11 posts
  • artsyy 5w

    am standing
    on my last legs
    since as long
    as I can remember
    and there is nothing
    else that my memory
    can muster,
    the free fall happens
    every day, but I can
    still see myself on the ledge
    with my head hanging upside down,
    I am falling
    yet I'm on that ledge,
    I have hit the ground,
    there is a pool of blood
    underneath my head,
    but I am still on that ledge,
    for nothing
    while an abyss
    gawks at me from
    all sides, slowly
    sliding under my feet,
    I don't know anything
    but I think I'm still
    on that ledge, because
    there is nowhere else
    where I can be,
    to "be" is saying
    a lot,
    this existence
    is the ledge,
    the free fall
    and the endless
    cycle of exhaustion.

    I don't even want to know how this story turns out anymore,
    I am not curious about how it ends,
    what I want to know is
    the when and
    how long before I can
    turn into ash,
    how long before I can
    disappear and dissipate
    like I should have
    eons ago

  • artsyy 7w

    "May you be in heaven a full half hour before the devil knows you're dead."

    -Peaky Blinders

    @writersnetwork @mirakee #pod
    #wnl #mec

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    hello stranger,
    I don't remember
    who you are,
    who you wanted to be,
    what will become of you
    and if I should/could
    have tried to save you
    from becoming a martyr
    for my sake,
    that first time,
    before it turned
    into your habit.

    hello brother,
    I am not sorry
    I can't love you,
    or anyone, like I
    used to and I know
    neither can you
    because when
    have we ever been
    able to love reminders
    of all the things
    that we want to
    leave behind,
    while all our
    fully blown
    efforts were
    apparently too
    punctured,as they
    collapsed into the
    arms of a
    fascinating facade.

    hello stranger,
    this time,
    I'm sorry
    for invading
    your humble
    abode, for
    forgetting that I
    am your analogous
    punching bag and
    not your sister,
    and oh, for fretting
    over my existence
    because I demolished
    all your castles and
    chained all your dreams.

    hello brother,
    mother says that
    everything you do,
    you do for me, and
    I find that scary,
    so I ask you to
    not die, for I
    won't be able to bear
    with the survivor's guilt
    once more, that I am
    a fabric with lose ends,
    too many of which
    I have tied to your wrist.

    what do I call you?
    I keep forgetting your face,
    I can hear the
    wheels inside your head
    turning, but I know
    to ask for support will
    make you feel too greedy,
    I can visualize your hands
    trembling as you pick up
    a rifle to shoot through
    my reflection, even though
    you have trained yourself to
    call it an illusion;
    maybe it is blood only
    that binds us in the end.


  • artsyy 16w

    "You're empty inside.
    You're just loud.
    Like an empty can."

    - It's okay to not be okay (2020)

    @writersnetwork @miraquill #pod

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    my heart is a clenched fist
    pulsating with rage,
    an empty cage where I
    once held a bird
    and wrapped my fingers around it,
    tight enough to suffocate it to death,
    while my nails dug out craters
    on my palms,
    and told her
    "I know how it feels"

    the crescents on my palms
    are no moons, they
    are remnants of the
    cricle of my grief,
    I fill those pits with
    salt and lemon and
    stitch them up with
    threads hungry for pain

    I weave a bubble,
    -a little haven for myself,
    another cage for the ever-growing
    void inside -
    it looks pretty when it reflects
    empathy to strangers, from
    some gibberish manuals and
    fearfully induced habits of being
    'nice' to others but ourselves;
    but when caged for too long,
    even voids start screaming,
    my ears bleed crimson,
    and my throat embarks a silent scream

    from silence to screaming,
    it's the metamorphosis of
    a droplet into a wave, and
    I finally let my fist punch
    through that damned cocoon,
    blood runs down my knuckles,
    and all I see are red moons,
    it seeps through the lines
    and stitches on my palms,
    and I paint the wings of a bird,
    I wiggle my fingers and
    leave my fists unclenched,
    and it's another bloody hand
    clasping mine, telling me,
    "I know how it feels".


  • artsyy 27w

    He's always closing his eyes
    like it hurts to look at things.

    -My So-Called Life (TV series)

    My atoms love your atoms. It's chemistry.

    @writersnetwork @mirakee #pod

    #empathy #grief #etc

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    I like to think that the boy I meet
    when I close my eyes is a sad poem,
    like me,
    who carries tragically beautiful
    metaphors in his eyes and is
    always trying to fit his feet in
    shoes a size too big because
    way too often those
    damn pair are perfect for
    his swollen feet.

    He and I, see
    distance widening between entwined fingers,
    locked lips leaking venom into each others mouths,
    caressing hands picking pieces of broken ceramics,
    the medal hanging as a disappointment around the "man standing second on the pedestal's " neck,
    the glistening eyes of a girl in a friendly banter with her friends, screaming, not to endear her as a bitch,
    the chemistry textbook whose pages have been skimmed several times wishing that "my atoms love your atoms, it's chemistry" was indeed enough for all relationships while they look for recipe of an instant poison or maybe a love potion.

    We close our eyes, maybe
    because we know that we carry
    too much pity in them that
    'apparently happy' people should not be offered;
    when we keep our eyes open
    we see ourselves as experimental rats
    shackled to their sadness while
    witnessing who makes it out alive,
    maybe we close our eyes to resist the urge
    to know how;
    or maybe I am trying to run away,
    but accept them or refuse them
    shadows never really leave you,
    and grief is a shadow under me eyes,
    because when I close my eyes
    he's closing his eyes too,
    and I'm an empath all over again.


  • artsyy 53w



    Hey! Your face is too big/too small,
    your waist wide, length too tall,
    the bumps on your chest,
    that you call breasts
    are sagging,
    the growth of your hair is lagging,
    but ugh, you got a moustache,
    ain't that supposed to be a filter on snapchat?!

    Oh my! Your knees are black, so are your elbows and neck,
    tell me girl, how come, you aren't already an emotional wreck?!

    Shame, shame! You are so lame,
    who ever wears a halo over a devil's mane!
    How do you see your eyes,
    they aren't an ocean but a handful of lies!
    Your face is flat and so is your butt,
    can you spell sexy, if not, then keep your mouth shut.
    Before you wear a crop top, crop some weight,
    hey girl have you ever been asked to a date?
    Did your mother not feed you today,
    no wait, I know, it was stolen off of your tray.

    A beauty bone, is all you need, you think
    but, honey, you look like a ragged coat, on a hanger, that stinks!

    Why don't you treat your face,
    so that it won't look obese?
    Shave your legs, wax your beard and through your eyebrows, run a thread,
    stare at your reflection and grieve before you go to bed.
    Is that a pimple on your cheek,
    why of medicine do you reek?
    Gross, there's acne on your back,
    why aren't you clad in a sarong of a sack?!

    Dream and scream, rub more cream,
    you won't have to be a walking-talking meme,
    damn! you are talking to the mirror it seems,
    now I see why do you have such low self-esteem,
    You've dissected your eyes and built a shame team,
    come with me and rinse them of all screens.

    Can you see clear, or are there more tears?
    Without any walls, you stand before your fears. smile and let your dimples deepen, eyes glisten,
    tell them behind the lies of tears, there's a single truth hidden,
    it is all dust that we see,
    you and me,
    even a blind man beholds beauty in his eyes,
    when staring at the mirror, beautiful he cries.


    Art by : @artsyy

    ( The original artwork, taken as reference, is 'The Girl Before The Mirror by Pablo Picasso.')

    @writersnetwork @mirakee

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  • artsyy 54w

    Adam needed the touch of God to become one himself,
    but it was the touch of an image of his likeness that sparked life and constructed humanity.

    It is a slap on the cheek, the breaking of a dam
    that tells a mother that the dummy cradled in her arms breathes and it is touch that makes you feel alive, grants the sense of being.

    At moments when your father bids you goodbye with a hug and peck, and ruffles your already dishevelled hair, you smile, ironically.
    When your head rests all night on your mother's lap and she doesn't budge inspite of
    the numbness in her legs, you smile again, though it sounds sadistic.

    At times when you are lonely and alone,
    you squeeze the worn out teddy bear or snuggle your nose in the crook of your snoring dog's neck, you muffle your screams in the void of solitude.

    Cuddling your pillow, wrapping your arms around yourself and crying yourself to sleep;
    walking in rain, standing for hours under the shower, all because you find some weird comfort in the arms of sadness.

    Vulnerability scares you and so does the idea of your instincts welcoming love at every threshold of your body, like it owns you,
    and pathetically you want it to discover you, recurring goosebumps being the trail of intimacy.

    Opposites attract.
    Volcanic brains and hearts cold as glaciers
    are dragged from their wombs by mitten covered distances, small or big,
    and it is the conduction of love that warms and cools your senses,
    and breaks or makes you.
    Sadly and unwillingly.



    There's power in the touch of another person's hand. We acknowledge it in
    little ways, all the time. There's a reason human beings shake hands, hold
    hands, slap hands, bump hands. It comes from our very earliest memories,
    when we all come into the world blinded by light and color, deafened by
    riotous sound, flailing in a suddenly cavernous space without any way of
    orienting ourselves, shuddering with cold, emptied with hunger, and justifiably
    frightened and confused. And what changes that first horror, that original
    state of terror? The touch of another person's hands. Hands that wrap us in
    warmth, that hold us close. Hands that guide us to shelter, to comfort, to food.
    Hands that hold and touch and reassure us through our very first crisis, and
    guide us into our very first shelter from pain. The first thing we ever learn is
    that the touch of someone else's hand can ease pain and make things better.
    That's power. That's power so fundamental that most people never even
    realize it exists.

    Via @/thelitarchives (instagram)



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  • artsyy 56w

    I don't want to be afraid of demanding too much from life,
    isn't desire the simplest yet most complicated connotation of being alive?!


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    I laugh at the audacity of my brain
    how easily it rips out every opportunity
    from my heart,
    and sticks up sale tags on its kindness,
    stomping on the bubbling rage
    with shoes spiked with 'nice'
    and leaves every corner of my body numb,
    an egoistic brat,
    fueled by the virtue of choosing right over wrong,
    instead of happy over sad,
    so I laugh because I have nothing to be happy about.

    I've been sitting, doing nothing,
    staring at nothing, for my mind knows nothing. It stinks of desire.
    Apparently it was trying to be the heart,
    fiddling with every corner of emotion(s),
    but circles don't have corners,
    and hearts don't have brains,
    at least mine doesn't,
    it doesn't fear being shackled up by
    asking too much from life,
    so when it runs wild like the winds on
    a mustard field,
    I feel desire to be the connotation of being alive.


  • artsyy 59w

    People around me don't believe in squeezing stress balls or bursting bubble wraps. They shout, fight and hurt - others and themselves. I cuddle myself and try to hide in a corner. Hours after I leave my safe place, I find them laughing, joking and doing other stuff that defines normalcy. I stare into nothingness and wonder if it's me who's mad or they?!


    my character in your story lies in a coffin, waiting for her eulogy,
    you grace her epitaph with your poetry as you had promised,
    and keep all her belongings stored safely in the basement of your building,
    hurdled, along with the knife you stabbed her with.


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  • artsyy 62w

    False Confidence

    ~a riot in the name of God, a beheaded child before you, a soul circulating. Aren't you worried your God might become better friends with someone else?

    ~yesterday, they told me they loved me and mocked my fears, snipped off my tongue and brewed poison.
    Today, they served me delicacies, I let out a moan, they called me a whore.

    ~ a friend commented 'beautiful' on your photograph and you believed them momentarily. Later, you peeled your skin with knives of truth for the truth is bound to be bitter.

    ~ an assassin of a guilty victim sits in trial amongst sorry faces and hallucinates, them pleading to him

    ~ you want it all.
    you want to disappear into nothingness.

    ~ an empty box wrapped with glittering gift paper, your heart hammers against your chest.
    your child rips off the paper and your false confidence, taped at the cuts.


  • artsyy 66w

    'This sadness is gonna last forever.'
    - Vincent Van Gogh

    This is the truest sentence I know.


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    To Fall In Love

    "How many sunsets does it take to fall in love with life?"
    Beacuse with every sunset elopes my already small desire to live, and begins the countdown to the detonating bomb that I am.
    On the bright side, nobody gets hurt because somebody has to be within range for that to happen. So when the explosion occurs, gory details of 'me' scatter around like sparks from a fire-cracker, the sight being equally beautiful.
    I let out a scream, a whimper, a sob or a mere sigh for my brain tells me to; to feel that much agony you have to be sure about the existence of a heart, which I definitely ain't.
    So when I tell you that the sunset is beautiful, see through me and speak out loud, do I have a heart?!

    "How many pounds of narcissism does it take to fall in love with yourself?"
    Because everyday when I look at the mirror, it still reflects the stupid longings of a child - forced into maturity- hiding behind the tear-stricken face of a sad teenager.
    The ebony locks that once hung below my waist were trimmed too short a while ago, for I believed it would surge a boost of confidence that was as short-lived as my own desire to.
    I've scribbled, 'pounds of narcissism in exchange for pounds of cellulite' all over the mirror.
    And from the eyes of people, my reflection stares back at me with stark oblivion which seems to be laced with sympathy on some days.

    "How many sad days does it take to fall in love with anything?"
    Because by the looks of it, anything I do is an escape from the obvious. I don't carry patience along the marrow within my bones for it makes life too heavy to walk and soon my knees give out, tiring me to extents of giving-up.
    Dwelling in sadness lets me stay succumbed within eggshell nobody tries walking on and
    I hope that whenever the shell breaks, I come out as yolk and egg-white instead of a bird with wings.
    I don't love the sunsets as much as I love the twilight that follows, because my mind tells me to escape otherwise whatever I'm escaping from will soon catch up with me.


  • artsyy 70w


    There are no colour codes
    or patterns anymore,
    that separate questions from answers,
    no (under) lines,
    that highlight or demarcate them;
    the lucidity of writing
    lost somewhere in the transitioning

    There are titles and topics
    I'm acquainted to since long,
    but now I find it difficult
    to hold onto them;
    rolling from average to
    the extremes, and back
    like the spontaneous rush of
    anxiety .

    My admiration for words
    peels me off, layer by layer
    leaving behind open wounds and truth
    that adds salt to them;
    it is merely a literal acceptance now,
    drained off of their flattery and sarcasm,
    melancholy and joy, abuse and mockery,
    a failing definition of numbness of
    (lack of emotions)

    The scribbles on the back pages
    are now scattered throughout,
    strangled with the doodles
    of piled up cobwebs;
    'I don't know' being the predator
    that has gradually grown from
    wise to wistful,
    and the pages now reek of loss,
    blotted with a monotonous ink
    fading with every turn.


    .@writersnetwork @iamsleepy @musings_ @raika @mismagical
    #pod #wnl

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