Spurious (NaPoMo 2)

user img
smoldering solitude
between the distance
of my winged eyes,
creates hazardous aura-
as I paint
charcoal stains
down my chin
to this cheap sequenced dress.

the tequila swab
did nothing to stop
the birds
from rupturing my ribcages.

I end up
open palmed
in the solitude of
a distorted imagery.

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Depression and me

 

 

 

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Only emptiness. The kind where even shadows hide behind the darkness. I can feel it in my bones as I watch the world goes by. My friends and families, they are fluid. Happy. Talking. Moving. They don’t stop neither are they stopping. They move. I can feel it as I watch the silver gates open and close, for traffic and they transcend.

But I, I stop. I survive each second. I breathe, I inhale and scream. But only a moment has passed by. I sit by, arms folded, tears leaking and watch the world. Ten years have gone by and they have made a family, existence, life. While I am still nowhere in the vortex. I don’t even know where they exit are.

Somewhere in the echo, I hear a voice. The silver catastrophe soothing me in between darkness that I am where I am to be, I can win only when the time comes and I will win like no other but it’s been years since I have heard the same monologue. I can’t even answer back.

I scream into nothingness. But my throat goes sore and heart inflates, aching. I rub myself to stop crying but my legs bounce on its own, unable to hold it in. I am fat and disguised but I can’t stop eating and the reason why is; don’t you dare judge me.

You don’t know depression and illness. You don’t get depressed when you break up with someone and you can move and talk around. You don’t get depression if something bad happened and you can process like ever before. You don’t get to know what depression is if you are capable of pulling yourself out from the bed and drink water. You don’t get to feel and know its depth unless you have felt the deep pain in between your collarbones and ribcage.

The feeling of emptiness and darkness combined suffocates and no amount of crying yourself to sleep will help you gather your atoms and walk on. You will end up with a migraine. I ended up in a migraine and the doctors couldn’t find the reason why I am complaining of it every single time I visit him for he knows of the medical term why and when a migraine occurs but my hormonal imbalance and emotional barriers are so shaken up that I couldn’t control myself. I…

Hope seems so far away. Faith keeps me sane. Mother makes me want to stay strong. God makes me want to challenge myself to win. But, I am a single soul with a burdened body. I am not strong enough or powerful enough to swim through another hurricane to challenge myself to see where this is going. I am done being strong. I can’t anymore…

I… have been in this movie for quite some time that the official timing has passed by but my script is nowhere near an end. Nor, does anyone knows how this is going to be concluded. But, I believe sometime in the future it will and I can’t wait anymore.

I wish if I could drag time by a thread and make it come to me earlier than expected, but I know my wishful thinking can’t make me, won’t help me and… I am stuck… I feel like screaming but the physical pain has shackled me up in between overused metaphors and unsaid words. I want to but I can’t. I…

 

you and I can never be a melody of soothing lyrics.

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I pulled,
yet another verb
from the white lifeless canvas-
and the origami in my hands,
took flight.

I watched it
from my doorstep;
unknowingly
waiting for a
non-existent footstep.

you see,
the rose in my hands
knew how to draw blood;
playing
you love me not,
while watching random shows
of couples kissing
under the moonlight-
a dream
I dreamt
not too long ago.

do you mind?
let’s paint nothing
in this blackened night sky-
and laugh
as the stars diagonally shoot
lightening bolts
in our depressed monologue.

but it all ends
as the foam bubbles out
from my lips;
and the more I convince
you are there for me,
the more you vanish
leaving behind tiny imprints
of faded graffiti
on my staccato brain.

listen;
to this deliberate cacophony
of my disembarked hopes
and compose a melody
with my silly love notes.

but wait till
I wash ashore,
so that you can find my chipped promise
in my palm;
crumbled… yet beating
in the name of you.

dear,
for the last time,
can you sleep with me
in the folds of my sleepless nights
and color
my life in the shade of your eyes?

for I have lost
the hang of being alone;
since you have never
left me
yet you are nowhere I can see.

I know,
if you put a bullet into my head
and as I bleed crimson giggles;
you will still be there
warming my bare bones,
but laughing with the others
for pushing me down.

can you do me a favor?
as the new star dawns out on the horizon…
can you vanish like the rhinestones
from my liquid vision
that seems to dry even more than
last year

I do have a desire
to die leaking pink sonnets;
than mosaic smiles.

Nothing better to do.

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So, I was just like, sitting here in the rain at one am in the morning, waiting for some miracle to take me far away from my sinister thoughts and decaying metaphors and wished to open a new blog to write my musings alone and stop my former one; i.e, this one. But, upon reaching here I saw, I have two new followers and that makes me 75 followers, not bad!

But, I never began this blog with the intention of more followers, fame or something like that. I just made this blog to post in my shitty musings of a poem and look if I can impress people. Most of my life, I was like that and I am still now… wondering, waiting, wishing, for people’s support, suggestions, encouragement and good luck. I still want them and when I get a comment saying something genuinely, I still skip a beat.

And I am still confused, mad and cold. My mom is sleeping and in fact, everyone is sleeping. But, I am here, sitting, eating a snickers bar, alternating between writing a horror paranormal book and writing this blog. I don’t even know why I am writing this in the first place, but… here I am, still continuing and I wonder if people will read this. What will they think after reading this? Oh, that reminds me, I still can’t like and follow certain people.

It sucks to be stuck in a loophole of doing the same things and never once stepping out from the giant wheel but dare not advise me to make a move since ever since I knew I am stuck and circling; I have tried to break out but I am still here… in this forsaken hour, writing something that is not what I wanted to when I began this blog post.

WOW…

sigh!

 

G’night or G;morning 🙂

…and my cries died in the wails of nature’s misery…

 

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I am bound by the cartilage of winter’s eerily molded teardrops that drop once in a while as if a reminder pinning on my eyelashes saying, careful- my family’s on the way to cheer you up this dull gray morning.

As if that doesn’t deprive me of the beautiful things that I could be but didn’t choose to.

The dawn does weep Christmas wishes and I hear laughter echoing through the plain walls of my house, from miles apart; and the unmistakable giggling of over enthusiastic children.

My heart couldn’t bear anymore the rhyming of two rhythmic soul’s catapulting in each other’s calligraphic aura through rosy hues.

I draw unbroken heart shapes in the breath of ‘nature’s’ long echoing sigh on my bleary window but was easily mastered by another wave of agonizing misery of her wailings.

I lost the last heart again.

And after umpteenth effort, I stretch my sleeves hard enough to cover my finger tips listening numbly to the ripping of my heart. This sweater covering my feeble body from the desecrated cold has seen its better days. So, I ignore her protest in wanting to cover my fingers.

Somehow I feel like a mannequin stuck inside a clock; unable to move without being slapped by the needles.

And you are a parchment paper in which I have written my suicide notes as a will to the roses that have stopped whispering my name in your hands… but you give me them anyways since you can’t bear the thought of the thorn piercing into your bones, tattooing my tragedy.

Dear silence, bid me farewell to the moon where shadows don’t backbite and bicker.

Let me paint melancholy in the desolate part of the night sky and die a bluish death… so that I can smile happily believing that I just stopped becoming a story as the ink died in my veins.

My first slam

Image result for abuse victim staying strong

I am gonna tell a story.

When I was young
And didn’t know the world was cruel
I somehow survived being myself. Then and now, A blessing; I guess.
When they teased me for being the biggest in class
When I wore spectacle as thick as me with a chain into class for the first time
And when I ate too much than they could fill in their stomach
I was teased, mocked and laughed at.
But, I used to stay strong
And laugh with them for the joke that shook my body, my belly
I never cried when they teased me or belittled me
Because I was never in reality,, I was always in a dreamland.
I was something else
Maybe that was how I coped with things-
When I didn’t know what love was, what depression was, what sadness was
Maybe I was too ignorant
And that made me smile all the time and sleep with dreams full of bogus glitters.
Oh, but, yes, I cried
I cried thinking about my mother
She was always being scolded by my father
She was always crying when we were never watching
And I cried for my father
Because he was always stressed in his workplace
He was always unhappy in his life
But he provided us with riches and things
But never happiness
Seeing our loved ones unhappy won’t make us unhappy
It makes us miserable

When I grew up to have little projections in my chest
It was the size of a cricket ball
And it wasn’t anything like the insect bites on my friends
And that got me attention
Lots of it
I didn’t like the projection but I didn’t know that it was my breasts
And that will attract man like a moth to the flame
I didn’t know it then
I smile like I did always
And I was touched when I smiled
I didn’t know it was wrong
He was speaking to me very clearly, jokingly, about his life in his hometown
And I miserably tried to get out from his hands because I thought he was playing
But they were held too tight and… I was touched.
I didn’t know it then
That he was sick and I was a toy
I didn’t know what he was doing.
Now, I know… his frame of mind was to be cleaned with acid and
He should be taught from the beginning how to respect women.
I was young. Only sprouting wings.
And he blemished my clean slate with a memory I can’t wash off.

I was never a writer,
It somehow stumbled on to me while I was learning a boring subject for exam
Beautiful strips of golden caramel oozed in through the windows
And like possessed by a foreign soul, I took up a pen and paper
And wrote about the radiance
And I became a writer- when my heart started to learn about fear, fat, ugly and depression.

When I was fully grown to a small woman
I learned about my body
And still feel irritated and hate the tingles that stay on my breasts thinking about that touch
I should have kicked him, scolded him, told my mother
But I never did,
Cause they won’t understand.
My young brain had this notion that they wouldn’t understand
Not because I had any experience that made me trust them less
But I couldn’t bring myself to tell them
That I have been abused by a desperate man in the grocery store that my father always shook hands with
I hid that pain and betrayal and sadness in my poetry later on.
You see, I am not a writer.
Metaphors are for insecure people who want to hide behind words.
Yet, I have been called a metaphor queen
And I have been said I didn’t understand what metaphor was.
But, I used metaphor like I used water
To hide my tears once I learned words had that sort of power.
I never wrote… I hid

When I was finally a woman
With feathers yet to be born,
With stones yes to be turned
And life yet to be understood
I know what happiness, sadness, and emotions are
I know what each makes one feel
I wish for the bubbles on my hands that connect with happiness, to stay forever.
Because he only comes once in a while
And sadness smiles and stays by my side, always.
He loves me every night and I sketch the feelings on my pillows.

I am not a writer.
I don’t know how to write.
How to plot a story and tell them effectively
Because when I started to write this,
I had a different story line in my eyes
But when I began, my heart poured words and I am ashamed that I can’t even bring out what I really want to say
But, my heart said all of this, so it’s true and I let it be
But I am ashamed
I know I will be read and re-read by many
Some will say, I said too much, it’s too long, you have grammar mistakes and you suck
Plain and simple; you suck
And I know I suck.
Should I nametag it myself?
I have been sucking my life for eternity
Because even when God created me beautifully in his eyes
My rolled out thighs and protruding stomach made it clear in the eyes of people, that I am anything but beautiful
And the people made it their personal agenda to make me feel
I am fat
I am ugly
I am big

I have no messages to share
I have no wisdom to pour
I have no ideas to dare
And I have no chances left to explore

But, somehow I did
I wrote in midst of all those sword slashes
And I wrote with ink from my blood
But that was not enough for people to understand
That I have already been through too many thorns
And I am already being shredded
I am something else… other than what I show
But, people won’t understand

When I finally learned to understand and learn to realize
I was too fat, too naïve, too shy and too misunderstood
Way too fat to shed some pounds
Way too thick to make some rounds
Way too naïve to make understand
And way too stupid to befriend with

And I was stressed by life’s personalized concerts
I was shredded in emotional downpour
And I was caramelized in life’s personalized hurricanes
I came to know about the riches of life
And only then did I learn that all this time, my smile was a fake mask that I wore
A fake mask that I wore to cover my frown lines
A fakeness that my own heart made for me so that one day when I sit and realize that life is not as I believe, I shouldn’t be broken.

I don’t know how to write what my veins convey
I don’t know how to write what my eyes are flashing to me
Yet, I am writing like a machine
And I don’t know how to stop
I have too much to tell
Too much to yell
But I am already swelled
And this is all leveled
The platform is torn
And I have no audience
I cry to my soul
Yet, my life is a hollow shell
I fell bloated, inflamed and shamed
I want to release my demons
But I am stuck with their marvelous tingles
I am stuck inside my own body
Shackled with words that won’t come out
I am stitched with my own chords
And I am being beaten up by my own fears
I crawl myself into a ball and listen to the rainfall wondering if I could ever call and be answered by someone
I want to be nurtured, to be cradled, and to be understood
By someone who can understand my heart.
My mother soothes me, my brother makes me laugh, and I am being loved
But never understood for what I really am
I smile and hide and laugh and cry
I am never understood
And I think, I will stop pouring words now,
Since what I want to say is not coming out
And I don’t want to cry when I stop writing this

I just wanted to tell you a story
But I ended up with just clipped scenes from my story
And since, I am not a writer
And I don’t know how to write
I will end this here
With a big yellowish smiley period

City Silhouette

 

dusty pendulums

craft unhinged rhythm,

scattering seams of tarnished jokes

and level headed gossips

through thick glasses,

resting on top of his

shining egg;

boiling with perfection

in the heat of morning news

and crisp bacon

 

broken bottles narrate a forlorn tale

as kids with mountain on their head

and pant skidding below the waist line

bubble up with anticipation

screaming profanities

to the street lamp, flickering.

 

a dog slowly meander

through the many rivulets of garbage

lining the sidewalk

where a man with ragged clothes

and heavy breath

leisurely rests with smoke

spiraling out like white serpents

with vengeance

 

traffic lights chase speeding cars

puffing dark poison

through pipes of exhaustion,

as they run impetuously

through the many degrees of life.

 

the blanket is pulled on and off

as the sky switches day and night

rapidly.

 

the wind pulls leaves out

and hem of their clothes

as they sway in harmony

and hoarse breaths

 

a coffee rests

on top of the red benches facing the scattering

crowds;

the smoke swirls

mimicking ballerinas

as they narrate the tale

of this sleepless town

 

pen whisks images

on papers as the morning lark

sings indolently

to the hot Monday morning.