The one who loves the depressive mind
Commits to smites; the wary waltz he gaits
Arresting all pride he denies he's blind
Yet the poison nectar; cures and claims his fate

A fate that by his hands has hewed
A fate where he is the *exclude

Has it arrived?
Why, why hasn't it?
The hands that run this place
***** and test my spirit.

Oh but I am patient,
but stand not to suffer.
These bullies,
they will hear from darling Mother.

Mother will not be charmed
by this, this
hair on my chin.
How will she hope to recognize
her little Monkey kin?

Where is the razor promised?
She will be here quite soon.
I scraped and clawed barbarously, but
my nails aren't meant to prune.

Equanimity.
Little Monkey, breathe.
Allay the palpitations
and the grinding of your teeth.

Count. 1, 2, 9, 4.
In.
Or was it 1, 2, 4, 9?
Out.
Oh, Mother says it's not vital.
I'm sure she wouldn't mind.

Wipe your chin off of blood.
Good.
And bite your nails off too.
You are, no, I - am patient -
until the debt is due.

-

Like that kid, what was he called?
John? Jim? An arrant name I'm sure.
He hissed and said he'd tell on me,
for eating green manure.

He ran -
that poor little Penguin.
What Mother bestowed to Monkey,
his did not bequeath to him.

A splintered piece of fence in hand
- why is the razor not here yet -
A fall, a squeal, he could not defend.
Cowgirl, concede, plead, then stab.

Prying open a chicken's beak
was cleaner than plucking out his tongue.
This Jack? Joe? This brown-eyed snitch,
thought he'd won because he's young.

I ejected into his open mouth - no loss,
to assure my secret stayed unleashed -
and I never quite liked brown manure,
unlike Mother's eyes - a jade-green finish.

The Penguin family - an unexpected crowd.
All of them - mother, father, and two other browns.
They all screamed and the father lunged, but -
penguins can never beat Monkey on ground.

Each one felled by fence's tip.
1, 2... well the father was elephant-big.
And the others combined would make one more.
So two Elephants by Monkey's score.

-

My fingers with nails freshly removed,
evoke an image of that wooden stake.
Dripping and wafting - suspicious acerbity...
...I think she's here! 1, 2, 9, 8...

Blood-grimed hands no longer throbbing,
for it's all right now, dear Mother's coming.
She will kiss you and speak with her peridot eyes,
sing lullabies and... Where is my Mother!?

You bullies promised me Mother was coming.
Liars! Are you hiding her from me? Mommy!!
Monkey was good and waited meekly for you.
You thieves and brown-eyes, what did you do?!
And where are you taking me, if not to see her?
No I don't want to sleep, I want a moment with her!
Count your debts
- all of you -
for I have a patient nature.
You will all pay - when I get my promised razor.

Hope
is a benchwarmer,
a mere spectator-
wistful as the game tarries,
useless as a goal jockey.

Whence the saint felt himself
Aggrieved by the sinuous blight
His apostles stood meek
Bequeathed off consensus malign
And its weight so foreboding
His shoulders denied

Ever so slight

And the ***** cursed her bane
As inimical smites bore her brain
She spoke in a slur
"Tug on my nape as you pierce me this night,
So a passage may emerge
From this face you despised"

*Ever so slight

I feel terrible. I am unsure if it is because of my recently failed relationship. But I'm sure it is a contributing factor. And for the fact that I get extremely affected by what affects my loved ones.

She suffers from bipolar disorder. Before I knew her, I never thought much about the illness. Like many others, I shrugged it off as 'mood swings'. As if its name alone explains the entirety of its severity.

Bipolar disorder is a monster. A thief.
And potentially a killer.

It tramples on your bed when you try to sleep.
It takes when you have nothing left to give.
It convinces you that your struggles are futile
and therefore your fate to be ***** by it.

Growing up, we had oppressive childhoods and felt caged by our country's culture of - study, career, ****, die.
We needed to feed our minds with more.
We needed select experiences that gave us euphoria and stopped
only when we could no longer
describe our emotions with words.

She was a creative mind. A spiritual poet whose aspirations lie in understanding the human condition. I remembered I was an aspiring musician turned designer, hoping to create works that could stir another's inner being. We had similar beginnings (It was as thus we were attracted to one another in the first place. We were creative people who did not fit into this realm of being a cog in the wheel).

But while she fully embraced her anguish and fought the circumstances,
I fully embraced the circumstances and fought the anguish.

Unlike her, I did not suffer largely because I have managed to disconnect myself from my emotions. I suppressed them all in a box and would never check its contents. And it has dulled me.

I was just another creature before I knew it.
I shelved my dreams to conform to the norm.
I lost my individuality and became
less disappointed by the system.
I hardly felt joy as a result,
but at the very least,
I could function.

And hence when we first met, while we believed we were two peas of a pod, we were starkly different people.

Our principles differed.
Our beliefs collided.
Our outlook on life were polar.
And these only became apparent
after all the sweetness withered.

We were toxic to one another.

As our differences and the environment were sapping her vitality,
she had to leave the relationship in order to retain her sanity;
while I smiled and wished her all the best
in denial.

I could not bring myself to embrace the pain openly. Partly because I loved her dearly and did not want to hurt her any further. And partly because I was afraid of what demons would surface from my box if I were to lift its lid.

But the box was no longer big enough to house them. With my ex-girlfriend's own fight as a catalyst, I started recounting the steps to how I became what I was today. Slowly, they were seeping through the cracks.

I began questioning why I was working
a job that I had no passion for.
Why I was willing to fall into debt so that I can pay
for an apartment in a country I had no love for.
Why I indulge in activities that further dull my mind;
The pain of my girlfriend leaving me did not make me wish to take my life.
But this did.

These long unattended sentiments began dusting themselves off and started becoming clearer.

They began tearing at my adopted self.
The two sides are scraping and stealing as I speak.
I was lost.
What then is existence now?

I have no idea who I am.
I have to find myself before death
finds me.

Cower and kiss the bent knees.
Hug them close, find reprieve —
the closest inkling of warmth
by the cold sulfur springs.

Clench the keys to guard the soul
as the skin hardens with stone.
The wafts of fumes asphyxiate;
and sobbing turned to coal.

The temples throb in rhythm,
pictures a mere stiff necktie.
I lull and sigh in compliance,
as I bleed out and dry.

The self-centered thief
It takes when you have nothing to give
Then tramples on your bed

It creeps its way into your head
And restrains your arms then hoards each leg
You're forced to listen and wait

Its caress much like a spider's walk
It sears and burns, your rage pours forth
All while your loved ones vacate

Blaming you and your struggling might
Its breath miasmic, past its venomous bite
It ends by ****** your fate

An indication.
Cotton mouth and a binding knot to the temple.
Warm exhales give reason to suspect
my tenure over this body fetal.

A reminder.
Halation and smothering darkness in the enclosure.
Crusted squints summon the gall to beg
my limbs to remember their master.

A disturbance.
Musky stench and fingers webbed to slime and yarn.
An arduous tug suggests a young female
gone for hours by the heat of her tongue.

The appeasement.
Correlation and tracing mind maps to its chorus.
A restful sigh confirms my furtive habit
of decapitating the women I love.

"Finally decided to do your hair for once."
"Chris, thank you, but let's focus on the dance."
"With this awful song?.. 2, 3, and hup!"
"We walked the aisle to this.. do try to keep up."
"Now now Jayne, that was probably ages ago."
"Oh, then explain why first anniversary's tomorrow."
"Ahem, now lunge, slowly, 4, embrace me."
"Can I ask one question? Why the hell did we marry?"
"That's two - you really should work on your spending."
"Sniff, and you should spend much more on washing."
"Judge Michel looks concerned, would you stop being upset."
"But I'm the one smiling, with great hair I might add."
"Steady, and land.. Yes speaking of which, why now?"
"I'm leaving you for Michel.. do not forget to bow."

Littered with gravel —
a path diminished.
A draft depriving
my nature as such.

Barked giants shadowing,
luring out doubt.
No difference distinct since
I never look up.

But lo, a lark,
staring back at me.
Any bid to steal glances
were met by peeps.

We amused and laughed,
flattered in bursts.
If this is truly a trick, then
God deserves my curse.

Her hair sweeps the gravel.
Her voice shoos the shadows.
Her light dries my eyes
along with the puddle
in which she resides.

I think of us beside each other,
our hands weaved carelessly,
or how you hug my arm near,
and bury your face and inhale heavily.

The crowded paths through the mall
gave our feet room to be sprightly,
or the small frame you adorn
lugging my weight through the alleys.

Our hectic workdays pressure high,
but topple by our grit for the weekends.
For in those few hours that slip by,
we recall again our source of strength.

I remember how your lips purse,
how your arms reach past my face -
how your nose seeks and finds mine,
and how your voice holds my gaze.

And how our arms latch like vines,
as we stretch on sheets with minds undressed,
while we bask in each and every line,
and take to realms our words suggest.

who needs a home when coin is scarce,
who needs money when the path remains hazy,
who needs directions when a loved one ails,
who needs love when the roof is imaginary.

She exists,
rooted in beauty.
The leading role —
her rightful seat.
A grey fragility
with red honours.
The leading role,
if not for kindness deep.

Her fingers —
gaunt and frail.
By will she guides,
by charming coax;
persuades the Sun
for those beneath.
By will she guides
the giants to lead.

The stage grips
with its demands.
She gifts herself
in gracious yield.
Reds all shared
with those who'll take.
She gifts herself
until nothing's left.

A lowly shrub
for towers to have.
An oblivious actor,
afraid to dream.
Bruised grey bark
but tall within.
An oblivious actor,
in hand — a single script.

It starts with a frown,
she and I ー a discovery.
Every exchange after, found
with more frowns and
peeking teeth.

Strange, this feeling ー
you desiderate
and envy,
but it finds you only
if you'll look away.

It latches and bubbles:
Of cool raindrops on concrete pavements,
bare feet and no umbrellas allowed.

So like the rain, I dive.

Inimitable; Intrepid.
What is poison
if the antidote is held?
Why fear the fall
when such heights are reached?





But dear Assuagement of the dive,
meet the pavement of life.

The miasmic tension
and
polar principles
and
frangible hearts
reduced to glass shards-
and feet still bare.


The once melodic hums
now tearing sounds
that pierce and vilify
reason.

The once curious frowns
now baring fangs
that warp and end
beauty.

If only I knew...


Oh dear poisonous nectar,
please,

cure and claim my fate.

By each callous day, waking neglects colour.
My eyes see black - pitched, vast and endless.
Every step I earn, learns a new monster.
My scabs and tears, each felt by their fingers.

The spirit I own, chafed thin breath by breath.
The air that we share - a sharp yoke on my back.
"The light's just ahead", says its voice abreast.
If not my drowning sight, my feet would have led.

When I pen, what really is the intent.
To answer a question or delve in sophistry;
to express the self or churn a story?

Most likely,
a surgical act to extract the knives lodged in the chest.
A walk to meet a lover, when the legs do not answer.
A savage, deafening scream that only I can hear.
An arduously extracted knife, pushed back through the chest.

The pen is my voice hoarse, a pitch I cannot reach.
It is total silence, less the pummelling waves.
It is my eyes closed, where logic makes sense.
But it is no map, but a maze, where I lose my hands.

*It is across my back, a different dimension.
Where the right is sullied with nothing available.
It is wrought and taut in every direction.
A lost heart, a lost soul, a lost art, a lost woe.

This M is a ****, treat it with needle and thread.
This K is a sigh, cage its noise and beware.
This C is a life, what burdens will he bear?
This I is a lie, why should anyone care.

I give and I write. One and the same.
A grave and thimble to protect my faith.
A loathing and swelling to numb the brain.
A mangled lie, as always, I go away.

You asked,
"What if my Sunday has passed?
That the week was all I had,
and I messed it up so bad."

And in cognition,
I ungripped my neck.
I saw a counterpart — I was not the only one.

I knew how it was, to dangle by the jagged pier.
And you knew how it was to choke by disregard,
that floating was impossible with a punctured heart.

When each door meant nothing —
used and crossed out in your likeness.
Where I waited for the Sun,
but my windows stay boarded up.

You scraped bottom until my first word fell.

I said,
"I am a prisoner. And I am the prison."
You said,
"I am a cage, with nothing breathing inside."

I was alone. And you were alone.
And then we were alone together.

You unpicked my fearful lips,
for my throated echoes.
And I reminded you that you
are the reason that beauty exists.

Of the endless books we read,
Auster, Hesse, McCullers, Graves,
we still found ourselves
written on the same page.

Our tattoos were marked like scars —
another hopeless attempt
to speak with ink.
Why not mar the skin,
if we lose only grace?
I used to believe perfection was false,
for I had never seen your face.

You pointed out
my large feminine hands.
Then with your modest fingers,
you screened the chuckles.
And all I pictured from that endearing sight —
my effeminate hands, sheltering yours that frigid night.

No longer living in a future that was all talk.
No longer imperfect — for our scars sat perfect with.

We found Sunday.

I am not alone. And you are not alone.
And we are never alone together.

Is it not strange,
how every time,
I utter your name,
I forget mine?

Sleep is not possible
When you are already
Dreaming awake

unprepared;
unforeseen;
red blossoms from her head.

disarray;
disbelief;
his wails fail to persuade.

denying;
lamenting;
not one goodbye is made.

descending-
ruthlessly;
the edge of sundown dictates.

An old matron came by the billet dead in the night.
My stares did not seem to distract her; how curious -
how her gown remained at rest as she pulled nearer;
that she knew her purpose, dignified, almost vicious.

Then right across from me, she draped upon a seat;
her gown gently quivered like the bell of a jellyfish.
Now I observed her face, the frown she wore, and lost count
of all the thin shadows the starlight chose to stitch.

Her nose then descended to usher two full moons bright,
that pierced my breath and froze time in that moment.
The clock slurred and slept, and left me pining for its ticks,
while I heard her speak, clear white but also solemn.

"Why do you judge?" An unforgiving probe, more so
for it was confusing and wrought topfull with questions.
"Surely it is to make a choice" - I exhaled it like a criminal,
"So I make fewer mistakes" - an unmistakable confession.

A pause, no reaction. Yet I heard a chaotic disapproval
drumming when I swallowed - surely my heart's doing.
Her head crept forth, and polluted, "What did you mean
when you say, 'My wings, they do not branch - they ruin'?"