where is all
the compassion?

the empathy?

oh, humanity—

what a disaster.
left me
dumbstruck.

the world’s
spiraling faster
and faster

into a freefall
of selfishness
and carelessness.

we’re supposed
to move forward—
so why’s everyone
racing back
in time?

do you like
what you’ve become?

do you even
remember
what it’s like
to feel
something?

it’s dumb luck
expecting people
to wake up

when they’re
already dead
inside.

i can’t believe it—
they’re so
hollow.

but i won’t be
the one to follow,
won’t fall
in line.

all it takes
is a little compassion.

a little
understanding.

so next time
you open your mouth—

be kind.

you are broken
shattered
lost

i know that the memory
of what you used to be
is fading

how will you ever
put yourself back together again?
how will you ever
find your home?

here is what i have done:

take the jagged pieces
of your broken being,
*and turn yourself into a mosaic

i don't like being stared at,
or glorified,
or looked at like i'm just a showpiece—
almost like a mannequin?
like i'm supposed to do your bidding,
or abide by your ideals.

i don't like being looked at
the way one would look—
when they're judging you for the smallest of hook,
the tiniest of details.
no, you're just aggravating—
there's nothing romantic about that stare.

kinda like—
the difference between being seen
and just looked at on the surface.
what is wrong with my brain,
why can't you seem to judge that?

i wouldn't despise it
if you were to give me the longing glances,
or the ones filled with care,
the kind where i know
they wouldn’t just drift top to bottom—
like fingers on a shiny sphere.

don't objectify me.
i know my worth,
even though i forget it sometimes.
it's a vulnerability
i intend to show.

i’m not the prettiest—
that still doesn't give you the right to know.
i hold the discomfort,
i hold my identity.
feels like shattering,
the moment a wrong glance or a finger
touches any part of my skin.

it's complex.
i don't think you'll understand it.
i'm a human—
not a model,
not an art piece
held up for judging.

you know they’d look at the one you love
the way you do at me right now,
when i tend to swerve.
the severity of it— you wouldn’t know.
what it's like to be criticised,
judged,
given looks everywhere you go.

i still don't understand
why i face them.
more than half come from lust,
and barely a few from the place of love.

i don't shake hands,
afraid of what i’ll touch,
what you’ll feel—
and later think about.
god, i shiver at the mere thought.
too much.

i could be worshipped,
held by the right hands,
but the wrong eyes,
and the wrong views—
they almost always
**** up this land.

can't walk,
can't talk,
can't laugh,
can't show.

if i'm to exist like a stone,
why can't i hurl back
and simply clone
all that you’ve done
and all that you’ve said?

i've got those stares creeping up my skin,
like slithering worms underneath my shin,
smothering me from the inside, like being smoldered in heat.
i feel like i might melt, or worse, fade away into nothing.
perhaps it wouldn't be so bad of a choice, if i'm to disappear.
for it is this feeling that sears, within and carries a scream.
sheer mockery, provided the serenity with which you return that gaze.
i hate you, i hate each one of you that's made me feel bare,
and not the way i'd want to be emotionally with the one whom i hold tender,
but the way— the way— the way—

oh please, let me just disappear.

don’t look at me
if you only wish
to see me as an object.

just a simple question,
dressed as a metaphor —

where do i get buried
when i can barely breathe on this earth?
kind of like a suffocation so deep,
filling my very being —
in my veins.
oh, i feel so weak.

invisible cuts bleed,
a kind of self-punishment.
spent so long handing out pieces of myself
like fragile offerings
to daily otherworldly deities —
hoping to provide
even an inch of comfort
that i usually needed.

was it ever enough?

yet called names, looked at in strange ways —
speculated every moment,
like a statue in an odd place.
as if they see through it all —
all the façade
of being high up on the clouds.

humorous, it shall be,
if they were to see
the stricken sounds i make —
grief-filled,
and vowing to never
ever let a pair of hands
hold my heart again.

this bleeds.
aches so tenderly —
like trying to whisper through a scream,
like trying to write to a hollow
that doesn't seem to cease,
like an overflowing cannon
that just never really spills.

will this be seen
as that quiet, raw, untamed beauty?
beast-like,
trying to hold it
within the grasp of stiff hands?

have they felt a little less alone?
perhaps in my company —
for i wouldn't want them to go
into the same feelings
of never being heeded to.

i wished they'd see,
but i'm walked all over through.

can't help it —
yeah, i know.
always left wondering:
why can't i comfort
with words
as they're meant to?

they feel like smoke and silence —
barely hard to describe
or to put down.
the heaviness
heaves a sigh
every time i spread my arms
a bit around.

maybe connections are hard.
maybe i should be quieter.

speaking has never helped —
perhaps i should tie
my hands,
my feet,
my mouth —

and vanish?
disappear?
become a ghost without a heartbeat —
because i haven’t really
been living either.

will you listen to the echoes
of these voices —
and the way they sound
in the night,
and when the sun dawns,
and the skies align?

will you see?
will you listen
to me?

I caught the deep inky blue of it
in bottles
labeled 'pleasing'
and set them on a shelf
next to bowls full of tears
and baskets full of unwanted memories.
It was cold
aching like limbs in the winter
sip it,
let the ice unfurl,
bitter on your tongue,
grief catching
in your throat
before settling into the pit
of your stomach,
like a swallowed apple seed.
one day the winds came
knocking all of the bottles down
and all around in the broken air,
ruptured by the fragmented glass,
screams - starved and rising
screams shattering bone
screams - ringing
wild and ragged
at last.

i imagine people
bundled up in grief
of words that they have carried over years—
of things that could not become theirs
of the beings they could have been,
had the world been a bit easier

pain, so pretty

i see them as bundles,
carrying ropes twisted around their guts,
visibly being mocked by all those
who roam light and agile in their lives
the ones adding to that burden

the grief-added mind
carries us so drifted and quick
almost floating through life
but what of the drowning
that this heart undergoes

having shattered so many times,
it has lost all the hopes
and so it gets filled up to the brim
leaks out, seeps into—
and the skin so tender and bruised,
everything cuts a little too deep

sleep is a cacophony

i think i peeked inside the wiring of my brain
for a couple of seconds today
you know it is like—
there is a hole at the very centre
that has a very solid boundary
the outer layer has got hooks and daggers
and things pinned and across

but what is the worst
is the chains and ropes surrounding it
holding that part in the very middle,
at the very centre
and every time they twist and pull,
it does not hurt
but the ache goes a bit numb

and it feels so numb
that sometimes i want to
drown in burning water,
stand under the coldest shower,
eat molten lava,
or consume ice until my mouth burns
just to feel something—at the very least

and it has existed forever
but on days that are hard
it gets ugly
sears in its loneliness
like a deep hollow
resounding with the echoes
of a whale in the ocean

pain so beautiful
so undeterred, unspoken
a telltale so enchanting
it brings you in, soaks you deep
leaves you ragged,
with nothing to sleep with
except for constant nightmares
or even worse—
the dull ache in your existence

yet pain so pretty
because it makes you feel.

because to be honest,
i did not know where to start
no beginning, then how could it end
what do you mean pain is constant?
but when it heightens,
something in my brain hits just right
and i turn into the next be-****** poet

this time it is a mess of stuff—
like things piled up in the corner of your room
and overlooked for long enough
except one day you are trying to find something in them,
sort of like something to balance you
but instead it triggers you
and you realise you are just lost

it outs me,
and puts me in a spot
one that i oh-so
despise to talk about

I’m (not) okay
and I’m (not) alright
My brain’s full of static
and my heart’s full of fright

I’m (not) okay
and feeling a little lonely
I don’t know how to fix it
I wish someone would hold me

I’m (not) okay
Maybe I will never be
Why am I like this?
What’s wrong with me?

I’m (not) okay
and I cried for an hour
over a broken fingernail
and I refuse to shower

I’m (not) okay
and I’m pulling out my hair
Now I’m bald and ugly
More fuel for the despair

I’m not okay
and I think I need help
I’ll go kicking and screaming
but I can’t do it by myself.

Unlit Hours

Late nights—
they’re the worst for me,
bringing out the worst in me.
Mind racing,
like it hurts to think.
Not a moment of peace—
fighting myself just for a second.

Fighting peace like—
there is no hope.

I wish I could help,
but it’s hard—
when I hate myself.
Can’t stand who I am.
Lately,
the only relief I find
is in causing—

more pain,
more defeat.

These late nights,
they make me feel
like I’m not worth it.
When I get love,
I throw it away—
feeling undeserving.

Cold, alone, I shiver
at the thought
that night is coming.
It knows how to find me.

Dark thoughts consume me—
every night.

I don’t want to die,
I just want relief.
But I can’t have it.

I’m a broken record—
but I let it play.
I’m used to this feeling.
Is this what I was meant to be?
How I was meant to feel?

Every morning, it’s me—
looking through the glass,
waking up in this body—
wanting to throw it away.
I sell myself lies
that things are getting better...

and I still buy them.
But they’re running out of stock.

Knee-deep
in the darkness that I made—
of my own actions.
The night controls me,
makes me feel worthless,
hopeless—
I hate myself.

Like there’s no daylight in sight.