Miraquill
my anxiety is
a surrogate refuge,
amidst the warfare
between the rage that
swells my body,
building slow and steady
like a hypnotizing hum,
you've been
finding the lyrics to,
and the unending fear of
the infinity that I've come to
know is another hallucination
to my eyes because
it ends if I choose to root myself
here while it weighs down on me,
delving me deeper into the quicksand.
the silence,
kicks and whines against
my ribs from the outside,
reciprocated with an urgency
to breathe it all in and soak
my internals in it until
all I can do is scream,
to let you and myself know
-this is fear, this is fear,
this is fear that makes
you afraid.
faith,
in itself is religion
that hones your hatred
for power but sits like
an illicit desire lining the
crease of your eyes
everytime they crinkle
when you hold a seedling
of vulnerability in the
palm of your hands,
deluged with
crimson that would
eventually be the
deathbed for little
saplings, for fear
is a love poem
that I planted in
my backyard.
©artsyy
-
-
a scoreboard hung from a cracked ceiling
of pretence, we count our love for another like sins, on our fingers, that would drag us to another realm -
i. number of times I made you laugh
ii. number of times I made you food
iii.number of times I wiped your tears
iv. number of times...
.
.
.
more than height charts,
these walls have graphs plotted between
all individuals as their own and who they become when they become mine
- my mother, my brother, my father-
and unfortunately the proportionality
is way too often inverse;
there are the floorboards
that creak with the sound of lies
sweeped underneath them
when all is heard is silence
after the proclamation of
need for another becomes
a lever to even the odds
but it's a home indeed,
when jealousy is
what makes either of us-
my father's wife,
my mother's husband,
or their children-
win,
and it's pathetic pride
that holds each one of us
back from putting
the house on fire.
©artsyy -
you too can leave the colors
to dry - on the palette,
and hand over half, Ill written
poems for the sake of trying,
and after we've done it all
without moving an inch away
from this little void inside
our stomach,
without the air weighing
a little less on our chests,
we can soak ourselves
in undiscovered forest lakes
or we can drown in our beds,
way too often bedsheets
make for good mortclothes,
and I know somehow, that
it would be something,
that makes us a little less
lonelier,
a little less empty.
©artsyy -
bisected,
I stayed long-
standing, walking,
talking, sleeping,
mostly sleeping-
on the verge of
(some)where(?)
braided strands
of melancholy
merged with
madness,
twisted enough
to be tough
enough to tear
through a tender
touch.
splintered,
I left the ropes
without the rungs
of the ladder they
were supposed to be
- I
with/to/from/for/about/
along/beside/ am/ and
you,
I was, only I was
-exhausted- and
trying to run
up and away.
crumbled,
I went down a helix,
left throttled at some
tier of your
plot pyramid,
but there's a you
bleeding 'your' way to me
- this stinking shell of
a woman
correction: child.
©artsyy -
artsyy
15w
Read MoreExhausted extreme pro max doesn't cover it up.
@miraquill @writersnetwork Thank you.��I would like to fall apart
but before I can
complete the fall,
the wind sweeps me away
and prisons me to
my misery in the mist
that clouds my vision
and chokes the screams
for help,
a pity,
to not even be
able to be vulnerable;
a pity,
to forever be stuck
in a lonely pithole,
a pity,
to be drinking
poison everyday
and not being able to die.
©artsyy -
artsyy
16w
I don't know
if I want to yell
or whine, or
if I am swimming
or drowning
but I do know
that I used to be
afraid of water
and that I never
could differentiate
clearly between
anything because
then I would have
been too terrified
of finding out that
the abuser and
the abused
switch roles here,
with every fight
centered around
me, and the guilt
I'd offer myself
thereafter would
be free of cost
but the damage
they'd do to their
fists and bodies
won't be, yet,
while I would
learn to face
the waters and
drain out blood
from little slits
in gradual tormenting
trails, they'd be laughing
about whining kids
with clamped ears
yelling silently
inside their heads to
make the war(s)within
these four walls stop,
and keep the
bloodshed going
and so I know
I want this blood
to keep flowing
until it leaves my
body dead and dry
and I have taken my
swimming lessons.
©artsyy -
Where's my mother,
where is her lap
where are her arms
where is my mother
when I need her
Where's my child,
where is her heart
where is her head
where is my child
when she is hiding
Mumma is not okay
she's hurting,
mumma is angry
she's screaming
mumma is sad too
she is crying so loud
mumma is too lost
she's not listening to me
mumma doesn't love
she's hurting
-me and herself.
My child is dead
she's drowning,
my child is caged
she's suffocating
my child is a poison
she's been rotting long
my child is too cold
she's never warming up
my child is all that, but
she's also a ghost
- inside of me.
©artsyy -
"Why this?"
If I were supposed to answer this willingly then I would have, most probably, left this blank but I am putting myself under peer pressure to write down an answer because this peer pressure or the various forms it takes are basically the reason(s) for "why this".
1. I feel nauseated, with an extremely huge difference between the things I should be letting out and the things I have already let out, and then there are things like trust, fear and a whole new universe of emotions hindring this universe's laws of energy flow, but knowing this doesn't help with the ever rising desire to puke. What?I don't know. I just have to puke and empty out everything mentally, physically, emotionally, etc. I shape shift (much to my heart's desire) into a bomb about to explode, where nobody know how long this "about " is.
Hence, this.
2. I would like to set this world on fire, in order to not be afraid of it, but let's just accept that I am a joke, for aesthetic purposes, we can even call it irony - being gifted with fire only for it to be lodged in my throat like godaamned spears of iron, and I gasp for the very air that I intended to turn into smoke for charity purposes because I've heard smoke helps with stress. I keep scratching the skin on my neck, it's no use until I scratch it open but I am exhausted so I am paying my gratitude for asphyxiating me while everything inside burns except for my Adam's apple as a graveyard of "why this."
©artsyy -
artsyy
19w
What do you do when all your life, little it may be so far, you have dealt with everything by crying alone and then crying some more about being alone while crying because the only way you know out of your loneliness was by making a home out of your grief, but then one day you realize that you can't cry anymore? Just like that.
You start thinking about all the times you told yourself to not be too clingy, to cry a little less because it is as pathetic as it sounds, the more you have clung to something, farther it has ran from you, and so you take the heights of self-loathing a notch up and tell yourself that you demand too much but aren't ready to return that gesture and it is exactly what tires everything and everyone around you. You keep sucking like a leech and bam! what was supposed to be a never ending well, now runs dry.
But wasn't grief a home? And homes might be cages but they are buildings that stay still and it might not be grief that ran away but you who couldn't digest the idea of another void inside yourself so you were the one who ran away (but the void followed either way).
The only comfort you can offer yourself now is the fact that you might have demolished the walls of the cage you wanted to detach yourself from, but its ruins were never cleaned up and you have started reconstructing - with the foundation standing right atop the middle of your chest where the void still breathes and reminds you of a grief so strong that it's absence makes you want to sit and cry for hours. Alone.
But that's the misery isn't it, that you can't cry anymore.
©artsyy -
I'm at the cemetery
where there are no gravestones,
just pebbles and broken wings
scattered throughout from
my previous visits - pebbles
because you loved the idea of homes
and win-
broken wings because all you ever wanted
was to fly away from the building named home -
you never disturb them
though I know
by the numbered pattern of rectangles
you've outlined on the ground,
that you've been waiting to play a game of hopscotch,
it makes you feel under control to hold me
inside little enclosures and make me hop through them to retrieve my freedom,
but it's never actually mine
rather yours, beacuse you'd disappear
into thin air, once the game ends,
like you've been doing for the past years,
and I would be left playing a game of tag
with the ghost of your memories
- of your past,
the future you yearned for,
and the present,
where you are a dead kid inside me
and I, the Diener of the deceased -
of course I'm trembling of the cold,
not because my body is as cold as your hand that I've been holding;
I'm breathing heavy beacuse your corpse stinks too much,
not because the blood settling within your body acts like a poison down my throat;
and I am on my knees,
not because you lived inside me and it's the beings of the same "home" scavenging at you,
but because you are still there,
a little kid whose flesh is picked off of her bones everyday,
who gouges her eyeballs out to play that one game of hopscotch whenever I forget to bring pebbles along,
and who, even with all her organs liquefied,
manages to leave a perfect set of smiling teeth at the end of that aviary sketched on the insides of my skin.
-
thefoxisdead
1w
Read Morea flock of birds and one stone,
the aim is homegrown
but, I would rather not
pick on broken bones —
butter-knife wounds : et tu, dominae?
Julius roams the throne of Rome;
unforgiving times
but would you rather see the light
of your home,
or, your friends in a tomb ?
Bordeaux, Bourguignon and Bourgogne,
off the alcohol, a ticking bomb;
more like Falcone and Don Corleone,
the winter is offbeat, a broken metronome —
my leverage has aestas on the ledge,
the ledger deals in pressure-points,
mathematics and, not middlemen
please, don't mention another mayhem :
you wouldn't, if you knew my reputation
with coughed-up phlegm.
the game of the cat and the mouse,
while the beef sizzles
in no time, we'll have us a steakhouse;
hidden underneath
the cracks of your couch —
off the grid,
but your ballroom guestlist
will surely tell you my whereabouts;
hatred has the colors of a rainbow,
lo and behold, mi casa, su casa,
Felicia, Aestas and Lunasa :
three shadows in broad daylight.
an overseer in the clouds, the most high,
and, then there's me and my pride;
unable to pay it no mind,
it's funny, how I got you out of sight
while looking dead in your eyes —
there's no peace, I'll be more satisfied
with coming for your head, seeing all of you die.
better believe that it's all fun and games
until I want to play too,
face who ?
even getting all of you back to school
should be a crime,
barely a fish in the pool,
apparently, your recreational time
is spent in mindless cahoots,
you hopped on the bandwagon
when you're the mule,
the psychology isn't doing you any good,
the orb of discord is going places
ever since I came through —
it seems like nobody wants to stay
in my good graces,
until I put each one of you
in your places,
two faces, I was only the observer
until I started serving disses,
like I am the dedicated server.
what a pity,
it's time, I get that degree on accountancy,
it's time, I get that ledger and jot the totals;
the Manor of Misunderstood Mortals :
it's time, I end all of you in your infancy.
a flock of birds,
I'm willing to spoil my hands in order
to get some dirt —
the situation worsens,
playing it like you're the bigger person
while I'm losing my patience,
what's penance ?
look what happens
when you don't tie your laces,
blatant with your lies,
what you wouldn't do
to keep the stories alive.
the consequences of conveniences,
you're scared to tell the truth, no wonder
that it is only dares,
please help yourself and take the elevator,
before these stairs get me closer
to the liars lair;
gossiping in pairs, two blades of a scissor,
brace yourselves before it's too late
to even commit to a blunder,
brace yourselves,
for the surgical summer, it's either
cease-fire or deceased, six-six-six,
it's going to be an eventful solstice.
©the_foxthe surgical summer of '22 : (Manor of Misunderstood Mortals Edition)
-
parac0sm
12w
Everytime I start a conversation, you ask me "how are you?" And i wanna tell you the truth. I wanna say that i am hurting, and i am tired, and i might hurt myself, and i need you to take care of my body because my soul is not in there anymore to do that job. I lost it a while ago. And i wanna tell you that i am losing time. There are gaps in my memory, like my mind is breaking and the pieces are moving further and further away from each other. I wanna tell you that I'm not perfect like you think i am. I have evil thoughts. And i have bad days when i want to die. And good days where i wanna curl up in my bed and stay there forever so that nothing bad ever happens again. I wanna tell you that my mind is still caught up in the moment when everything fell apart and my world came crashing down. I was just a child. I wanna tell you that i love you but who would ever love Me in return? You said you were happy that I'm here and I'm trying. But there are voices inside my head telling me to let go, and monsters under my bed caressing my skin. They're my friend. And i can fight the world but i can't defy them. I wanna tell you that there's something sharp inside my chest that rubs against my ribs each time i try to tell you the truth. And i open my mouth but all that comes out is "I'm fine, thank you." And once again, the ties between you and I get cut off and once more, i fall back into the arms of the scary monster, who looks into my eyes with nothing but emptiness, slowly running his fingers through my hair and i know... Somewhere inside the void, I've found home.
©parac0sm -
pa_luck
12w
Read MoreIf you are bored of "Life ain't no bed of Roses"
#writersnetwork#readwriteunite#miraquill#podLints on our bedsheet
Sharing summer when it's too hot
and finishing his cup of tea too
i let him gargle for both of us.
I imitate a yawn for laughter
being casual in our conventions
and foot fight it for a penalty corner.
It's never about the pillows
but the covers, across clothes- line
and he curls it short for both of us.
Walking out of bed is on a dare task
and i keep a to-do list ready for him
while he smashes a buzzing mosquito.
We share our laundry and cookery
somedays, with a lost pair of socks
and some searing tea which he refuses to have.
©pa_luck -
thefoxisdead
13w
Read More
oh, it's Monday already,
shell-shock is all around me
and, sirens that are engulfed
in my tinnitus —
atleast, the ambulance is faster
than a cop car;
I think I'll survive to suffer,
once again.
I've forgotten how to sleep,
there it is —
my spine on the page;
just bury me in my bed,
the white cloth reminds me
of my mother,
it has been so long
it has been so long :
being away from home
does wonders to me.
loved by none,
a loveless monster
is all that's becoming of me —
I'll remove myself
with my sleight of hand;
I am tired of hurting
you and myself,
I am tired of running out
of friends :
sometimes, cowardice
is the easiest way out.
there's nobody
to put the fire out,
that's burning me alive;
there's nob-
let's try again, shall we ?
my skin crawls at the sight
of the mirror,
hatred is out to get me —
please, I just hope to survive
this week,
all alone.
there goes my life,
there goes my love,
there she goes away
with another guy,
and, she even has
her new marriage license;
I replaced mine
with a license for liquor —
forgetting is easier
than forgiving,
you're too hard on my liver.
look right through me
when my lonely ghost
passes right by you;
ironical, isn't it ?
how, I promised
to always do right by you,
and, today,
I can't seem to do right
by myself.
entombed in my bed,
I will lose my life,
if I keep waiting for you;
but, I will keep waiting
for you :
(like the dust that
your favourite book
has collected overtime,
like the autumn leaves
that you'll walk all over,
like the waves of the sea
washing your feet;
I keep waiting,
just a touch from you
could kill me,
please, set me free).
©the_foxi long for everything that doesn't love me anymore, as i make my way to the hospital — sitting in the red flashing car
-
illicit_skunk
13w
not something you write on a Sunday
i am not a part of the daily hustle,
the cubicle hours
or the mob that strives towards earning a living,
travelling to and fro,
brushing against each other on the run.
my share of hustle begins and ends
at the comfort of my home, my space
(which i barely own xD).
an abandoned dog and uncountable indoor hours
just like the state of my mind
avoiding the rind at best.
you need to be a go getter
to secure a place in the rat race
and that's a well known fact-
a runt is always discarded.
natural selection plays at it's best
in every aspect of life.
i'd have completed this but
my thought process has taken a halt
- result of the temporary halt
that the metro took
and i just realised
i've already missed my station.
©illicit_skunk -
thegreymetaphor
13w
Read MoreI was straw-stirring
the fresh lime soda that
sat infront of me
when somebody popped
the age old generic question
"whom do you love the most in the world?"
It was more conversational
and less of an inquiry
anticipating a pondered over response
which is probably why,
the time it took to come up with one
was less than heartbeat.
"My brother", I said,
resolute, undoubtable,
like it was the most blatant truth I knew.
They smiled.
"You really can't live without him, can you?
I smiled. And I just smiled.
I have loved a lot of people.
I have loved my brother the most among them.
And I have done that for so long
that I don't know how not to.
And maybe,
it's true that I cannot live
in a world that doesn't have him.
But is he the reason I'm alive today?
The 'no' that bubbles in my belly
is no less resolute than the answer before was.
I know it because
I've questioned it more often than I'd like to.
In the dead of the night,
under the shower, over the sink,
staring at the wall pressing a fist to my chest,
while trying to breathe, you name it.
And the answer is probably
the only thing that has
remained a constant over the years.
I love people because I want to.
I love my brother the most
because I choose to.
But I'm alive today
because someone chose me.
I'm alive because my father refused to give up on me.
Not even when I did. Especially when I did.
And I hope, for the life of me, I hope
that it's atleast okay, even if a little selfish
if the one you will die for
and the one you will die without
aren't one and the same.
©Srishti
_____________________________________________________________
However badly articulated, this is the most honest, most personal thing I've ever written. And I hate myself so much for ever wording this line of thought. And even more for posting it.
But I also hope I never delete this, this ill-written thing.I love you.
I'm sorry.
-
pa_luck
13w
Read More
When you count on learning from fiction too.
#writersnetwork#readwriteuntie#miraquill#podTorpor
It was a snow clouded graveyard
with us exhaling the condensates
streching our backs on stacked bones
my hand almost buried under his shoulder blades
and left foot sleeping half feet in a frost bite.
At some hundred meters,
was an empty crater
with our cat lady sleeping majestically
curled in her eternal silence
coz nothing moves here, apart the living.
We couldn't even well up over
our twenty years of prized partnership
as the white lakes turn into skateboards
with lids streched around them.
If ever we try to blink our bleakness
we would add a ruby to the hues.
So stuck we laid our blanched eyes
fixated on a funeral of our future
without her on our laps.
©pa_luck -
Discernment
She says
I appreciate less
and acknowledge lesser.
she says
I read less
and remember lesser.
she says
I reply less
and repeat lesser.
she says
I write less
and waste lesser
she says
I lie less
and love lesser.
©proper_noun -
parac0sm
17w
"I just wanna not exist for a while.
It's as though I need to sleep and
the world wouldn't let me." -
Life goes on smoothly when you don't feel a thing. My feelings showed themselves as a lump in my throat that i could not swallow. When i was angry, i didn't feel anger. i felt rage. It made me want to burn buildings down to ash, reduce the world to chaos, put a bullet through the head of those who had wronged me. When i was happy, i didn't feel happiness. I felt euphoria. I felt ecstasy. It made me want to smother people who attempted to pull me in for a hug. It made me want to slit the throats of those who claimed to love me. When i was sad, i didn't feel sadness. I felt grief. It made me want tear myself apart and cut me down to the bone only to find nothing but a dark void where someone who i loved used to be. It made me want to unleash the wolf within and let out a howl until every trace of humanity is left trembling in their feet. When i was hateful, i didn't feel hate. I felt a loathing towards the world and the way it works. It made me want to scream until the broken pieces broke down into tinier ones, until there was no trace of redemption within the beings of this world. It made me want to spit out words venomous enough to crush the soul of the person they were directed to. When i felt love, i didn't feel love. I felt an obsession towards a certain kind. It made me want to lock this person up in a room so they would never leave. It made me want to turn to self destruction as a way to prevent abandonment because as long as i was destroying myself, nobody else was capable of destroying me. It made me want to kiss them until they couldn't breathe any longer, until they suffocate to death.
My feelings made me a monster. That one hell of an unending sadness sucked out the human inside me and left behind a dark abyss. It's the kind of 'dark' the world wouldn't wanna know. It's the kind of darkness that isn't healed, it's only carried with a hope that it stays within, and the world doesn't become a victim of something this unholy.
©parac0sm
