That pattern
Occurs periodically.
Despite all the vern
I still hurt myself regularly.

Those ricocheting projectiles
Travel uncontrollably.
Hitting them who smiles
Wounding them miserably.

This is not a sanctuary
Not a place to survive.
This is a void, where no one can hear me.
Screaming, "Help! I'm eating myself alive."

The solid inner core of the earth
Grows by about a millimeter each year.

Wish mine did the same.

Can I die from a broken heart?
If I smile through the agony
Will it tear me apart?
Or will I somehow be ok?

If I drag myself out of bed
Clear the poisonous thoughts
Out of my fragile head
Will I somehow be ok?

Can I die from a broken heart?
Should I lay here and never leave
Or rise and focus on a fresh start
Tell me which do I choose?

When all is said and done
And I chose the latter of the two
Would that mean that he has succeeded?
In truly breaking me

My mind a changing room, revolving ideas of beauty and mistake
Or perhaps a camera with too much to capture
Shuttering to think of life as a liquid
For as long as one can recall it’s been a real gas
But the influences are many, they are vexing
Meddlesome technology and Infernal desires
From beneath the compounding cacophony
of a pretense most alleviating and comforting
Cries a little voice heard only by angels
Pitched by a man trying to find his mother,
whose healing hands built the basements
beneath the Great Ziggurat, left to be found later,
indeterminate and perplexing during survey
but in truth was never really known.
A collection of grainy photos connected by string
on a wall in a quiet corner of a lonely home
seeking to make sense
of what was sorted out by Siddhartha some time ago
in the jungle beside himself, within the veil
of casual decay and serious growth.

Dwell in a rustic whereabouts,
Dinning on sweet tasty trouts,
Forgiving unto all evils thus,
Fate is a new born curse,
Hoping for hopes of longing
Kissing the slaves wrong doings,
When shall the souls falter,
and when shall begin run after;

Days are passing, hopes are rising
People are living, People are dying
There is bitter love and tasty deciet
there is venomous ego, lovers' treat
We have come , we will go soon
to places far, scary and unknown
Till then, my friends let there be love
Let us hate the hate, and be peace dove

I go by Finn, but with an o so its
Fionn
because in senior year I chose to do a project about Irish folklore,
well I had to do the project
but I could pick the topic
so I read Irish myths and told everyone about Fionn mcumhail and my little pocket knife’s namesake
in the Newton library I was looking up articles on folk-websites, the kinds with funny graphics
the sun was coming in through the windows and it got in my eyes
I was drinking seltzer and I crushed the can in my hand
when I hugged Lydia
the hug was hard and the water spilled on my shirt

i’m collecting all my sweet, translucent turbulent marble darlings
I’m breathing life into them

they were always mine and will never be anyone else’s
and no one gets to know when my feet were cold
or when i could only eat butter spaghetti for dinner
or what I got at CVS
or anything I ever told my “kids”
or ******* whatever else or the sun on my jeans when i walked on the charles
with my sunday school students.

On Ash wednesday I got some candy hearts, one of them was a # and the other said BAE
but there was no ‘call me’ or ‘fax me’ or even something contemporaneous like
‘text me’
like maybe we’ve aged out of those, I don’t know.
last saturday car put gel in my hair
and dust stuck to it so I had to shower and I found glitter
and donuts in Dupre
and we were greedy little silly boys, shoving stale, sticky sweetness down our throats.
We had soft cheese spread on bread with grant, too
who got his glasses broken by some guy a few months back, grant
who looks like elly pickette but with flat, blue hair
slicked down! and John lennon glasses, like gavin’s

on Saturday we sang Talking heads in owen’s room
and we had real irish whiskey, sipped it slow, let it burn in our throats
it didn’t feel like much, at least not too bad.
on Saturday, I felt so organically pleased it was almost frightening
look at my pretty friends! look at those angels.
they’re gonna go so far,

because I study with them sometimes
on days like Thursday when I read dylan thomas
and I just love them, so truly
not unafraid yet, but I do love them. i look at them looking at their books
and I feel grateful for a place such as the library
and I read this little think piece (when’s the last time you heard that word? I havent heard it in awhile )
about Mussolini, it was a satirical play.
and this Russian sentimental sonnet about the tropic sea
(oh but the sea, it does not raise its voice to me!)
and the oppressive sun,
like my third grade play (yikes)
and I wish I could tell people stories without laughing.

The saturday before the last last saturday
yamalí and I got an uber and we walked up
flights of winding stairs and learned about the golden horses on top of the statehouse
and someone rode on the horses
(but you can’t do that anymore.)

I dropped a bag of sleeptyime into my steeping cup of steaming tea
turmeric turned it this deep orange shade, sort of beautiful,
I turned up Marlena shaw
I sat and typed against my cinderblock wall, face to close to the screen as always,
comforted by that familiar return, the learned response to the stimuli,
and the unconsciously practiced
and I am not afraid of all the things I don’t know and
I have so much to learn and i have to do lots of things,
im going to try to make it all worth the while and gather memories
of time, my little friends.

I don't know how you do it
It's like you can read my mind
Even in those days when I feel
My head is as busy as time square in the middle of a beautiful summer night

जब
देशद्रोही अराजकता को
बढ़ावा देने के मंतव्य से
एक पोस्टरवार का
आगाज़ करते हैं,
और
समाज का
पोस्टमार्टम करने की ग़र्ज से
लगवाते हैं पोस्टर,
तब
होता है महसूस,
मैं आजाद
भले ही हूं,
पर
हूं एक कठपुतली ही,
जिसे
कोई देशद्रोही
नचाना चाहता है,
मेरी अस्मिता को
कटघरे में खड़ा करना चाहता है,
अपनी मनमर्ज़ी से
दहलाना चाहता है,
मेरे अस्तित्व को
दहलाना चाहता है।

मैं
देशद्रोही से
सहानुभूति नहीं रखती।

मैं
उसे देशभक्त का
मुखौटा पहने
नहीं देख सकती।

मैं
देशद्रोही को
साथियों सहित
कुचले जाते
देखना चाहती हूं।

मेरे भीतर
मध्यकालीन बर्बरता है,
सिर के बदले सिर ,
आंख के बदले आंख,
ख़ून के बदले ख़ून
सरीखी
मानसिकता है,
रूढ़ियों से बंधी हुई
दासता है।
चूंकि
मैं एक कठपुतली
खुद दूसरे के हाथ से
नचाई जाती रही हूं,
मैं भी
देशद्रोहियों को
अपनी तरह
नाचते देखना चाहती हूं।

मैं परंपरा का
सम्मान करती हूं,
साथ ही
आधुनिकता को
तन मन से स्वीकारती हूं ।

यदि
आधुनिकता
हमें देशद्रोही
बनाती है ,
तब यह कतई नहीं
भाती है ।
ऐसे में
आधुनिकता मुसीबत
बन जाती है !
यह स्थिति
मुझे हारने की
प्रतीति कराती है ।

मैं
देशद्रोही बनाने वाली
पोस्टर में अंकित,
अधिकारों से वंचित ,
भ्रष्टाचार करके संचित
धन संपदा को एकत्रित करने
और निरंकुश बेशर्मी के
रही सदा खिलाफ हूं ।
मैं इस खातिर
अपना वजूद भी
दांव पर लगा सकती हूं ।
जरूरत पड़े तो हथियार भी
उठा सकती हूं ।

भले ही
अब तक मैं
हथियार विहीन
जिंदगी
जिंदादिली से
जीती आई हूं ।
एक अच्छे नागरिक के
समस्त कर्तव्य
निभाती आई हूं ।

यदि कोई
आंखों के सम्मुख
देशद्रोह की
गुस्ताखी करेगा,
तो प्रतिक्रिया वश
यह गुस्ताख कठपुतली
उसे बदतमीजी की
बेझिझक सजा देगी।
साथ ही उसकी
अकल ठिकाने लगाएगी ।

उसे पश्चाताप करने के लिए
बाध्य करेगी ।

जब कोई देशद्रोही
अपने उन्माद में
अट्टहास करता है ,
तब वह अनजाने ही
शत्रु बनाता है!
वह एक कठपुतली में
असंतोष जगा जाता है !
वह कठपुतली के भीतर
प्रमाद के सुर भर जाता है !!


क्या पता कोई चमत्कार हो जाए !
कठपुतली विद्रोह पर आमादा हो जाए!!
वह देशद्रोहियों के लिए
जी का जंजाल बन जाए !
वह देशद्रोहियों में खौफ भर पाए!!

कठपुतली को कभी छोटा न समझो।
वह भी अपना रूप दिखा सकती है।
वह कभी भी अपने भीतर
बदले के भाव जगा सकती है
और घमंडी को नीचा दिखा सकती है।
वह सच की पहरेदारी भी बन सकती है।