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  • artsyy 13w

    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.

    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 13w

    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-
    and it's pathetic pride
    that holds each one of us
    back from putting
    the house on fire.


  • artsyy 13w

    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
    a little less empty.


  • artsyy 13w

    I stayed long-
    standing, walking,
    talking, sleeping,
    mostly sleeping-
    on the verge of
    braided strands
    of melancholy
    merged with
    twisted enough
    to be tough
    enough to tear
    through a tender

    I left the ropes
    without the rungs
    of the ladder they
    were supposed to be
    - I
    along/beside/ am/ and
    I was, only I was
    -exhausted- and
    trying to run
    up and away.

    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 15w

    Exhausted extreme pro max doesn't cover it up.

    @miraquill @writersnetwork Thank you.��

    Read More

    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 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 16w

    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 16w

    "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 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 28w

    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.