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Meenu Syriac Jan 27
When you’ve been with someone you love for a while
They leave these marks on you
Invisible, but seared onto your skin, your brain, your heart
Try as hard as you can, to wash or scrub it away
The truth is that they’re here to stay.
When you’ve been with someone you loved for a while
When you’ve breathed the same air, shared the same space,
Dreamed and lived and cried together,
Try as hard as you can, to break away
These memories are here to stay.
When you lose someone you love,
In the cruel ways this universe toys around with our lives,
How do you breathe,
How do you exist,
How do you tell yourself that you’ll become whole again,
That you’ll reminisce and smile
And not remember and cry and cry and cry?
I haven't written anything in a very long time. I still come on here time to time, to try and remember the girl I used to be while reading the poems I used to write. Some days, I miss her.
Meenu Syriac Jul 2019
I look at her,
her sad eyes and juvenile wrinkles.
A face riddled with scars and red bumps,
interweaved with healed and unhealed flesh.
I wish I didn't care about what I see in the mirror.

I wish I didn't care about how my skin feels against my fingertips,
or what I see when I search for my reflection.

They talk about loving yourself
but how can I,
when all I see is a hideous monster?
I know,
I know.
There are sorrows much painful,
woes more pertinent than mine.
But how do I tell my mind to stop crucifying itself?

How do I diffuse these electrical impulses,
from my eyes to my brain,
carrying an image of my face and interpreting it as
unnatural,
ugly,
pitiful?

I wish I didn't spend so much time,
trying to wash this dirt off me,
trying to pick and probe at the scabs,
when I know it's a part of me,
arising from me.

How do I stop myself from judging my worth
as the sum of these scars
that lie skin deep?
Meenu Syriac Oct 2017
Of nights spent awake, blank pages, empty thoughts.
Of dreams misconstrued, eyes wide open, staring at the wall.
Fear holds me prisoner, silence grips me tighter.
Words were my ally, now they have failed me too.

Sundays spent in the dark, probing memories,
Pleading to be left untouched.
Of hurt and regret, my constant companions,
Once upon a time, helped me write songs for my broken heart.

Of the moon and the stars,
The serene night sky,
Back when I could serenade them endless,
Now I greet them with empty hands.

Of days when words spilled at the brim of my chalice,
Now parched and dry, soulless and wary.
Aye, my misgivings keep me company,
As I ironically write an ode to my writer's block.
©Meenu Syriac
Meenu Syriac Oct 2017
I'll paint my skin black
In every spot, in every crack
When a happy moment
Was tainted by a touch that lingered far too long.
All those days under a burning sun,
Running, hiding, from eyes that incessantly follow
Looking over my shoulder, with feet that fumble,
Praying not to fall,
Quickly dashing down a hallway,
Hoping four walls of a home will keep me secure.
As my breathless body is reduced
To a mere statue made of stone,
You run your gnarly fingers over my decaying flesh and bones.
“Smile a little more”, “Here,see what I've got”-
I cower in fear, powerless,
And they wonder why I don't speak out soon.
So instead, I'll pen this down
To stop myself from counting,
Every memory seared into my brain,
Every time I've felt less human,
Every time I've felt disgraced.
Maybe tomorrow, I won't wake up screaming.
©Meenu Syriac
Meenu Syriac Aug 2017
I want to meet you between the pages of a book you can't put down
Maybe under the stars on a night as lovely as this one.
Create dreams that you can never dare to forget
Stir hearts with great stories of lovers lost at war.
Paint poetry with colours that are ineffable, indescribable
Lock lips at dawn and then at dusk.
I want to walk on a bed of exquisite flowers
Touch the skies and feel the earth.
But here I'll lay, among my thoughts and words
Maybe tomorrow I'll give reality a chance to impress.
© Meenu Syriac
Meenu Syriac Jul 2017
A solitary house stands steady against the howling winds deep in a long forgotten forest. A lonely figure sits inside, hunched over a book, with a pen in hand. Gently rocking to and fro, the mind pacing back and forth, her heart bleeds onto empty pages, scripting a story in a bright crimson hue, slowly taming every wayward thought.

With incessant scribbling, the rebel of a silent night, she tears into the paper with the strength of a lion's jaw. The organized chaos in her head, breaks out like sweat on a blank page. Take note, she dances ethereally between her web of words, lightly treading between fire and ice.

She purges herself in the deepest realms her words can take her to, traversing scapes of wary prose that barely sparks a fire, eloping from a conference of cluttered minds.
©Meenu Syriac
Meenu Syriac Jul 2017
Days on end I have seen you hurt,
Waging battles alone, against the world.
Poised, gentle, barely holding it in.
Fiery, brave, but scared and tainted.

I come closer, you fly further.
My fingers reach out, you slip away,
Forever running,
Forever hiding.
I realise you don't need me
But it breaks my heart not to stay.

Some days I dream of tearing down your walls,
Maybe break open a window into your soul.
"Let me in", I say, "Let me hold you even if the pain resents."
"How can I let you love me", she says, "when I'm only learning how to love myself?"
© Meenu Syriac
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