Don't shoot phrases like "it's true" or "that's right". So downright rude. So underwhelming. It's glaring with 'you're unconvincing and you're fine with that'. Respect words, period.
I want to be perpetually drunk and/or preoccupied so that I wouldn't have to think about missing someone, or finding out that I have no-one to miss, at all, so that I don't have to be conscious of people and their reactions towards my everything (because actually, I am rather afraid to lose them). I can feel every one drifting away to a place where I have no slight intention to go onshore. I wished I had no memory of memory at all. It's rather tiring.
I have so much anger in me that cannot be washed away by late-night whiskey, that I whip myself senseless even when no offence was taken by anyone, that a constant anxiety of my mediocrity which floods over this miniature seawall of mine, inundating my mind. I am a body of sadness that no-one bothers to comprehend, anymore. Everything is already reflected in my uncertain calligraphy, those lines of varying thickness, a corporate perfection.
Sometimes we don't really have to burn bridges.
Neither do we know how to mend them.
"It's too hard", they said.
"Why bother?", he said."
"Don't care", concluded she.
Pour whiskey into the tub of ice cream
pour whiskey into milo dead sea
pour whiskey into everything
a bed of you and me
are so out of touch with reality;
Midnight curfews and bowls swooshing with earl grey tea
is equally avant-garde and anarchy your apparel
fits me to a T,
Fed your whispers to the bumblebees.
Like a dandelion waking to the embrace of
I know we have secularized
You are in search of something,
Lost in my face-
a burning map in those ancient dialects you once
You thought they tasted little
I forgive your closet of limited vocabulary,
myself more caught in the engineering
Or what it was supposed to be.
You really have to know,
Everytime you speak
I want to get a lobotomy.
spelt my name
like a forgotten anniversary.
I’m pathetic at poetry I’m sad at rhymes,
I wished I was the one leaving.
I wished a leaf had more significance to their battered bodies marked by footprints so carelessly left behind by people who proclaimed "I care".
I wished I knew how to stop.
I wonder how many suicidal exes does it take for you to finally understand that it's not the dimples in their cheeks that you should be looking out for, but the pimples and blemishes vaguely hidden under powder and cream, the plasters over her arm screaming out for attention that you couldn't care less to give, and the invisible wounds slashed across her heart that only serves to remind the ever forgetful you that you are all human beings, extremely vulnerable, and always, always, needing love.
//We are no longer thirteen when you first met the boy that you thought was your world, or sixteen when you ran down the stairwell just when he kicked open his door, inviting. *** was never an option, but a choice.
///You need to understand that there is no Utopia in Ethiopia when humans are raging war on the pretext of peace
Or maybe it's just the myopic us because really, what measures happiness?
////"Happiness is a mediocre standard for a middle-class existence", but you know what?
*it's not okay to be ******* mediocre, but even worse to just be average.
Your Violet is Violent
Strength of your palm hot
on my cheeks
force like the delicate pressing of
in between pages of my heart that
is no longer filled with the obscurity of
White, blank, pages, grey with
Corroded memories of the
for what was to become.
Only the Settling of the
in the Australian Dark
your first intake of ****
The hark of lark,
Nursing your paper heart as I
as I wait with *Bated Breath.
he longed for a sip of her voice.
she is his eternal excitement.