Dear Miss Melancholy,
I write constantly of how you affect me
you're like a guest
who overstays their welcome
in my head
and in my heart.
You seem to keep me all together
yet you constantly tear me apart.
And sometimes I think
that I will miss your constant presence,
but then I remember,
I will not miss Miss Melancholy
because she enjoys my sadness
and loves making me bleed
for reasons that are not clear to me.

1.     I really tried
2. I’m sorry I wasn’t strong enough
3. Why did I always think everything was about me?
4. You were my angel
5. My demons were too strong
6. I never look people in the eyes because I'm afraid they'll see through my windows and see that there's not light inside
They'll see my secret pain
The monsters gain
Persuasion in the argument
If I should live or die
7. The mask wasn’t supposed to stay on forever but people seemed to like it better than my sadness and sadness doesn’t always cooperate with my plans. Like sometimes sadness just wants to stretch his legs across my face leaving traces that look like tired eyes and furrowed brows. Sadness, like water, will take the path of least resistance from the world to heart and back. Self-endulgend, sadness begs for hosts without every bothering to host the party because sadness doesn’t mind if he overstays his welcome.
8. I was 17 when he died, it has been eight years
9. If I can't win the fight to stay
If I lose and go my way
I have to believe things will be OK
Because your grief won't come
From the fact that I am gone
Maybe you'll think about what
We could have done to better get along
10. You won’t often think of me
So let me go, let me be free
Your mind is the sun
Confidence and clean
11. My mind is a terror
That doesn't deal in dream
In years to come, perhaps
You think of us
A memory we shared
12. I wish I let you in and feel a connection
Isolationist tendencies are decidedly not the best strategy
So my island is a prison
Not a blessed reclusion from the judgments of my mental illness
I'm simply in denial to any sickness at all

I thought I knew what envy was

When I threw that stupid fit when I was seven

While my sister who didn’t like to draw

Won the art contest, instead of me.


I thought I knew what envy was

On a Monday, when I was thirteen and pimpled

While my best friend’s face  

Was smooth, caked with foundation.


I thought I knew what envy was  

The summer before senior year taking tests

While after it all we compared scores,

And I wondered what I could’ve done better.  


I thought I knew what envy was

That it was quick, and runny in passing

That it was something that slips, slurped down your throat

Vindictive and vicious  

But cured: by making them cookies.


I thought I knew what envy was—

But I didn’t.


Envy is not smooth, but sticks

Stopped, stuck in your throat

Stagnant, it chokes.  


Envy is not green, but grey

You bat it away

But the fog overstays

Its welcome.


Envy is not thin, but fat

A wall—and for all of your gall

You cannot peek over.


Envy does not look out

Through narrow, hot eyes  

Shifting gazes, suspicious  

With hisses and cries


It doesn’t pace up and down

And beg you to listen—

Envy is silent. You can’t say, “Do you hear it?”  


I thought I knew what envy was  

When I was twelve, in Sunday school

White ribbons and smooth skirts

Under verses of thou shalt not covet---


But oh man, I didn’t.

Cornwallis Inn,
Gothic Stone With
Marble Floor Ways,

A Small Lounge Area
And A Bar Alongside.

Road Weary
And Thirsty
We Belly
Up To The Trough.

A Drunkin' Patron
Pulls Up A Stool,

Too Drunk To Even
Pay Attention To The ****** Gestures
Or Our Body Language.

He Overstays
Any Sort Of Welcome
That I Would Have Given Him.

I Told
The Barkeep
I Was From Town
But Haven't Been Here
For Decades,

That When I Had Left,
The Town Wasn't More
Than A Ghost Town
In The Making.

That The Land
Of ***** And Orchards
Would Dwarf The Town,

Making It Only
A Spot On The Map,
Like The Stain
Left By A Barfly
On A Hot, Hot Day.

welcome to the city.
time moves differently here,
you can feel your bones shifting.
that Harmony is elusive
and gone in a flash
but Tedium overstays his welcome,
bringing with him
the lovely child, Ennui.
a plain face,
a plain heart too,
the same as the rest of us.

I want to die.
not really, maybe,
it's more of an occurrence,
a spark in the mind of a lonely wedge
of sour flesh.
please don't worry about me.
nothing is wrong
or right, I suppose,
it's just the consciousness
that comes from being with
my friend Monotony.

I know what's out there.
I know that there are things
worth living for, wonderful things
but they aren't happening to me, are they?
I have to keep my feet planted
as the planet turns.
this dead city,
I've seen it all before.
it's nothing new,
it's nothing new,
I spend every day
in a dirt-filled hole
while they shovel more
onto me.

welcome to the city.
everyone leaves here
eventually.
I don't want to die,
or at least, I don't think.
but when bones crack like sticks
in a muddy pool of blood below
and we're all scratching at the door,
(or maybe it's just me),
it's hard to think
that it's worth it.
I don't want to die,
but occasionally
it seems
like the best option.

He takes his last breath
for the night. The music
from exhaust engines
tire themselves out. Inside,
petty advisors punch their
timesheets, setting aside
solicitations for flowcharts
and returning to their ever
shrinking dormitories.

Good. Now we can begin,
the sugarplums declare.
(or are they centrefolds?)

It begins and ends like
every other cycle, not
that consistency matters
at all. Swivel, sway and
trot, or so is often thought.
Troops of the troupe
clean up nicely without
noise, nor is assembly
required. Soon enough,
the stage is ready.

A very handsome entity
(perhaps) pirouettes. No
matter if the platform
dissolves, for the performer
had rehearsed it between
routines. Now how about
the audience? Has the lone
ticket been sold? And the
theatre, well-unlit?

Yes. The prelude—or truth
be told—distraction bows
itself out. Stagehands,
raise them curtains up!

Eyes have no interest
in foreplay. What is in
play—skydiving?
Wakeboarding? Nudes
to the beholder?
—can only be
temporary. No actor
overstays their place.
Always, an unannounced
but not unexplainable
cameo, a kindred
spirit seeking presence
in the now, only serves
a sense of urgency,
of misplaced longing.

And then,
you wake up.

The anticipation of spring's arrival
knowing that it seems far but is closer than we think
That's what makes winter beautiful
We see everything die, the cold settles in and overstays its welcome
We begin thinking it will stay winter forever
and then the sun thaws out,
a little green plant pushes it's way out of the earth
and it says, "it's not the end, it's a new beginning."

Time destroys
Time heals
Time is my enemy,
yet I can’t get enough of it
I run away from time
But I savor every moment with it
When life is enjoyable, time is quick to leave me
Though when life is hard, time overstays its welcome
I'm running out of time

Dear silence,
Thanks,
For always accompanying me even when I'm lying half slept, or half dead on my bed.
For being a blabbermouth always,
You've a lot to say, and
I'm your addicted listener.
For getting deep into the bleakness of my heart,
And making room for yourself,
Amidst all the crowded voices and thoughts on my head.
And then making your way to my eyes, and get drowned in their haziness.
Helping me gulp down the screech and hide my face against the pillow
With millions of emotional turmoils and crisis,
In the minute sniffles of
Choices made and opportunities lost.
For being around me at my continuous gaze at the flickering light and sickly falling scurfs from my ceiling,
Due the damping weather outside and the one inside my heart.
And at the knock at my door, or heart;
Coming down to my lips, and curling them in the most pretentious ways in between the overstays of the conversation,
With the one before me
And the one inside me.
You've been a beautiful companion throughout,
And your unwillingness for me to requite you the same
Makes you the lover most sacrificing.
Your selfish lover,
Aparajita Tripathi.

What's real (anymore)
in a near perfect world?

The dampness of the day
overstays its welcome,
amongst snowy smiles which

fail to reach the eyes, while
pretenses are kept and reputations
saved from being tattered.


What's real (anymore)
in a near perfect world?

Closed doors which harbor
sinister beings while cursed,
mangled bodies lay oozing blood,

their stench attracts vultures
in human forms, which feed
upon the innocence lost.

alternately titled: tick tock runneth amuck
seconds elapse imperceptibly
leaving me dumbstruck,
how quickly fleeting tempus fugit;
ofttimes imagined as time thief.

Hence following vignette: quiet as a mouse lurks the time thief

The invisible hours hoarder stealthily steals precious seconds (like minute hors d'oeuvres) away during the dead of night surreptitiously and unsuspectingly robs and buries me alive by subtracting each and every precious second of my tender life.

As the world spins, the days fly by at nearly the hummingbird wings at the deathly hallow supersonic sound, this little elfin grot sized goniff (groomed by Father Time) monopolizes and usurps a greater role like some unwanted guest who overstays his welcome.

Mortality (visited by quick and painless demise) on the other hand would be an especial balm, relief and tonic to my countless decades long existential slog, which this model ’59 hew man cargo happens to be in sore need and want of that fairy tale genie in a bottle to grant me eternity.

How quickly the hands blindingly **** by instantaneously eclipsing memories from yesterday (when all my troubles seemed so far away) as I just barely shucked off the frock from today.

Meanwhile faint hints of tomorrow (albeit dark shadows creeping imperceptibly closer from the edge of night as all my children frolic in the summer of their blissful innocence totally oblivious to the galloping generational gourmand grandfatherly clocker) hungrily prowling on the outskirts of styx strewn groveling grooved globe.

Nocturnal creatures emerged from respective hideouts regaling in fleeting festivities (apropos to their species/ genus) before the curtain rises on another dawning day.

Although an unseen yet palpable grim harbinger (per prescribed existential allowance) precedes, and allocates finite years sans spontaneous birth of life, the daily hubbub finds this introspective individual self-absorbed in gloom.

Thus, he infrequently finds himself conscious of that eye popping, jaw dropping, mind boggling sheer speed of light flash representative of his passing life. Where in the world did those days, weeks, months, years, and decades go? Try as one might to catch the robber baron of ages, he/she also appears to be at least one second ahead.

These immeasurable micro moments appear to leap ever faster as one inches closer to that average length of longevity. Odd though, that these indiscriminate discrete constituent parts of being consciousness well nigh impossible to isolate, yet recognition prevails at cradle to grave cycle.

I feel utterly dumbstruck at diminishing residence on this planet now while walking along the boulevard of broken dreams. An indistinguishable blur (akin to the brushstroke of an artist across blank palette yet to be covered with an unpredictable product) the only evidence that tempus fugit.

Now as one crotchety curmudgeon contemplating cumulative chapters of mein kampf (from childhood to doddering sexagenarian senescence), nostalgia for yesteryear like a parasite symbiotically festering inside for unrequited liberty and the pursuit of happiness.

The second these minute, gnarled, bent arthritic fingers manage to lay hands on that bleeping son of a blank, hours and days will be like one endless months long week-end without parental supervision.

Throughout mankind's awakened consciousness
elusive abstract notion
identifying past, present, and future
adopted as avuncular personification;
Father Time an apropos sobriquet
impossible concept to grasp
within the mind of one Finnish huckabuck,
whose clodhoppers get mired in muckamuck
analogous to quicksand yours truly stuck
markedly challenged, hence
mission scuttled when attempting to zuck.

Ever since the advent of civilization
contrivances crafted to measure
days, weeks, months...
years, decades, centuries...
analytical “gifted” anonymous minds,
wrought ever more sophisticated inventions
to divide existence into manageable units.

Now twenty first century **** sapiens
technological atomic clock work mechanisms
markedly catapulted by quantum leaps
immense degrees of precision  
extremely accurate types of devices
linkedin with state of the art electronics.

At this fleeting instant
(approximately 8:18 AM
September 13th, 2022)
ever so briefly wedged between
what elapsed and future events to arise)
impossible mission to isolate
that illusory present,

not only cuz the herein now
flits away at light speed
(or greater - you're right quite dubious),
but also everywhere within
cosmic space/time continuum
infinite microscopic and
macroscopic events occur.

As an amateur thinker
I feel baffled when pondering
that crude convenient schema
whereby greater minds than mine
devised devices to measure passage of time.

Yours truly can barely articulate
his farfetched dumbfoundedness,
me merely a simple brute
(shortish but not so nasty),
whose permanently creased
furrowed brow courtesy
his scrutinizing noggin
encasing fifty plus shades of gray matter,

whereby one percent bonafide Neanderthal
deoxyribonucleic acid explains
atavistic predilection issuing primal grunting,
when foraging for small (lame) game,
cuz feeble minded twenty first century
run of the mill garden variety **** sapiens
amuses himself (mentally)
toying with Einsteinian paradigm.

Though barely able to fathom
mind bending and boggling concepts
theoretically linkedin if an object
subjected to travel speed of light
(particularly an objet d'art - ha

think The Persistence of Memory
series of clock paintings by Salvador Dali)
mass becomes infinite
as does energy required to move entity.

Obviously the ability to wrap one's head
(or hands for that matter) around,
humongous (super sized) material essence
filling subsequent seconds, minutes, hours...
defies feasibility to grasp,

neither could ways nor means
allow, enable and provide
any semblance to hold (tangibly) as solid
something so abstract
as a singular moment, yes?

The above (ambiguously stated) thought exercise
equally as challenging where to locate
beginning and/or ending point
upon Möbius strip.