are people born broken
that's what I ask myself

sure, there are always people
who have been traumatized
who have been beaten down
and turned into monsters
to the point of no return
where they inflict the torture
they've endured onto others

but can they be born evil
already a monster from the womb
have a beautiful life
or at least a good life
with a loving family
and still turn out messed up
can you abuse and torture others
for the fun of it
with no reason why you do what you do

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

Too young to regret; too old to start over
Hold on the night to scream over you hate
Dreamt the love with warrant,
Do the world pay you to be a loner?
Torture the life you deserve,
You found none to weep
Fake your way; leave the scars

To feel the waves in reverse,
Drowned in blood, I'd smile in peace
I'd work for it, to grow back in time
To feel the dark; dreaming a lifetime for more
Pay the mystery to buy the eternity
Tackle the judge,
Forsake the grief,
****** the past....

I’ve lost the art of praying for love;
Instead, I’m constantly praying for cause
Cause what’s the point of a lover’s love,
Without it coming alongside a real cause?

Cause you may say you love me
Professing your love with all your heart –
But in return; you go, and break my heart
Being the cause to my unstable mental state,
Being less of a state – more of a mental break.

So, please, apply your brakes, before you
Lay your heart bare before me – dreading
The thought of chronicling you as one of
My many, many mistakes; as your pretend
Love, served as that very cause.

That photo frame we had
It can die in the dustbin
The paints on the wall
Water shall clean them off
The bed we shared
Can die in molds
The iron shall rust
We can never be together
The objects we had shall have no meaning

Now I hate chocolates
Hate smiles
Dislike shores
Shall be distant to anything that will cause reminiscence

My gallery is wiped clean
Darling , you have never existed
See , the cloths you bought
Already live six feet underground

Down stream
Is the root of disappointment you made

I dislike watching black umbrellas in rain
Used to be your thing you had
Made sure I can't watch you online
Stalking is the last thing to do

I shall not cry
Because we are over

My fingers unfold the truth
on a late night poem
in a different country
than my own–
between two black cars
a street light,
wine,
beer,
and
hard drugs

untold white lies
        
        Do you know what's really hard?

         Trying to make something beautiful or ugly
          out of a lie.
      
            This is me now
talking to the reader
or probably talking just to myself:
                   There's a hole in the Earth of me
                   my tooth has a cavity
                   I have a man
                   who can't keep
                   the truth in his pants
his mouth
gets real happiness
when he can bend
what's real and what
he wants me to know
which takes away any real
chance at happiness
                                             the only real
                                             way I can
                                             find out the lies
                                             is by picking
                                             up pennies
                                             that lead down
                                            a trail
                                             to girls,
                                                     coke,
                                                        hash, and
                                                         attention
                                                           seeking,
                                                     rocks
                                                 and a hard
                                              place.

There I go again
trying to make
poetry
out of tears,
and an untrusting heart.

                                   He makes
                                 amazing poetry.
                               about nights he's lied
                             keeping it hidden
                         in metaphors
                      and grandiose statements
while I applaud and like each write.
                
                          I'm ******* stupid
                         that's probably why
                         he says he likes
                         me as much as he does

You think about
the times
when your gut told you so
or the other times
when you ate it up
like drinks and fine dining

                              Now you forget to smile
                             and things you wouldn't
                             think would connect dots,
                             begin to.

My breast hurt
and I feel a panic attack
is at the bottom of this bottle of beer

Now I can say
I didn't make a poem
cause these are just words
on a page

Emotions crash like thunder on a paper-thin sky,
Anger — a wildfire blooming beneath my ribs.
Sadness — a glacier crushing bone to dust,
Tears — the silence before the flood devours.

Guilt — a worm rotting the roots of my brain,
Happiness — a mirage flickering behind frozen glass.
Tiredness — deep valleys carved beneath my eyes,
And life? A cruel god laughing through a cracked mirror.

Hook him up to the machine.
Shock his brain into
mediocrity.
Death stalks him;
he is aware.
There is too much
flash in his eyes.
His brain needs a reboot;
he needs to forget,
like a goldfish, like
a monkey in the zoo.
Hook him up to the machine.
He is too sentimental.
Salmon swim in his blood;
he has a paisley heart,
and a tie-dye soul.
He can smell colors.
Hook him up to the machine.
He has Van Gogh eyes, and
a Bukowski gut; he walks
like he's lost in a maze;
hunchback sadness,
butcher knife nerves,
Hook him up to the machine.
He believes in love,
and has too much trust.
His vivid green memory
is a curse, we need to
crash it, **** the eternal spring.
Hook him up to
the machine.

I should have left.
That first moment,
when my heart convulsed.

But i was stubborn,
I didn’t.
I stayed.
I had to know.
I had to risk it.

The body knows,
before the mind does.

Some truths whisper first,
shatter later.