Mistakes have been made,
and I'm not sure how to fix them.
I try my hardest to be normal,
and yet I'm still condemned.

They yell
                            yell
                                                            YELL.

And I can't escape
the torture that they create.

There’s a knocking that I hear each morning,
a knock both a visitor and warning,
mistakes that invite themselves to my door,
mistakes that are not welcome anymore.

It’s not fear that makes me keep them outside,
nor the fatigue of further wounded pride.
I’ve learned enough what lies beyond my door.
It’s those mistakes I don’t need anymore.

Although I still don’t live life blamelessly,
I prefer to make mistakes namelessly.
Don’t package them and send them to my door
with my name on the label anymore.

It’s not that I should err and let it slide,
but I’ll never be perfect, though I’ve tried.
I know the sin that coucheth at my door.
I don’t need to bear their mark anymore.

At the end of the day,
I was meant to fall apart.
I cared for the one
who kept breaking my heart.

At the end of the night
I was meant to be awake.
I only cared for the one,
that was my only mistake.

At the end of the day
I was meant to be alone.
I cried for the one
whose heart was a stone.

At the end of the night
I was meant to die.
I believed in the truth
but the truth was a lie.  


-Paras Bajaj #PoetrybyParas
Instagram : @mr.parasbajaj

my mistakes have been haunting me
they begin to cover me like a rain storm
when i've forgotten my umbrella
and i can't find my car keys while digging in
the bottom of my leather purse
its drowning me
all over
but i can still breathe

Yes, I

Pitter patter
On a bitter pattern
Of broken memories that I chitter chat about with little matter

And according to the middle latter statement

I'm a little out of place when
I reminisce about that nasty past

That mask... THAT mask.

The one that covered the area where my face belongs


Which matched PERFECTLY with the shoes I would step in **** with

Telling myself:
"My socks are still clean"

Thinking I could use more chemicals than a Sheen to be Pristine
But that's just artificial heat from a blanket with no seams..

I try to tear apart this quilt
Threaded with empty promises in vain

Inside veins that don't pump blood
They pump shame

I'll never be wrapped in this again..

Covered in unfamiliar skin
Wearing a questionable grin

When in the hell did I begin this transformation?

Self surgery.

Murdering false idols!

******* the very fabric of entertainment.

(Yes I can be a ****)

But I rock an S on my chest over the D..

I'm so sick

My thoughts are so vile
They will leave you ill on your lying lips

There is no use in trying to switch
The shattered reality you now have as a dying wish