky is light blue and is pleasant to the eye, hospital lights are harsh and white, almost blinding and intense.
I lived as a silhouette, a shadow of everyone else, shortened at noon and lengthening in mornings, depending on the light, and like it was my self esteem.
I loved in the corners, silently. Looking at people and trying to know who they are from the way their hands moved in a conversation and the tiniest smile they’d have on their face when they talked about their passions.
I loved with all my heart, from the darker corners, so nobody knew.
I was a bulletin board, one where everyone came to hang their accomplishments on, I was the board that made everyone feel amazing and special, ignoring the stab of the pin and the hurt it caused when they put it on me.
I was a bulletin board, one where everyone looked at and felt motivated, one some would use for comparison, one that was always there, never changing, always being poked with new pins from all these wonderful people.
I was a bulletin board up until there came a day where everyone left, no one came poking and showing their pride, no one came to boast about their works. I was left and abandoned.
It was that day that I ripped them all off of me, hearing the tears and the echoes of the falling pins on the floor, feeling the tears that had fell from my eyes when I squeaked and rattled trying to break free from the wall, I was not a bulletin board anymore, I was a person with hopes and dreams.
And yet the pin holes never mended, they all sat gaping, never closing up, n filled.
The day I turned human my insecurities broke me apart, I was left a disfigured body and a deformed spirit.
Oh how I wish I could go back to being a bulletin board.

My house has a garden I try to tame
I must’ve forgotten when I turned insane

I say my goodbyes everyday in case I honor them
I am a flower of youth yet I’m breaking at the stem

oceans are on a rise
Thats hope for a fast demise
Clinging to the thought of the end due to the melting of ice
Isn’t it comical?
At least it is to me
I will die with no chronicle
One of plenty fish in the sea

I’ll dance on fire
Let the embers burn and hurt
The soles of my feet are tired  
& blood is soaking through my shirt

A revolution is here! Hold your head up high!
The time has gone where all you do is sit and sigh
you will never know unless you try!
I attempt to join but this land ****** me dry
building dreams like a house of cards
Blaming you for them falling apart

My house has a garden that I’m trying to tame
I must’ve forgotten when I went insane

I turned eighteen thinking I won't make it that far.
I'm not proud that I did because life is becoming serious.
I cannot see a future for myself beyond a grave,
I can't help but think that that's all 'm destined for.
Why do I keep lying to myself then?
clinging on to the dead hope of a better life someday
how many candles do I have to blow with closed eyes?
wishing I could rewind my youth to stargazing and parties and freedom
not looking from sidelines at what others enjoy
can I, for once, feel real change?
nothing half assed or false promises,
for I feel like my life has been getting by on that
But it's not enough anymore.

I loathe crawling into bed everyday wishing I had a life beside my own
one where I feel content and complete instead of broken and torn
my words disgust me now I'm afraid
I can't seem to get them out how I want to anymore
to tell you the truth i feel like I strayed
from the only road that led me towards expression

now I'm stuck in my head under the roof of my room
wishing my depression away with saltly tears for it is my doom.

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.

Can I keep my heart in here a bit longer?
my arm is weary from having it on my sleeve
In times like these I wish I was stronger
Maybe that would put my mind at ease

But now it’s thrown back into my face,
Dare I say it is unscathed?
perhaps it never needed mending at all
Just a few throws to put it back into its place.

Oh I am hurting beyond belief!
For something that never was,
& never will be
but maybe letting go has it’s bitter relief

Can I drown in an ocean of tears? Or is that a bit dramatic?
Guess my love never reached where it was supposed to,
Guess my love got lost in the static.

I’m scared of falling
off a bike
In an ice rink
And in the arms of a stranger

Would it take so much out of me to finally surrender to the ways of the heart?
I’d hate to go into a field blindfolded and come back with pieces missing.

Should I hug myself tighter to hold my broken pieces together? Or let the arms of another hold me to let them breathe
Would I loose too much of myself when I’m at ease?
Because happiness is short-lived. It’s bound to end.
will it be worth it when I’m left with a broken heart to mend?

I go round & round
The clock ticks on
I’m none the wiser
These questions make me want to test the waters
Or try the appetizer

For I have never known what love is
And I don’t think I ever will
I guess I’m back to bottling things up
forgetting to close the lid

I crave a mere touch
Whatever entices feeling
I’ve ran out of luck
No more nets to keep me from falling
I’m not waiting to be saved
Just looking for distractions
A kiss, an embrace, or a mere tickle
Oh my! I’m so lonely!
It’s making me fickle
These brick walls are starting to look warmer
The darkness is becoming more chatty
My hair keeps changing
My nails get longer and shorter
The light behind my eyes
Is steadily going
Out of order

Happiness is foreign
Dare I say bleak?
The path to it is harsh
The climb to it steep
A taste of it makes me worried
Fragile that it makes me unwell
I wish I could live without sadness
I wish I could be sound and swell

It’s a feeling simmering above my chest
Buzzing with optimism for the unknown
Knowing that it burns out quickly
Keeps me alert for what is shown
I’m starting to think of sadness as a clutch
Without it,  I won’t amount to much
and with that fizzled happiness inevitably gone
I will remain empty and hollow
with a bitter revelation;
“Happiness is nothing but a con.”

Things aren’t looking so great. I’m sorry you can’t change your fate. I’m sorry you hold a lot at stake. I’m sorry that you don’t seem to catch a break. I’m sorry to say that you don’t have what it takes to be alive.
I’m sorry that all you have to keep you going is the guilt of causing grief to the ones you love.
I’m sorry that all that you seem to do is lose.
I don’t know what will become of you in six years time. Quite frankly, I don’t see you living to see them. You have no consolation but a dear friend who’s just the same as you, you want to give her the world yet you can’t manage to lift a finger. You’ve lived to see another winter, you’ve lived to see 18. I think that’s more than enough, don’t you?
Time is a loop of events that keep reoccurring, not necessarily the same but they all make you feel the same hopelessness, desperation, and misery.
I’d love to see you yearning to live, not hanging to a hope of dying everyday.
Maybe that day will never come,
The light at the end doesn’t feel real.
I’m sorry that you still don’t have a proper way to cope and deal.
You hate to see yourself this weak and you often wish that were made of steel.
So life could cause you no wounds,
And you wouldn’t have to feel pain to heal.  
Be good, be kind, if you live to see this in a few years time.
But if you don’t then that’s okay, because heaven knows how hard you tried to be fine.
Uncertainly,
Aysha

Is this what it’s like to be young?
The constant feeling of doom
the romanticization of finding a groom
the constant need to grow and bloom

Is this what it’s like to be young?
does it occur to other people?
the feeling of being imprisoned in your own mind
the silly reassurance you seek and hide behind
to have a sweet tooth for death every day in your life
trying to move in quicksand against the tide

It’s all fruitless
It’s all helpless
we all dream about the noose while we stand rope-less

Is this what it’s like to be young?
filled with rage confused with angst
demanding better & being ridiculed to rants
while we watch our lives slip through our hands
made to believe a better world is beyond our ranks

Is this what it’s like to be young?
existential dread at tender ages
beautiful minds locked up in cages
spilling our thoughts into endless pages
of books that no one will read.
Our years passing by as we bleed.
unable to think of a world with one good deed
when everyone has paid us dust.
we live in a world run by greed, power & lust
and so our steel will to live starts to rust
now I sit idly, waiting to turn to dust

Is this what it feels like to be young?
I may never know for sure
but I know that I’ve loved and fought in wars
that still exist from lifetimes ago
and I still can’t see justice or peace.

love to love
But fear it too
sugarcoated with gloss
it eventually haunts you

love is fragile
Love is weak
love is easily tainted
like a white bedsheet

love is warm
love makes you feel
but it burns out like a candle
leaving hard wax to peel

love is glorious
oh I adore being loved!
but I put being numb above anything else
for it doesn’t feel worth it after being stung

so I walk on eggshells
and live this life alone
who would ever love me?
no one at all.
no one at all.

I tuck myself into bed
and imagine someone there
next to each other under blankets
filling the night with pointless stares
it is silly, I know
I can’t even look someone in the eye
but what if!
someone loved me? And saw through my disguise
all I feel is pain now
I’m riddled with bitterness and hurt
for I had dared to love once
and it only broke me in return.