(Written September 6, 2007, at age 20.)
i refuse to accept the passage of time,
as i sit here today, now, you are me
and like the road before me
that dips, then disappears into the darkness
our present dips, and our future disappears
but our past is as vivid
as the meaningless reality that fills my eyes
will you ever remember who i am?
Showing posts with label sadness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sadness. Show all posts
Thursday, October 16, 2008
My Last Breath
(Written at age 20.)
and i willingly sigh my last breath away
as i remember your grip, your kiss, your sway.
in infinite moments of muffled thought
i am torn between words i borrowed and those i bought.
and i willingly sigh my last breath away
as i remember your grip, your kiss, your sway.
in infinite moments of muffled thought
i am torn between words i borrowed and those i bought.
How Many
(Written August 27, 2007 at age 20.)
how many times can a heart break
before it refuses to join?
how many different laments
can a crying heart coin?
how many times can a heart break
before it refuses to join?
how many different laments
can a crying heart coin?
Ramble in Upson
(Written May 2007, at age 20.)
There are moments in life when your heart feels so heavy, you can hardly move. Even the strength to walk down a set of strairs seems like too much for life to demand.
There is a pain so real, so palpable, and so agonizing, that it is a wonder the people around you are not on the floor writhing.
Time feels like an unbearably huge price to pay for life.
And life too small a price for death.
Life.
And death.
Seem impossibly one.
And yet so, so , so very distinct.
You have to ask - why?
Why must I have the capacity to think?
And such a tremendous capacity at that.
The sheer depth of your potential is tragic,
because life will never let you achieve it.
You will never let you achieve it.
The mirror threatens to crack at beauty it cannot contain.
You threaten to crack.
Life is not so much a series of disappointments as it is a series of apologies - for being incapable of fulfilling the very capabilities it endows.
The numbness of your fingers, your toes, your arms, your legs, indeed any part of you that you become aware of. Except your heart. You feel it beat relentlessly, definatly. It thuds and pounds, and the cavity in your chest begs it to stop. It cannot handle the rhythm, the resonance, the rebellious red.
The life force is crushing.
The inevitability of pain laughs while you wince and contort.
Your body winces.
Your person contorts.
You feel different parts of your person bending, twisting, trying to ease the pain, to a find a less painful position.
But the only thing that happens is that the bending and twisting make you feel. Feel something. And feeling anything, anything at all, that...that is the end of you.
You crave a self-induced parallysis, a moment of release.
A moment of physical pain perhaps?
You crumble in a heap of life.
You wish corpses would walk by and slowly suck it out of you.
Slowly.
So you can savour the process of ceasing.
The mere process of thought - so ingrained in life - makes life unliveable.
The desire of illusional reality.
The desire of fog.
The desire of finding something to touch in empty air.
The desire to feel alive at the sense of touch.
The warmth of another body.
The reality of another body.
The...
The desire...to be found.
The fluidity of movement.
The sensitivity of touch.
The sweetness of sound.
The thrill of taste.
The loneliness.
The solitude.
The oneness.
The moment of writing this.
The anticipation of finding more in life.
The aversion of eyes to light...
What bigger rejection of life can there be?
I feel darkness, I sense it, I feel it with bare fingers in the day all around me. But my eyes, they betray me.
And what looms in the darkness?
What is the worth of a person?
What are the lines?
What sits in the pit of my hollow stomach and howls in such pain? Its screams reach my throat and paralyze it.
It isn't that I don't know who I am.
It is that I do.
It is that given I know who I am, how do I reconcile with the shortcomings of life? The largeness of me that life does not have the capability to fill?
The singlemindedness...the beautiful, pathetic, unending, singlemindedness.
The floating.
The inability to cry.
The fear of sacrilege against me.
By me.
The surrender.
The blurred vision.
The punishment.
The incredulousness of the blood in my veins.
The resistance of the thoughts in my mind.
The grief of the tears in my throat.
The lack of choice of the motion in my fingers.
The waiting... to burst forth from my cocoon.
The fallacy of logic.
The existence of non-existence.
When the anticipation of what will relieve fear is so fearful, that fear is scared away...
Pulsating.
Illusions innumerable.
There are moments in life when your heart feels so heavy, you can hardly move. Even the strength to walk down a set of strairs seems like too much for life to demand.
There is a pain so real, so palpable, and so agonizing, that it is a wonder the people around you are not on the floor writhing.
Time feels like an unbearably huge price to pay for life.
And life too small a price for death.
Life.
And death.
Seem impossibly one.
And yet so, so , so very distinct.
You have to ask - why?
Why must I have the capacity to think?
And such a tremendous capacity at that.
The sheer depth of your potential is tragic,
because life will never let you achieve it.
You will never let you achieve it.
The mirror threatens to crack at beauty it cannot contain.
You threaten to crack.
Life is not so much a series of disappointments as it is a series of apologies - for being incapable of fulfilling the very capabilities it endows.
The numbness of your fingers, your toes, your arms, your legs, indeed any part of you that you become aware of. Except your heart. You feel it beat relentlessly, definatly. It thuds and pounds, and the cavity in your chest begs it to stop. It cannot handle the rhythm, the resonance, the rebellious red.
The life force is crushing.
The inevitability of pain laughs while you wince and contort.
Your body winces.
Your person contorts.
You feel different parts of your person bending, twisting, trying to ease the pain, to a find a less painful position.
But the only thing that happens is that the bending and twisting make you feel. Feel something. And feeling anything, anything at all, that...that is the end of you.
You crave a self-induced parallysis, a moment of release.
A moment of physical pain perhaps?
You crumble in a heap of life.
You wish corpses would walk by and slowly suck it out of you.
Slowly.
So you can savour the process of ceasing.
The mere process of thought - so ingrained in life - makes life unliveable.
The desire of illusional reality.
The desire of fog.
The desire of finding something to touch in empty air.
The desire to feel alive at the sense of touch.
The warmth of another body.
The reality of another body.
The...
The desire...to be found.
The fluidity of movement.
The sensitivity of touch.
The sweetness of sound.
The thrill of taste.
The loneliness.
The solitude.
The oneness.
The moment of writing this.
The anticipation of finding more in life.
The aversion of eyes to light...
What bigger rejection of life can there be?
I feel darkness, I sense it, I feel it with bare fingers in the day all around me. But my eyes, they betray me.
And what looms in the darkness?
What is the worth of a person?
What are the lines?
What sits in the pit of my hollow stomach and howls in such pain? Its screams reach my throat and paralyze it.
It isn't that I don't know who I am.
It is that I do.
It is that given I know who I am, how do I reconcile with the shortcomings of life? The largeness of me that life does not have the capability to fill?
The singlemindedness...the beautiful, pathetic, unending, singlemindedness.
The floating.
The inability to cry.
The fear of sacrilege against me.
By me.
The surrender.
The blurred vision.
The punishment.
The incredulousness of the blood in my veins.
The resistance of the thoughts in my mind.
The grief of the tears in my throat.
The lack of choice of the motion in my fingers.
The waiting... to burst forth from my cocoon.
The fallacy of logic.
The existence of non-existence.
When the anticipation of what will relieve fear is so fearful, that fear is scared away...
Pulsating.
Illusions innumerable.
Am I Still
(Written at age 19.)
am i still beautiful
when i take my earrings off?
and when tears
smear
the mascara under my eyes?
and when my bra isn't lacy?
and am i still strong
when i cry like a baby?
and when i stop in stunned fear
of what awaits silently ahead?
and when i want to give up
trying
to figure out
what i should do?
am i still alive
when i want my heart to stop
and when i feel my insides
melt in deathly shame?
am i still beautiful
when i take my earrings off?
and when tears
smear
the mascara under my eyes?
and when my bra isn't lacy?
and am i still strong
when i cry like a baby?
and when i stop in stunned fear
of what awaits silently ahead?
and when i want to give up
trying
to figure out
what i should do?
am i still alive
when i want my heart to stop
and when i feel my insides
melt in deathly shame?
Tell Me (2)
(Written at age 19.)
tell me your cure for a broken heart,
tell me how to end the perfect start,
tell me the words to say in my head,
to understand why i'm alone in bed.
tell me your drug for the blinding pain,
tell me how not to miss the rain,
tell me the song to sing in my mind,
to understand why it's you i can't find.
tell me your remedy for a hopeful soul,
tell me how not to wish to be whole,
tell me the reality to live in my imagination,
to understand why you are my salvation.
tell me your cure for a broken heart,
tell me how to end the perfect start,
tell me the words to say in my head,
to understand why i'm alone in bed.
tell me your drug for the blinding pain,
tell me how not to miss the rain,
tell me the song to sing in my mind,
to understand why it's you i can't find.
tell me your remedy for a hopeful soul,
tell me how not to wish to be whole,
tell me the reality to live in my imagination,
to understand why you are my salvation.
Walk Home
(Written September 9, 2005, at age 18.)
there are these moments
which seem to be born from an infinitesimal particle
in your heart
and which grow
and encompass your heart
and expand
into all that is
around you.
the ground that you walk on
is like mush,
the air you attempt to tread,
like thick batter.
you feel your stomach
hollow.
you haven't eaten in over 18 hours.
you feel your legs,
their muscles,
flexing,
to keep you moving.
every sensation so much more vivid
and yet
so dulled.
you have a life to live...
work to do,
assignments to finish,
things to accomplish,
but it is all so far away.
when you love someone,
you think of him day and night,
and when you feel insecure,
when you think of her
in his classes,
and asking him to come to those classes,
so she doesn't have to sit alone,
and you laugh silently
and bitterly
at the irony
of how many classes you have had to sit alone in,
when you think of her,
and him
away from you,
that,
that is the end of you.
pink shirts, cyan tank tops, blue jeans, beige skirts,
chunky jewellery, dark brown sunglasses,
flower printed summery bags,
green trees,
black road,
overload of colour.
people's footsteps on the pavement,
friends chattering,
people talking on cellphones,
crickets chirping,
overload of sound.
the only thing you're missing is touch.
you are disconnected.
out of touch.
out of his touch.
but his touch
does not even seem right right now.
pang of pain in your stomach,
the cramps are back.
you keep walking.
you are afraid you will see someone you know,
you will have to twist your lips
into a smile,
open your mouth and make a sound,
hear them speak directly to you,
their voice ripping the thick blanket
of void
you have wrapped tightly around you.
you wonder
if you would be able
to simply blink
and walk by
if someone talked to you.
you realize your lips feel dry
and stuck together.
you move your tongue,
and wet them.
you feel your empty stomach again.
right at the top of slope,
you see
a guy sitting
beginning to dial something on his cellphone.
you want to sit there too,
at the end of level ground,
at the beginning of a drop,
on the green grass,
close your eyes,
and never have to open them again.
but you realize you haven't stopped.
you keep moving.
down the steps,
and along the path down the slope.
on the road at the bottom,
you see
two white limouzines,
one longer, one shorter.
and then you see
a wedding party crossing the road
to under the arch.
the back of the bride, in white,
along with the groom, in black.
and the bridesmaids, wearing crimson.
crimson.
their milky white skin.
they look clothed in blood.
the colour is rich,
heavy,
alive,
dangerous.
you reach the arch and as you walk through
you see the bride
in a strapless white beautiful gown,
the eyeshadow on her eyelids.
she looks beautiful.
as you walk by
behind her
you notice
how narrow her waist is
how well the dress fits her.
you smile to yourself.
you think of marriage.
you wonder if she is really happy,
committing to live her life with someone else.
you wonder if you will ever have that.
down the steps,
closer to home.
thoughts recede a little.
you wonder if you will remember all you have thought
on this walk.
you wonder if you will be able to get it all down on paper.
you wonder if anyone
anyone
will ever truly know you,
your thoughts,
your feelings,
you.
you wonder if he knew you.
you realize no.
he didn't know you.
and now you have this him to think about.
you wonder if he will know you.
you realize
no.
no one will ever really know you.
you are just one of those people
that cannot be known.
it hits you how lonely you are.
as you reach your building,
someone you know walks out the front.
she says hi.
you do not blink and walk by.
you smile and say hi back.
she asks if you want to come study on the slope with her.
you lie and say
no, you're going to sleep.
four flights of stairs to climb.
just up the first
and your legs already hurt.
at the third
and your breath comes short.
you're there.
you walk by the common room
and four people you know
sitting there and playing mario party.
you should say hi.
but you walk by
towards your room.
they don't say hi either.
you wonder if that still hurts.
you come into your room,
and look at the time,
to see whether he'd still be in class.
you're not sure.
he has a tutorial right now,
you don't know whether it's being held or not.
you turn your computer on.
you change out of your jeans and t-shirt
into an even looser t-shirt
so you don't feel hot.
you've had one of those days.
where everything's gone wrong.
you wonder if it's worth trying to fix.
you look at the computer,
and wonder what you want to do.
you should do work.
but sleep is so tempting.
you are not sleepy.
but sleep is so tempting.
you open dc++
and begin downloading the new episode of O.C.
you look at your computer again
and wonder if you'd remember everything you just thought.
you wonder,
and then start to type this.
there are these moments
which seem to be born from an infinitesimal particle
in your heart
and which grow
and encompass your heart
and expand
into all that is
around you.
the ground that you walk on
is like mush,
the air you attempt to tread,
like thick batter.
you feel your stomach
hollow.
you haven't eaten in over 18 hours.
you feel your legs,
their muscles,
flexing,
to keep you moving.
every sensation so much more vivid
and yet
so dulled.
you have a life to live...
work to do,
assignments to finish,
things to accomplish,
but it is all so far away.
when you love someone,
you think of him day and night,
and when you feel insecure,
when you think of her
in his classes,
and asking him to come to those classes,
so she doesn't have to sit alone,
and you laugh silently
and bitterly
at the irony
of how many classes you have had to sit alone in,
when you think of her,
and him
away from you,
that,
that is the end of you.
pink shirts, cyan tank tops, blue jeans, beige skirts,
chunky jewellery, dark brown sunglasses,
flower printed summery bags,
green trees,
black road,
overload of colour.
people's footsteps on the pavement,
friends chattering,
people talking on cellphones,
crickets chirping,
overload of sound.
the only thing you're missing is touch.
you are disconnected.
out of touch.
out of his touch.
but his touch
does not even seem right right now.
pang of pain in your stomach,
the cramps are back.
you keep walking.
you are afraid you will see someone you know,
you will have to twist your lips
into a smile,
open your mouth and make a sound,
hear them speak directly to you,
their voice ripping the thick blanket
of void
you have wrapped tightly around you.
you wonder
if you would be able
to simply blink
and walk by
if someone talked to you.
you realize your lips feel dry
and stuck together.
you move your tongue,
and wet them.
you feel your empty stomach again.
right at the top of slope,
you see
a guy sitting
beginning to dial something on his cellphone.
you want to sit there too,
at the end of level ground,
at the beginning of a drop,
on the green grass,
close your eyes,
and never have to open them again.
but you realize you haven't stopped.
you keep moving.
down the steps,
and along the path down the slope.
on the road at the bottom,
you see
two white limouzines,
one longer, one shorter.
and then you see
a wedding party crossing the road
to under the arch.
the back of the bride, in white,
along with the groom, in black.
and the bridesmaids, wearing crimson.
crimson.
their milky white skin.
they look clothed in blood.
the colour is rich,
heavy,
alive,
dangerous.
you reach the arch and as you walk through
you see the bride
in a strapless white beautiful gown,
the eyeshadow on her eyelids.
she looks beautiful.
as you walk by
behind her
you notice
how narrow her waist is
how well the dress fits her.
you smile to yourself.
you think of marriage.
you wonder if she is really happy,
committing to live her life with someone else.
you wonder if you will ever have that.
down the steps,
closer to home.
thoughts recede a little.
you wonder if you will remember all you have thought
on this walk.
you wonder if you will be able to get it all down on paper.
you wonder if anyone
anyone
will ever truly know you,
your thoughts,
your feelings,
you.
you wonder if he knew you.
you realize no.
he didn't know you.
and now you have this him to think about.
you wonder if he will know you.
you realize
no.
no one will ever really know you.
you are just one of those people
that cannot be known.
it hits you how lonely you are.
as you reach your building,
someone you know walks out the front.
she says hi.
you do not blink and walk by.
you smile and say hi back.
she asks if you want to come study on the slope with her.
you lie and say
no, you're going to sleep.
four flights of stairs to climb.
just up the first
and your legs already hurt.
at the third
and your breath comes short.
you're there.
you walk by the common room
and four people you know
sitting there and playing mario party.
you should say hi.
but you walk by
towards your room.
they don't say hi either.
you wonder if that still hurts.
you come into your room,
and look at the time,
to see whether he'd still be in class.
you're not sure.
he has a tutorial right now,
you don't know whether it's being held or not.
you turn your computer on.
you change out of your jeans and t-shirt
into an even looser t-shirt
so you don't feel hot.
you've had one of those days.
where everything's gone wrong.
you wonder if it's worth trying to fix.
you look at the computer,
and wonder what you want to do.
you should do work.
but sleep is so tempting.
you are not sleepy.
but sleep is so tempting.
you open dc++
and begin downloading the new episode of O.C.
you look at your computer again
and wonder if you'd remember everything you just thought.
you wonder,
and then start to type this.
Tears Made of Diamonds
(Written July 27, 2005, at age 18.)
scraping my insides
struggling to get out
showering from my eyes
drawing blood
...scarlet staining the glint of purity...
running along
pausing
dancing at the edge
of soft black eyelashes
...fleeting shimmer on the dark feathers of doom...
dropping without warning
or desire
falling on velvety skin
smoldering its very texture
...digesting the fabric of life...
scraping my insides
struggling to get out
showering from my eyes
drawing blood
...scarlet staining the glint of purity...
running along
pausing
dancing at the edge
of soft black eyelashes
...fleeting shimmer on the dark feathers of doom...
dropping without warning
or desire
falling on velvety skin
smoldering its very texture
...digesting the fabric of life...
Worthless
(Written at age 16.)
Worthless I am
Worthless I be
Yes, worthless,
That is me.
Nothing I do
Is ever right.
For all I do
Is hurt and fight.
Nothing I say
Has the power to ease
No act of mine
Can ever please
I am self-centered
I care not if others sink
I am the only one that has problems
Yes, that is what I think.
Mind not these tears
That from my eyes do flow.
Deceptive, like me,
They are only for show.
Don't bother,
This burning behind my eyes
Has nothing to do
With agony, or with silent cries.
Do not worry, my pain
That becomes hard to conceal
Is but fake,
For I do not feel.
Ignore my loss of control
As to the ground I slam,
Because dead I may be,
But worthless I am.
Worthless I am
Worthless I be
Yes, worthless,
That is me.
Nothing I do
Is ever right.
For all I do
Is hurt and fight.
Nothing I say
Has the power to ease
No act of mine
Can ever please
I am self-centered
I care not if others sink
I am the only one that has problems
Yes, that is what I think.
Mind not these tears
That from my eyes do flow.
Deceptive, like me,
They are only for show.
Don't bother,
This burning behind my eyes
Has nothing to do
With agony, or with silent cries.
Do not worry, my pain
That becomes hard to conceal
Is but fake,
For I do not feel.
Ignore my loss of control
As to the ground I slam,
Because dead I may be,
But worthless I am.
Pain and Love
(Written at age 16.)
As I walk out the world of reality
The mystical forest of pain welcomes me
I walk in shaky yet sure
At least my pain shall now be pure
No longer will it be corrupted by
Wishes to be happy, to smile, to fly.
I allow the taking over of my body and soul
By the shady trees, promising to make me whole.
I feel myself fill with agony,
I writhe a little, then let it be.
Few moments pass and my faith is reinstated;
The wholeness has come, that was long awaited.
My mind is now a fog, a mist,
And I ask groggily, "Does love exist?"
I do not have to wait long for the reply;
Prompt is the forest: red turns the sky.
I manage to look up and see
The answer to my question staring back at me.
Together fly a crow and a dove;
What is love but pain, and pain but love?
As I walk out the world of reality
The mystical forest of pain welcomes me
I walk in shaky yet sure
At least my pain shall now be pure
No longer will it be corrupted by
Wishes to be happy, to smile, to fly.
I allow the taking over of my body and soul
By the shady trees, promising to make me whole.
I feel myself fill with agony,
I writhe a little, then let it be.
Few moments pass and my faith is reinstated;
The wholeness has come, that was long awaited.
My mind is now a fog, a mist,
And I ask groggily, "Does love exist?"
I do not have to wait long for the reply;
Prompt is the forest: red turns the sky.
I manage to look up and see
The answer to my question staring back at me.
Together fly a crow and a dove;
What is love but pain, and pain but love?
Betrayed by My Own Tears (2)
(Written at age 16.)
Betrayed by my own tears
That refuse to flow,
Burning behind my eyes,
But refusing to show.
I want to cry,
I want to let it out,
I want to be weak,
I want to shout.
I want to howl,
I want to hit,
I want to hurt myself,
Bit by bit.
I feel incomplete
Without pain
The restlessness settles in
Once again.
Hurt me more, hurt me full,
Let not any part of my soul uninjured go,
For then my tears,
Just might flow.
Betrayed by my own tears
That refuse to flow,
Burning behind my eyes,
But refusing to show.
I want to cry,
I want to let it out,
I want to be weak,
I want to shout.
I want to howl,
I want to hit,
I want to hurt myself,
Bit by bit.
I feel incomplete
Without pain
The restlessness settles in
Once again.
Hurt me more, hurt me full,
Let not any part of my soul uninjured go,
For then my tears,
Just might flow.
Betrayed by My Own Tears (1)
(Written at age 16.)
Betrayed by my own tears
That, flowing down,
Speak of broken promises,
Of long lost pain now found.
Wrapped in naught but agony,
Nude I feel; exposed.
Blame befitting no one,
For never was i forced.
Hurt I did myself,
No matter the tool;
Be it by my own hands,
Or through life another, I was the fool.
Well deserved comes this suffering,
And, I daresay, I welcome the fears,
How then can I complain that
I've been betrayed by my own tears?
Betrayed by my own tears
That, flowing down,
Speak of broken promises,
Of long lost pain now found.
Wrapped in naught but agony,
Nude I feel; exposed.
Blame befitting no one,
For never was i forced.
Hurt I did myself,
No matter the tool;
Be it by my own hands,
Or through life another, I was the fool.
Well deserved comes this suffering,
And, I daresay, I welcome the fears,
How then can I complain that
I've been betrayed by my own tears?
Ramble
(Written at age 16.)
how lost i feel
in this uncaring world
how insignificant,
admist this bustle.
i am but one alone
and why should anyone bother?
there are friends and family
and yet,
i am inferior.
there is nothing
which i can claim as mine
no talent unique to me
i am unneeded
for i have nothing to give.
nothing others cannot give.
every time the hope arises,
i see something i'm good at,
a moment,
and i am shown,
there are others better.
i know i am not bad
but i want to be good
i want to be better
and better yet
so good that no one shall forget me
for something
only i am capable of.
but there is no such thing.
someone better than me at this
and someone else better than me at that.
and so
someone remind me
why do i try?
when nothing is to be achieved
i see myself shine
only to be overshadowed
by greater light.
is there any use?
i have motivated myself long enough
not anymore.
no longer will i try in vain.
but will i...
can i...
give up?
is that me?
no.
but its not me
to be this bad
(at least compared to others)
either.
why me?
why is no wish fulfilled?
maybe its the wishes
maybe theyre stupid.
my wishes.
how lost i feel
in this uncaring world
how insignificant,
admist this bustle.
i am but one alone
and why should anyone bother?
there are friends and family
and yet,
i am inferior.
there is nothing
which i can claim as mine
no talent unique to me
i am unneeded
for i have nothing to give.
nothing others cannot give.
every time the hope arises,
i see something i'm good at,
a moment,
and i am shown,
there are others better.
i know i am not bad
but i want to be good
i want to be better
and better yet
so good that no one shall forget me
for something
only i am capable of.
but there is no such thing.
someone better than me at this
and someone else better than me at that.
and so
someone remind me
why do i try?
when nothing is to be achieved
i see myself shine
only to be overshadowed
by greater light.
is there any use?
i have motivated myself long enough
not anymore.
no longer will i try in vain.
but will i...
can i...
give up?
is that me?
no.
but its not me
to be this bad
(at least compared to others)
either.
why me?
why is no wish fulfilled?
maybe its the wishes
maybe theyre stupid.
my wishes.
In and Out
(Written at age 15.)
With a smile, into my life, he had walked
And I knew at that moment that my heart was gone
And in his every expression, and every time he talked
He said to me, “You are my morn.”
In love, I had fallen, hard and deep
And I was convinced that he would never leave me…
But if only I knew how life would change in one night’s sleep
I would never have hoped for such blissful glee
From the meaning of his life I had suddenly become an unneeded no one.
How much harder could one’s heart be slashed about?
With no explanation, no reason, and all promises undone,
With a shrug of his shoulders, he walked out.
With a smile, into my life, he had walked
And I knew at that moment that my heart was gone
And in his every expression, and every time he talked
He said to me, “You are my morn.”
In love, I had fallen, hard and deep
And I was convinced that he would never leave me…
But if only I knew how life would change in one night’s sleep
I would never have hoped for such blissful glee
From the meaning of his life I had suddenly become an unneeded no one.
How much harder could one’s heart be slashed about?
With no explanation, no reason, and all promises undone,
With a shrug of his shoulders, he walked out.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
The Oppressive Silence
(Written at age 14-15.)
When a building crumbles,
It rumbles.
And when a glass shatters,
It clatters.
Then how is it that
When my world crumbled around me
And my feelings were shattered as much as could be,
There was not the slightest bit of noise?
Not a single rumble or clatter?
All I ever heard
Was silence.
Filled with the chokes
Of my strangled life,
Filled with the tears
That refuse to fall from my eyes.
My wish to live
Was killed,
But I did not hear its screams.
And now,
The silence of those screams
Will kill me.
When a building crumbles,
It rumbles.
And when a glass shatters,
It clatters.
Then how is it that
When my world crumbled around me
And my feelings were shattered as much as could be,
There was not the slightest bit of noise?
Not a single rumble or clatter?
All I ever heard
Was silence.
Filled with the chokes
Of my strangled life,
Filled with the tears
That refuse to fall from my eyes.
My wish to live
Was killed,
But I did not hear its screams.
And now,
The silence of those screams
Will kill me.
Wrath and Hurt
(Written at age 14.)
I stand distraught, my body writhing
’twixt wrath and hurt.
I watch a serpent swell up inside me
Its forked tongue bearing deadly venom –
A fatal concoction of anger, hurt, fear, jealousy – and hatred.
Hatred? For whom?
The person who left me for more skin-deep beauty,
More superficial charm? No.
I still love him with all I have. I can’t help that.
It is a habit now – loving him.
Then whom?
That bundle of beautifully sculptured skin and bones,
Who with her attractive form
Managed to take Him away from me?
Which has no life to live, just beauty to show,
And charm to ooze? No.
I could not hate something so lifeless, vain,
And stone.
Ah, it is but life! Yes, I hate life.
Why? Do not ask me, for I do not know.
And I do not wish to know.
I stand distraught, my body writhing
’twixt wrath and hurt.
I watch a serpent swell up inside me
Its forked tongue bearing deadly venom –
A fatal concoction of anger, hurt, fear, jealousy – and hatred.
Hatred? For whom?
The person who left me for more skin-deep beauty,
More superficial charm? No.
I still love him with all I have. I can’t help that.
It is a habit now – loving him.
Then whom?
That bundle of beautifully sculptured skin and bones,
Who with her attractive form
Managed to take Him away from me?
Which has no life to live, just beauty to show,
And charm to ooze? No.
I could not hate something so lifeless, vain,
And stone.
Ah, it is but life! Yes, I hate life.
Why? Do not ask me, for I do not know.
And I do not wish to know.
Antidote
(Written at age 14.)
Close to midnight, by lamplight I sit
Memories returning bit by bit,
Of when we were one,
When this intricately painful web of abandoning me
Around me you had not spun.
How it pricks my heart to see you with someone else;
But how much you care, your attitude tells.
You so blatantly and nonchalantly deny
To see the deeply embedded love for you that in me does lie.
You profane my love so pure.
For my hurting heart there is no cure.
No antidote for this spell of pain and hurt over me which is cast;
Save the potion of your love, which will extract me from the past,
And make me see what the future has to give,
Make me realise that you are back and that once again I can live.
Close to midnight, by lamplight I sit
Memories returning bit by bit,
Of when we were one,
When this intricately painful web of abandoning me
Around me you had not spun.
How it pricks my heart to see you with someone else;
But how much you care, your attitude tells.
You so blatantly and nonchalantly deny
To see the deeply embedded love for you that in me does lie.
You profane my love so pure.
For my hurting heart there is no cure.
No antidote for this spell of pain and hurt over me which is cast;
Save the potion of your love, which will extract me from the past,
And make me see what the future has to give,
Make me realise that you are back and that once again I can live.
The Sin of Happiness
(Written at age 14.)
Happiness
That is all i desire.
No celestial beauty or magical fire.
But every where i look,
Darkness i see.
Life, i feel,
Has turned its back on me.
What sin have I commited?
What have I done?
There seems to be no place where I can run
Away from this restlessness
That has made me its abode
Will I be able to run alone
On this long winding road?
Alone.
Isn't that what I feel?
Yes, alone.
My mind starts to reel.
Has everyone left me?
Am I forsaken?
But how can this be?
All I ever wanted was to feel loved and taken.
Alas! I realize that to be happy
I must teach myself to live alone.
And turn my heart into one of stone.
Happiness
That is all i desire.
No celestial beauty or magical fire.
But every where i look,
Darkness i see.
Life, i feel,
Has turned its back on me.
What sin have I commited?
What have I done?
There seems to be no place where I can run
Away from this restlessness
That has made me its abode
Will I be able to run alone
On this long winding road?
Alone.
Isn't that what I feel?
Yes, alone.
My mind starts to reel.
Has everyone left me?
Am I forsaken?
But how can this be?
All I ever wanted was to feel loved and taken.
Alas! I realize that to be happy
I must teach myself to live alone.
And turn my heart into one of stone.
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