"In 10 years you won't remember his name" chirps the 30 yr old self help ******* who thinks he is smarter than everyone born 1989
"In three months you won't remember her voice" blabs the inane buzzfeed writer, fresh out of college and master of that subtle tone of superiority
*******, I'm not living  in three months from now, it's today and her voice rings in my ears, her face is burned into my eye lids and her name may taste bitter on my tongue but I still know the ******* taste
Stop telling people to not live in their momentary emotions, don't tell my sister to not be heartbroken, his name hurts her now and she deserves to feel that pain
Don't live in the imaginary painless future, live in the wonderful, terrible, awe inspiring now

Step into my minds eye, feel your hand on your chest and feel nothing and nothing
The world is a screaming rippling blur, a dropped boulder in a pond, someone has asked you to repeat yourself, you still talk to fast
Water stills and you are blinded by joy and pride someone laughs at that thing you said
The sun and the moon are running opposite races, the speed of light is the speed of a word, darkness rushes in, thought wishes it was faster
A hole jumps into your mouth at the sound of voices, hammers on gongs bring you to your knees
"your father is on the phone"
"I'm sorry, I didn't want to hurt you"
"I need you to drop me off"
"I'm sorry there is nothing we can do for her anymore"
"You look just like him"

I'm trapped behind a person I want to be...

I'm trapped like the person I wanted to be
like fireflies in a jar on a stormy night -
like caterpillars longing for flight

There's the person they all see
and then farther down is
the one that's really me

I'm ugly, stupid, and fake
like plastic dolls, robots, and
castles made sourly of cake

There's a mask - only a mask
so why can't I take it off
I feel like an actor alone in the cast

I'm simply not myself
even the mirror will agree
it only sees a doll on a shelf

This really isn't me -
look closer and you'll see

Painted pictures come to life,
Twirling landscapes with subliminal words,
He gestures back and forth with life,
The white canvass transforms into a palette

You stood on the inside,
Wanting to go out,
You watched from the inside,
Wishing you were someone else

He’s driven around in a limousine,
With a stack of green bills to light his cigar,
He’s got it made and does not know you exist,
He dines with pomposity and drinks in gold

You stood on the outside,
Watching him dine and wine,
You watched from the outside,
Wishing you were sitting there.

She was a model, thin and tall,
Brawny and bright with a flair of the fair,
She smiled and danced, gyrating her hips
She partied until she could no more

You stood on the outside,
You wished you had her life,
You watched from the outside,
Wishing someone invited you
To life’s grand celebration

You did not know though,
The model died of drug abuse,
The tycoon was murdered,
And the artist…ahh the Artist!
That was you…that was you first and foremost
You forgot and you deviated!
You re-arranged your priorities

And now…and now
You stand on the outside,
You no longer can watch the world go by,
You no longer can wish,
You in a wooden coffin,
Being laid to rest.

You died yesterday,
Poisoned with affection
By someone who stood by
And watched you from the outside

Vijaya Balan (2009)

Greatest eagle, black and white,
Tell me how to reach the skies—
Wander with wind into the night,
Are you lost like me when you fly?
I see you marking the flaming sun
And want to follow your windy path,
Rising after moon, majestic one—
What trials of life in your aftermath?

(I wrote this almost a year ago, and I just found it.)

You tell me
that you love me.
I’m not sure
as to whether I should say,
"I love you too,"
or “I know.”
Because I spent my whole childhood
believing in second chances
but I’ve also spent my life
believing that I never deserved them.
That praise was something
to which I would never be entitled.
That other peoples’
time
effort
company
were things I would never
be truly worthy of,
and even calories
were a foreign substance
that I would never deserve.
I have mastered the art
of filling myself
with relics of isolation
and the hopes that nobody
will get too close,
for I will surely drown them.
Suffocate them.
I can not let myself think
that you might actually care about me,
I can not let myself believe
that I am worth what you say I am,
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry that you got
stuck with me,
and that you allowed yourself
to feel something more for me
than I ever could for myself,
I’m sorry that I dream of you now
and that your name is always
in my thoughts and on my lips,
it is addictive in its toxicity.
For I fear that if I go too long
without saying it,
that it will disappear.
But at the same time
I feel as thought I say it
too often,
but I guess the phrase
"too often"
needs perspective.
I can not let myself believe
that this does not come
with a punchline,
that you do not come with
an ulterior motive,
that the beat my heart skips
and the catch in my breath
are not the product of a joke.
Because my thoughts are screaming
inside of my mind louder than my voice
could ever tell you that I love you too,
and the shrieking and shuddering sobs
that escape my lips
as blood trails like springwater
down my arms
are so quiet, I am amazed the world
cannot hear.
I am amazed that my virtually nonexistent voice
does not ring in the ears
of anybody who stops to listen
but simultaneously,
I am glad.
Glad that nobody can take
the solidity of mental illness in love
away from me.

I hadn’t really known
How objects could be emotions
But this--this is an emotion like none other.

This is the glass conductor of light
Whose soft rays became symphonies
Singing praise to Iris.

She is the blood-red film
Which cuts through the air alongside
Streams flowing orange and violet
And every color in between.

Like a jouster
She throws shards of rainbows
Through each clouded pane.

Their tranquil beauty is alive
Breathing in the wind
Teaching me that my lungs are a restriction.

That my body is a metronome linked to the time
Which will signal the stop of my ticking heart
And I don’t know how many acts I have left to find my resolution.

And though I cannot figure out
How to even begin to comprehend just what that might be
I know only that I do not want to depart this life
As a mediocre play cut off mid-scene.

I want the chance to write my own ending
So that I can tie off the loose strings of my anxieties to balloons
And let them lift the burden off of my shoulders.

I want them to carry my depression along with it
So when it rejoins natures tear ducts
Which first brought it life,

I can free myself from this prison
Which made the atmosphere look like a gas chamber
Trapped by the ever looming clouds.

I saw more through opaque glass, than I ever saw in myself
And so that stained glass window which showed me perspective
Became a home for my restless thoughts.

There are sullen faces
That hide under cloud,
Only speak to nothings,
Land of creeping night
Grew from childhoods,
All that never hear was
A dance ever breaking,
Only feeling with eyes,
Tearing toll heavy lids
Yet, in childlike dream,
Some faces, they place
Spell joy in their gleam,
Some others have now
In daylight come clean,
Their song, playing on
Above the sullen ones,
Waltzing to new grave.