Nobody's born that way.
It's the life you grow up in.
The choices you were given without the liberty to make them
The choices that were forced upon you
The life you once thought nurtured you, grew around to betray you
Tell me where's the liberty of choice? Liberty to taste freedom?
Liberty to escape not just from anyone else but sometimes from yourself too?
Liberty to escape without being called a coward, without being chased down by the terror you were escaping from.
Tell me then, tell me your expectations from a person
who carries the life that betrays her,
Terror that fills her up with dread and fear
Her survival at the stake of uncertainty
While most of the days,
She lives one day at a time
Waking up at the cusp of night
Contemplating what body she'll wake up in  tomorrow
Her mind, foreign to herself
Her much too familiar bed, a misfit against the markings on the wall
The walls of her bedroom, which were once yellow, now a dull blue
And this is just one of her many, many phases
She bleeds in colours,
Rarely red anymore
She hopes for her favourite one
But little did she know, the hope that almost flitted from her soul
Like a bullet graze had left a wound that can never be healed or forgotten

My parents seem to

be as confused as I am –


about how to live.

Feeling the embrace of denial,
Coursing through my veins,
Worse than poison,
Choking out my pain,

Growing grotesquely,
Losing control,
These powerful palpitations,
Are starting to consume me whole,

Zapped into the darkness,
My limbs feel the tug,
As my intoxicated emotions,
Tear them off one by one,

As I burst,
I am transported in a blink,
Back to the waiting cell,
My mind constructed for me.

Ding! . . . Ding! . . .
A man locks eyes with an artificial light
that shows a world clouded in darkness. Gleaming with empty words and false promises, the light is shut.
“Not now,” he says, as he drifts of into the night.

Ding! . . . Ding! . . .
The man springs from his bed, chasing the light.
Yet his calloused hands go stiff—
he backs away with a shake of the head.
“I’m not ready,” he says, as he eyeballs a dusky mirror reflecting on days that have long gone.

Ding! . . . Ding! . . .
This time, he merely acknowledged the light—
the light that enamored him once, maybe twice.
Yet this time, he simply glanced
as it died in the twilight.
“Why bother?” he says, as he dreams of days that once were.

How do you come to accept
What you thought was the sun
Was really just a distant flame?
The warmth you felt
The light you saw
Wasn't real
Had you even felt warmth to begin with?
Seen light to come to such a conclusion?

I'd always used to prance in that light
Waltz and lay in its warmth
But when I realised it wasn't what I wanted
It wouldn't satisfy me like it used to

What is it like to stand in the sun's rays?
Have it pierce the deepest core of your heart?
Would the world around you need to change?
Or would you need to be out of it...

Floating, sinking
Reaching, receding
Closing my eyes
Wishing for
The warmth of the Sun
To reach the depths of my heart and
Emit a glow from within

he runs and runs
away from invisible enemies,
settles for a wide street corner eventually
enters heavily gasping a small café.

the abdominals are ripped from all the coughing.
the swiftly waitress realizes that,
as he orders a cup of black coffee.
she asks him, if it was a fine sporting day,
with a wide, plainly sinister smirk.

confused as he was, he gives her an absent nod,
in hope to leave him alone and serve that **** coffee.
at least he found an excellent spot
covered on a stakeout for his own death.

the street on the left, called Void Street,
seems pretty occupied
but shows no sign of the ambitious hitmen.
on his right lies Paradise Avenue,
emptied and distilled of silence

still nervous he bites his fingers,
although no nails are attached to them anymore
so he ***** the angst dry
like a skint man does with the tip of his last wrinkled cigarette,
that he found in one of his forgotten jacket pockets

safe space now,
he reckons,
only to have his throat cut