I am in a phase that is called "not fit for talking with people".
Because I literally find it so hard, it's almost like some tragedy has enveloped my entire being, taken away my skill for wordy conversations.
I can't write. There's no magic in my talks.
I can't share. Not even the most random of things
I fear coming out too much. I have become someone I cannot recognize myself
I push people away and feel bad about being scared
I don't love it. There's nothing romantic about messes.
However, I do believe in healing and I have tried for it.
I just hope it happens sooner because I....can't

My previous sentence
Rubbed every trace
Of the next one I was going to create.

Once what I loved
Comes now suppressing me

My feet are stuck
In a slimy mud of languages
I push my hands
Splash, splash it goes:
All the dirt is now over my shirt

I take off my shirt
And imagine basking in glory
But nakedness is for artists
And I am without words

trail tears
the torched wall of heart
stings

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.

My hands sit on the keyboard in eager anticipation.
I wait for a word to form–any word–that might look wordly,
or worldly if not heavenly.
But the bubble bursts and I fail to see.
Its existence remains a mystery even to me.

when a writer dies,
only twenty-six attend his funeral
and poems cry.

Nothing worse
than words unsaid
and ink pens left to dry.

criss cross criss
goes the pencil nib
smothered page cries

A month will pass today. Exactly a month, as far as I've been calculating.
Why do you do this? I feel so worthless.
I can't even write a poetry out of it.

how do i remove you from my system
whom do i share this feeling with
this deep, hollow, ******* freak of a feeling
how do i tell anyone im "sad"
im not sad.
it's all your fault.

will be the death of me

i can't.

I don't think I like you. But you are still number one
On my browser history.
And number one whenever I want to share about something close to me
But you are not
Close to me.

You are there in every poem
I see you in my dreams
You are there in all them stories
I read your texts on repeat

When I see a place pleasant
I wish you by my side
When I look at them happy people
I imagine if it were us

I am a planet, you are a galaxy
You surround me so fully

Baby yes I do miss you
Truth is it's impossible not to!

Only you matter, sweetheart

Everything and everyone
else
are merely details
in a world I don't care about.

When I shut my eyes to sleep,
you appear like a tear
at the corners of my eyes.

I try to wrestle away your thoughts
by shoving aside our memories,
struggling in vain to distract myself
but I give up
and they stay.

Get out of my mind
come in front
because I’d rather that you
bother me where I can see you.

If I fall asleep, it’s you that I dream of.
If I don’t, then there’s no escape
from the haunting reality;
the shadow that is you.

Like a ghost you follow me
everywhere I go
and no amount of light
can scare you away.

Get out of my mind
come in front
because I’d rather that you
bother me where I can see you.

Like a parasite you cling onto me
or a perfume that doesn’t wear off.
You are Everywhere
and you are Everytime.

I am more than too sad.

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.

Every night
she writes the same poem.

Every night
she makes the same prayer.

Every night
she has the same dream
of waking up beside you.

you don't see me.
it's as if I am hidden from you from behind a shroud
of distances, moments of past and deeper.
it's heavy in its mass I'd say because it keeps us far
it's thin and light in its appearance because it seems like there's nothing in-between
but we know
we see that we cannot see
we feel that we cannot feel anymore.

And I can't explain.

You are beautiful.
Beautiful and fragile. It's so easy to break you!
Since you cannot stop loving,
and not stop trusting,
and not stop trusting and loving one who actually
does not.
You fear and you pray, but you just let them leave
and then you stare
at the  
v        
   o          
                  i
              d
in your heart,
hoping it to fill and heal
by itself.

How's your dad?*
I feel like asking you
But I know why I shouldn't
talk.

You had told me that you
loved me. Now you don't want to
talk to me. That's okay, I guess,
because I know I am the reason.

But I really want to ask you
how your dad is, if you're coping well
with his disease, if you're fine.
If you think of me at all...

You
who inspire poetry through me with your distance
You
who tease me into pain
so much so that I
finally write this.

If calling you every sad word they ever invented
and slowly [deliberately] keeping to lick my scar
would make the process of forgetting any faster,
I would. But I don't think there's healing.

not now,
                                                                       not ever.

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.

Towards the road of sanity
Do I walk

And stumble across the fields

Of judgements

And fall, twice
Or thrice.
Then I fall
Uncountable times.

How you judge me,
Is your business.
But I make it mine.

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.

You are someone I'd like to forget. You are someone I am afraid to miss. Every freaking minute you are here-- in my mind-- who allowed you to be?
You are someone who took away my words. And my confidence. What did you give me by the way? You gave me what? Oh, feelings!

You granted me with feelings I never knew existed. These also include self-loathing and jealousy and madness. Yearning, the need to be good, to give the best (unoriginal, sadly, because I know my imperfections too well) version. Also of love. Of missing at nights and thinking during days and writing pages after pages without sharing with another soul. You taught me the art of being lonely.

I won't thank you for that. And I think people are stupid who say thank you for breaking me, I learnt from it. Or thank you for leaving me it gave me space. Hell, no! *******.