I'm so obviously obsessed with you--
that's what the pain is about.

is not optional.

He comes to her
when he is tired of the world
and rests his head
on her lap
expecting her
to caress and adore,

if she would
only
run her fingers
across his hair
and lightly
kiss him, casually
on his hair, or his forehead
and murmur words of love.

if she would only
tell him
it will be fine,
I am here, always,
by your side,
give me
your worries
make your pains mine,
I am yours, yours,
I will take it all...

But she doesn't
Because she
Is not a toilet paper,
or a teddy bear
or God.
She is not yours
to steal energy from
to empty her in return
every time,
as a compliment to her love.

You were not
there
when she cried
at nights,
waiting for you
to come.
You were not there
when she faced It All.
Her pillow
has been her friend,
her God
has been her savior.
A hope
has kept her alive
that she can get over you
some time.

So when you come
again
you expect her
to be the same.

She is not, however,
someone you can ****
to relieve your worries.
Someone you can buy dreams from.
Someone you can play with
like that.
She is not a doll
not a dog
not a toy, please.

Where it was supposed to be,
It isn't.
Not in my heart, not on my sleeves
Not on my skin, not in my speech
Not here.
But here. Inside me:
A shy, scared, very scared bud
Its petals waiting, waiting since ever
But it won't dare open
For the fear of what has happened.
It doesn't want to be trampled
But does it know--?
Even to be trampled
You have first got to open.

He was writing me.

And then he decided
that he doesn't want to write me anymore.

So there I was left, hanging;
a rope tightened around my neck: forever choking,
and my feet dangling from the ceiling.

I didn't know what to do because I had no ending.

It's all too simple, really: You miss him, you text him
Or you favorite his tweet or write a comment. Initiate it just
Otherwise if you're really up for it and feel bold --
Call. Shoot an email. He will reply. You will talk.

It's really simple, really. You feel pain, you go out
Take a walk, deep breaths, sky, nature, peace. Yes.
You wanna vent, vent. Tell this guy it was pathetic of him
To treat you like a loser. Say it on his face.

It's really simple, really. You write what you like, give no ****
You draw what you want, the world is yours.
It's not so simple really. It never will be.

I* wasn't looking for you
I had certainly turned back the moment I realized it was your name I was typing again
In fact, my fingers had. They had stopped.

Then why do you keep appearing everywhere? every time?
why can't I not be your slave? In intimidation when present, in distress when not.

How helpless you feel, how there is no way out
write about it
write about how you write pages after pages
after pages and crumple them and throw them on the floor
and burn them
Write how the flames make you feel...

Write how the distance has created a void, write how you cry
at nights, hidden in your blanket.
Write how everything reminds you of him, how this song and that
and this story and that is about him only. Why? Tell them you don't know
but it just is.

Write how love has diseased you, how you yearn for an acceptance, a response, a letter perhaps
Or at least, write why you can't write any of that now.

This inexplicable sadness. This sadness rooting from deep down below. This sadness urging me to finally write. This hollow, crazy sadness. I cannot control it. It's sprouting from within, the shrubs thorny and harsh, it's hurting me all the way. It's hurting me all the way, it's hurting me so much.

I don't know what to do with it. Do I hold this baby and cradle it in my arms, do I push it to my chest tightly and suffocate it? It is suffocating me. It is suffocating me, I don't know what to do with it.

Do I throw it away? But it's throwing me away faster, it's cutting off my strings, it's wounding, stabbing, slashing THASH THASH THASH.

This inexplicable sadness that is hurting me so much -- what do I do with it?

What worth is my poetry
if it's not for your eyes to read
or your lips to say.

you are a *****, he said.
because I write like that?
but what has this sentence
to do with whority
(is that a word?)
what is it that I do
which resembles whority
I compromised on my social
emotional gains for your ego-too-biggy
that's why?
because I slang-shame you here? bare my soul
to complete strangers
But I only do poetry!
poetry drenched in rotting wine
stinking madness
or because I keep up at nights?

I was carrying you everywhere like a shadow
and now I don't see why I should, any longer
because my own being dissolves in your darkness
and my own shade hides before yours.
I have carried you everywhere like a shadow
for so long, that now I don't think I'll be able to
let go, but it's important and I am going to try.

Sleep, again, tired warrior
for your heart is wearing and your troubles have exhausted you
your staggering soul pleas for a pause, do you hear?
Just a pause, at that, and some moments to rest.

trail tears
the torched wall of heart
stings

Death like a serpent ready to hiss glares from the glass door of the hospital room asking God his permission to enter and destroy.

Mercy points to the waiting room where several hands have joined in prayer and heads of a few are bowed in prostration and tears from nearly everyone are wetting clothes creased from an overnight stay.

God says wait. And he lets Mercy push Death behind--until next time.

The grass was wet when the sky was black
Earth stood aburst with a hundred smells
But tiptoeing left thunder, as if mended was the crack
And the sand swallowed rain drops

The door of my house stands open
My nights have become accustomed to waiting
I have forgotten how to take care of myself
Please come and teach me once again.

I don't need no one now I am on my own and this

is my world today and I feel

free.

i was a blooming flower - even you made fun of my naivety
questioning it, as if you didn't know i wasn't making it up
that i really was confused, that you were my first,
and it felt like a leap of faith that i took for you
and fell headfirst.
today i am a wilting one, my colors bland and muting
lifelessly, i pick myself up only to fall again
i can't find enough strength in me to make myself whole again
and you are nowhere in sight, and still here, not leaving my side
for worst.

Isn't it easier to choose hell
over peace which seems so
unattainable always?

You could either peel your skin
off, or you could kiss your hands
and be gentle with yourself because
others aren't.

Hey, here. I know it's eating you. Come to me. Talk about it. Tell me how it happened.
I am not judging you, no. Not today, not ever. Just sit here, please, now you do. And say. That's all I ask from you.
Tell me how you see yourself. Tell me how you see the world. Tell me, how has it changed since last time?
What was the last time? What happened between that point and this, tell me that. Please speak to me. You know you should. It's high time.
So, that time and this is different? It is. What's different?
Please look at me.
Yes, say. What's different? How do you think it has changed you?
Do you remember how you were before?
How this world felt under your feet?
Where is that energy? Is it now your strength?
What makes you feel weak, tell me that. What makes you feel good, share with me.
Does anything surprise you anymore? Does it stop hurting? Does it even hurt at all? Can you feel? Do you wish you could stop feeling? Do you ever want to turn off the faucet from which life flows?
How did we reach here? Tell me, please.

I miss you, I think.

I am sure you didn't think you would need help so soon
But here you are crippling
at nobody's doorstep
crying to be heard and understood without even saying

Brain shutdown is a thing.
And now I know how it happens (though I may not necessarily
be able to describe it in words that are apt,
because it's more or less an elusive idea - not tangible.)
It doesn't happen because of a guy.
Or a girl for that matter.
Intimidation, however, could be a chief cause.

When someone throws words at you that reek of eloquence designed specifically in twists to make you feel inferior
Or when you come across terms that are alien, important and alien, like Physics or Philosophy,
Maths, or anything else really that is "important" to get and you're all pressured,
and alien,
Existence Of God - Nonexistence of The World.

Or when it gets too much from people and circumstances
And you feel like you're standing mid-road with all that traffic coming to hit you on your face
so you will fall,
so you will disappear
And instead,
your mind falls. and it disappears.
and quitens
entrapped in a blanket, this brain of yours
you go whoosh. BLANK.

**** all of you who thought they were somebody's god-sent guides
Paving ways, understanding things, and then leaving for good
Because one thing you never understood was how hearts really worked
And trust me, you are never getting any peace you apparently love distributing.

I hope I know when you die
because how else am I going to lose hope then
how else am I going to know for sure,
that there is no more chance. No more nothing anymore..

I know it's a loser thing to be so occupied with an absentee, but does heart listen?
I know I will only forever lose hope when there is no more me or you.

You were in a different realm, a most spectacular dream
I couldn't touch, could only see
could only worship the glimpse I was given which had set my life on fire
- could only love from a distance and I did -
better than anyone would ever want you, I wanted.

I have tried.
I have tried to live like I really should live, I know what it is that I like.
I have lied.
I have never really tried.
I have only always wished, for trying requires courage that I don't have.
I am not lying.
I have known fear in ways it doesn't remain just a feeling:
I have felt it shooting up my spine
I have held my fingers to stop them from shaking and I have, at times, simply collapsed
Collapsed on the floor because my legs wouldn't want to carry my weight anymore.
So I have wanted, and I have tried, and I have wished for it to get better
But it only ever becomes a tad bit shade of 'fine',
And I can't compromise.
I have tried.

We kept moving in circles
And circles—
Until we were so tired
We couldn't walk together anymore.
And so we left—You this way and I that;
Our shoes in our hands,
Our feet thoroughly bruised.

It isn't fair
what becomes of us people
when someone leaves.

When you are alone in a sea of million
And crave just one voice -- to hear your silence and soothe you --
A voice you have never heard before...
A shoulder you have never picked for support
But now you need, and want, and wish for.
A real in between fakes
An important in between frails
A tree, a pillow, a benevolent rain
A human you love but have never known afore.

you need time, time, time; you are under stress.
Sleep
there are assignments to make, but it's still not their last date.
Sleep
you know it's hard to face the world, nothing's changing much your fate
Sleep
all these bags under your eyes, the hole that just doesn't fill says:
Sleep

You are doing it wrong..
really wrong.
how many poems do you write every day?
and at nights?
do you think he deserves it? Do you deserve this?
wake up from your break up
gather up your soul now
pick up the pieces and start your dance.
Magic, magic, magic! Rock't!

to ask for help. is one of the most difficult things ever. you never know what you're becoming until you've become that. and then you see, and you're like, ouch, how do i go back?

some people feel they'd rather die than open up. but some others say, vulnerability is beautiful. accept it. it's okay, because everybody else isn't doing so, you should.

a cousin said i was an open book. i didn't know if it was bad or good but i thought i didn't want to be an open book. that happened years ago.

sometimes you keep secrets for so long it gets bad. maybe like, secrets could be some fruits, and they remain nice and all but then they rot. either you should throw them away or remove them from your system. don't let them become an illness. and it's always hard to share what matters but you should, because we're all dying either way and each one of us is so small.

everybody should be an open book. because why not.

I don't know if it is the right thing to do
But I miss you.

There comes a time when
Deleting people and numbers and letters and songs
Becomes easy.
As if,
They weren’t entire chapters in your life but were
Mere sentences.

You are sick because you are afraid.
Afraid of things you love (and him)
Afraid to get your heart broken (which might not)
Afraid to try out new (though you want to)
Afraid to come out of your comfort zone (why not?)
Afraid to let it be and afraid to not let it be (don't. over-think.)
Afraid of what you desire (so much)
Afraid of everything that scares you and should not. (you know it should not)
Afraid of not being good enough and scared of realizing that's okay... (it is!)
Afraid of... everything and (and)
Afraid of nothing.

These past few years I have seen and learned 'letting go' in a lot of forms:
In the deafening roar of a train leaving your lonely figure past, past, past...
a father on his bed taking last, tortured breaths
or friends you used to meet everyday but are no longer there when you're crying your nights away
and grudges, leaving them only so you'd feel lighter, if not fuller, again
letting go of a lot of things except
you. Your memory doesn't leave.

The first time I looked at her photos,
I didn't like her.
I also didn't like the deeply cutting feeling in my stomach.
The light anguish I didn't want to accept: I wasn't hurt,
I can't care about your past because I don't care about you.

Today when I looked at her photos, I saw another being.
A happy, full of life, brimming with energy type of being
And I found myself understanding why you loved her.
I like her too. Even if you don't love her anymore (and maybe you do?)
I can't trust you, and I can't feel hurt. No.

You are as far as a soldier from his bricked home, his brave, frail mother, his noisy night by the mustached man's shop who was also his friend's best uncle. Best friend's uncle.

You are far but not like finding water in a long desert far. That image alone chokes me. You are far like clean water on a beach far, when your shoes are filled with mud and every step forward is a burden you have no choice but to take.

You are far like help on an empty road far, when night and horror fills in the lungs and only a whisper splutters out.

You are far like hope for a bright student's first big failure, redemption for a sinner, and love for a newborn - one whose mother died delivering.

You are far but not like light in a blind's eye far. You are far like light in my life far.

Thank you for making me feel ****
\ all these years,
making me cry and leaving me always
to lick the empty burning hole.
Thank you for making me feel incomplete
when all I asked was a sense
of trust
to belong.
I hate you very much,
but like all other typical losers,
I will have to forgive you so I can move on.
But,
I didn't deserve you. I know that.

hate him for his inaccurate tendency to understand emotions
hate her for always being in a fight with her own feelings

he doesn't get it,
she cannot forget it

he doesn't show he cares
she cannot stop caring about it

and it's not just as little or as much
as that.
or as stupid

both of them kind of know it
both of them will kind of forsake it

I think it's impossible:
you and me, together
is impossible.

I can't see it happening
anytime soon,
yet it is all I will ever ask
God for.

The only sad thing about some goodbyes is that in order to maintain your dignity, you cannot rub their flaws in their face.
You cannot tell them that you hate it. Cannot tell them that they should have been more considerate about everything,
Should've seen someone other than themselves too.

The timing was right.
Y'all say it happened at the wrong time.
Y'all say you weren't ready really.
Y'all blame the time.
Time is fate.
Why'd y'all blame your fate?
It happened on the right time.
Wrong were the people!
Your heart, your foolish frightened heart
And his untrue,
playful poetry.
It wasn't time's fault! It was people.
It was unnecessary patiene.
It was fear.
It was fire.
It was poetry.

Once
you
write
something
and the impact
it has
on your life
lasts forever.

I write to the poems we said and liked. The moments we shared and cherished. The nights and days, the constant staying in-touch.

This I write to the wait, anticipation, horror of not finding you again.

This I write to the pain of distances.

I am writing to the places we couldn’t visit, words we couldn’t utter ever. There is no tomorrow for us because we wasted while we had it. We had everything but perhaps we never found it worth fighting for.

In the name of lies and fooling. This I write not to the barren years but to the long moments between each minute. To the burden of the reality, to the burden of our fantasies.

I write to put a full stop. I write to mark “The End” which I kept hoping won’t come. I write to restart.

Anxiety.
It's that snake that gnaws on your feet as they are turning cold
nibbling on your soft skin, bit by bit crawling up, up,
up.
It's the constant pacing to and fro and back and forth and back and f-
forgetting what you had to say
And not having anything to say but more: having a lot to say and no one
Or no words
Or no way.
It's that tightening in your chest, that horrible little knot that makes a not-so-little blockage
of blood
and as your knuckles grow white, your heart knocks madly at the ribcage
so your brain decides it is okay for it to pop the red ***** out
but fate declines and you fall, sob.
You sob, and you ask the heavens
and any existing, non-existing God or Source or Goodness
to turn off the ****** faucet from which your fears have been flowing so freely--those fears you know well yourself are unworldly--
(Or am I saying that because I know that's how anyone else would take them?)
But real or not; unrealistic perhaps; you are powerless at their hands.
Truly, that's what you are.
Powerless.

be happy,
be happy,
be happy.
they all want you to be happy.
if you are not happy,
and if your mind
is fully occupied with a picture of a noose
hung on a ceiling fan
and you're imagining dripping blood
blib blib blib
then
apologize to your god.
and to yourself
say sorry, sorry, sorry
many a times
many, and many—
you need to
be happy
you're alive