Isn't it incessant!?
That tick tick ticking within the walls of my skull.
It will count me down, entrap me in my own noise,
So thunderous!
And I can only pray for release,
Into dullness.

Why must my tired pupils notice everything!?
They rebell against me, despite my pleas to sheen over,
Ignore,
Shut tight and,
Let peace wash me away!

Together, they assault me with experience,
And I am shoved in a wedge of darkness,
To beg for tranquility in vain.

The constant thoughts turning over,
And eyes which take in light...
This proof that I am living,
It is my agony.

this simple concept,
can bring clarity to all
or it can sting like a bee.

so simple in nature,
yet so hard to deliver.
what a mystery.

He is the sinner, the lover, the truth I knew
He is the right and wrong combined
I want to write till the ink in my pen dries
Drown in his arms... left abandoned without saving
Drown in safety, peace, in forbidden dreams.

Say my name 
Wipe my tears 
kiss my thoughts 
Leave me hanging wishing for more 

Leave me to drown
Disapear between yours arms
Between the blurred lines
Get lost in vagueness never defined

The worst sight I can see is a blank page;
the white sheet void of any substance but unspoken words,
because these words seem to drown me
and poison my lips with an itch
that echoes through my fingertips.
There's no space to hear
and there's no sounds to see,
and yet this is when everything fits.
It's like a driving force, an ache, and a pain.
Its hurts and stabs and wails to be satisfied,
but when it is it smiles and swims and flies.
It moves with the rhythm of my heart,
it doesn't fill the space but how can it fill itself.
Despite the melancholy feeling it can leave me with,
there's something quite therapeutic in
the swish and sprint of the pen as it glides past.
A whirlwind of calamities.
But good calamities.
I pick up the pen.
I am breathing and suffocating all at once
and its like opening your eyes for the first time.
A whoosh of self-confidence injects itself into my veins
and seeps through my scalp.
There's no other point in time,
except for when the letters sing,
that I feel so true,
and so wholly me.
It is in this moment that my head
is sitting on a roundabout
and laying on the grass underneath a willow tree.
What is that life that explodes onto the trees beneath my hands?
Its a vibrant detonation of every colour imaginable,
every thought thinkable,
and every life liveable.
Nothing and everything is written.
The pen slips from my grasp.
Its spell is over.
Now, I feel alone.

-Anisah Mariah

At 5, her smile was bright,
Which soon burned out like a fading light.
Made some friends, lost some more,
Tried being happy with a heart so sore.

At 13, she caked her face,
To fit in a world which was a maze,
Was called a ***** for trying hard,
Pierced her heart like a game of dart.

At 17, she found a love,
Thought she found a pure white dove.
Love was lust and shattered her,
He left her like a toy mere.

At 21, everyday she cried,
She ain't living, she just survived.
Wore a white gown, took a piece of blade,
Soon the white gown whole turned to red.