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ash 2d
i knew it — something was here
within me, beside me, around me.
being woken up by fire isn't so surreal.

stepped down on the floor, felt it through my bare feet,
watched the skin glisten, brighten,
turn red and burn with such an intensity.

the heat was unbearable, so were the surroundings,
and yet — yet i found myself going down the lane of memories.

the pathway, a tunnel — almost like a water slide,
bleeding with my tears.
i fell and fell,
found it impossible to reconcile

with everything and the no-longer-supposed-to-matter things of my past.
felt watched, looked around,
remembered the concept of “nazar” in the background —
someone’s always watching, always picking, always hoping
for me to fall, to go down, to enter the lows and never get back up.

i hate the color orange. it just messes me up,
reminds me of all the times i hoped it wouldn’t come true.
i stand amidst the burning flames, watch their color blaze,
see it in my own eyes, stand tall watching myself smile.

am i sleeping? why do i sense no meaning?

the embers rising from the hearth could melt gold — make it blood.
i feel it through my veins and my bones, my muscles and my soles.
the lines are blurry — so is my vision.

i intended to wake myself up, but i can't stop sleeping.
i watch her — and him — and myself — and my dreams.

the final line loops back to the same question:
was i ever awake, or was this fire the irony to hire?
was i up at stake, all this while?
i did truly forget how to smile.

but then i inhabited,
held it close, hugged it.
tiny little sparks emerged from the cacophonies.
i dreamt with meaning, slept with a feeling.
the fire was an old friend —
the memory lane one lost, but remembered quite a lot.

i found a water jug at my side table.
the floor didn’t burn or sear.
they still watched,
but i had the evil eye pressed up close —
sleeping and dreaming of lying with my only 'gold'.
it sparkled, it shimmered, it brightened, and my heart glimmered.

perhaps i was never awake.
it wasn’t no nightmare.
i’m happy where i am.
wouldn’t want to bargain —
not here or anywhere.
do you call her golden? i'd call my own so. gold. too shiny- got many, still chose me whole? eh- i do not know anymore.
I used to chase dreams like helium balloons
Now I can't get out of bed till after noon
I have found my infliction is my own,
Sometimes, the seeds will never grow.

Battling disease while I cannot feel alive,
I miss the thrills of a cliff dare of a dive
Hitting the water from way up so high
Vision blurred from salty water in my eyes.

I feel that shadow that will bring me death,
every time I heave with my heavy breathes
I never learnt to battle demons past my wall
And the bricks they used to smash me over-all.

The people I've hurt are more demons in my head,
It won't be long until these tyres will lose the tread.
At the water's edge,
a discarded candy wrapper—
kiting upwards—flitting, flittering,
rising, rising,
falling, falling—
before dancing with the waves.

Waves lap their lullaby
along the shore,
then slip
back to the sea.
The shoreline breathing
with each wave's retreat,
this slow pulse
of land and sea.

In the distance
an orange sun melts—bleeding fire
into a waiting blue.
Minnows skip through the shallows—
sun and shade silvering the fish
in flashes.

A heron calls once.
Then silence,
as a lighthouse's white pulse
traces the rocky shore.

The candy wrapper brushes
against a figure,
a shape,
a shadow,
before floating away.

The figure turning—slowly, barely—
cradled in the rhythm of waves.
Gently pulled by the current,
softly pushed by the wind.

A seagull's feather falls—on pale skin.
Resting a moment.
Before cool water
washes it away.

Everything drifts…
bobbing,
bobbing,
slowly,
slowly,
out to the ocean.

And so it drifts—
this body,
this drowned man,
traveling slowly
to his new home.
(This is one of three companion pieces exploring the same story from different perspectives. "Drifting" tells the narrative, "The Taker" speaks from the ocean's voice, and "Man" captures the man's perspective.)
I do not mourn.
I take what comes—
feather, plastic,
skin.

I wrap them in salt —
and silence

The man did not ask
but he drifts now
with the others—

The fish, the feathers, the gods.
(This is one of three companion pieces exploring the same story from different perspectives. "Drifting" tells the narrative, "The Taker" speaks from the ocean's voice, and "Man" captures the man's perspective.)
Man
I feel
nothing now.

But once—
the sun was fire,
the water cool.

Once…
I heard the wind.
I felt a feather.
I swam.

Once, I fell in love.

But now just this drifting,
this drifting,
away.
(This is one of three companion pieces exploring the same story from different perspectives. "Drifting" tells the narrative, "The Taker" speaks from the ocean's voice, and "Man" captures the man's perspective.)
ash 6d
i drew a few hearts on my bedding
when it was bare without any sheets
perhaps i shouldn't have — it's bad manners,
what you're taught as a toddler to preach in.
but then i wondered —
who would ever notice?
i'd like to mention, the art of noticing.

i went to fetch some groceries.
while returning, without my headphones,
i took notice — and the world seemed to hold me in.
a woman was talking to her husband,
chatting about how the war drills cancelled.
two brothers were playing cricket —
i passed them by and heard the younger say,
"i'll learn to throw well in time if i grew bolder, yeah?"
the older one smiled —
a smile i've done many times — and chuckled.

it's not always the best place to be,
the world i mean — when you wish to fit in.
i'm almost always with my earphones — wired or the other ones,
trying to fade it out: the noise, the surreality, almost all of it.
because it's just so hard to seek the peace i intend to live with.
but then, on a few random days where i feel like the chosen,
everything feels a bit better —
like it's not that bad to be broken?

they function, yes they do —
but i notice the way they lag,
and sometimes choose just not to
show who they are.
so they wear masks:
ones that hide, ones they despise,
and sometimes don’t even realize
until it’s too late — and the mask melts into their skin.

i feel bad sometimes —
this empathy just carries my soul,
brings it to absorb every ounce of pain i can
from the one beside, and the ones i cross.

but on other days like tonight,
i walk, almost free.
there’s good winds, myself carefree.
there’s a lot of work pending —
i won’t deny i’m procrastinating.
but for once i smile,
and i smile at the thought of myself smiling —
for no cause, probably seeming delusional
to the one in passing.

but how do i tell them the moon’s following,
and there’s the hint of wet mud after the evening shower —
the sensation filling up my blood —
and it’s nice for once, easy to exist,
almost easier to fit in.

my thoughts are like string lights,
almost always entangled together.
not one single shines bright —
but sometimes they glow,
like when i'm hit with a current of emotions.
they glow bright, almost enchanting —
and on nights i'm able to sort,
sort through the flickering ones,
the ones that died, and the ones that hold the right light,
i pour them out, let the candle-like wax from my brain transcribe
words and feelings into the right imagery,
hoping it'll make sense by the time i'm done with it.
and this right here is quite one of the examples
of same cord of fairy lights
(i'm to believe i might be magical in all my might).

but then i look around
and see the way they look in return —
and even though i stand out,
stand out in a way the odd one does
in the system of evens —
it’s not the best thing, not the flashiest.

but i continue to walk
with a silent acceptance.
maybe the world is like this.
sometimes i notice the good,
often the bad,
mostly the in-between.

and the greys are a nice position to be in
when the extremes have taken you and thrown you.
for not all magnets hold together —
the like ones just never really go well together.

we're all simply misfits —
and yet the word holds the fits.
so i guess in the end,
we all really do miss the irony of it.
i'll have to rethink, got another to write on and about.
This room was taught to hold its breath,
When I return through sideways doors.
It never asks for confessions or depth—
Just witnesses how silence feels as thorns.

The world outside is daytime hinged.
But my world was stitched in neon dusk.
A phantom fang lives deep within
And bites each time I build my trust.

I move in patterns, accidentally bound—
In rituals of coping that lasted too long.
The hours know where I'll be found—
Beside myself, unwillingly wrong.

The ***** laundry I clean but don't.
A second shadow nailed at my heel.
The lamp that needs a light disagrees.
Between being fake and being who I feel.

I keep it clean—or clean enough—
My eyes are dry; my voice is clear.
My morbid truth, dressed in common fluff.
Always finds a way to disappear.

The soul—if that’s still something I hold—
Is brined in need, like selfish sin.
This isn’t wanted or considered bold.
  It's survival masquerading as skin.

I never meant to dig this much,
My lack of harmony buried in song.
But a body that's balanced upon a crutch
Is still a body—just not as strong.

I’ve made a friend with myself detached,
Though he eats a lot more than he feeds.
Whispers like he knows he's an accident.
This teaches me, what my own silence means

The habits aren't even the worst of me—
It’s what remains when they're gone.
The way my lungs choose not to breath.
Choosing not to breathe all on their own.

So, I exist in the lowercase,
Half-typed and never quite complete.
But even glitches need their place—
So here I am, on loop. On repeat…
ash May 24
there’s something akin to nuts and bolts in my heart, i think.
sometimes i wonder if it’s made out of stone,
or if it’s a machine.

feelings are messy —
and even though the world gave them names,
i can’t match the descriptions,
so i just rename.

something within sometimes pinches too hard.
i’m left wincing,
rubbing at my chest
as if it’ll soothe my past.

i intend to move on — that, i do —
but i can’t put it into words,
can’t explain why i am just because.

"i wasn’t always like this" —
but this?
i don’t know which version of me i speak of.

i’m worried.
deathly worried, more so.
but i just want to keep existing,
’cause —

what if there’s someone out there
willing to oil up these corkscrews in my brain,
have it speak to my heart,
make it make me speak —
and spell it all out?

i intend to find a love.
a mate.
’cause if i was born with something that intends to hurt,
i can’t believe
i was born without someone
who intends to heal
and aid.
like the cinnamon girl by lana del rey
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