He

Everything in here is prim and proper. Sitting in a pre-determined pattern. Snug perfectly like pieces of a puzzle, each in its assigned position. Playing its own tiny part to keep the picture pendant. Precisely how it ought to be. Pray it all falls down one day– landslides of information. Floods of boxed away thoughts. It would rain blood on white terrain. All foundations of sanity would quake. All signs of consciousness would cease. I can picture the self disintegrate, it’s not a pleasant sight.

“See, you’re going there again.” he’s speaking again, I let him. “We talked about this. It’s okay, don’t worry, repetition is key. 1, 2, 3… 1, 2, 3… Don’t forget to breathe.” His hand slides up and down my arm, a comfort gesture. He’s been around more often these past days and I don’t mind.

“It’s a fragile thing, living in a sandcastle. Smooth, poised, unperturbed. On the outside its a solid facade, on the inside a hollow. A simple tap of a fingertip away from shattering.” I nod. I am powerless in front of him. He knows. “Part of the reason why everything in here must remain prim and proper. Snug perfectly like pieces of a puzzle, each linking to its assigned position. Playing its own tiny part to keep the picture pendant.” He senses my fingers fickle again. My head begins to hurt harder, an artery must’ve burst. My consciousness seems to be flickering. On one minute, off the next. Eyes can’t focus. A hand on my head, he strokes my hair. He knows me too well.

“It’s okay, I’m right here. Are you breathing right? Repetition is key. We’re on the same team remember? 1, 2, 3, 1,2, 3…I told you I’ll never leave.”

His voice sounds like home, so i obey. He watches me breathe, and I count as i do. 1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3…repetition is key. 1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3, my croaky voice booms in the empty tiled bathroom, my only companion a lizard on the ceiling, and He.

Deciet

When blood runs stale
And veins go limp
When hearts go numb
And tears turn a scarlet shade
Limbs swell up and maggots assemble
When brains seep through nostrils galore
Then Lord looks down upon man, and says;
“Come to me, I’ve freed you from a hellish abode.”
Gullible and naive, the soul flies to the Maker’s embrace
Stumbles towards the eternal, stumbles towards a haze
What do you know, Oh you credulous being!
At the end of your final pilgrimage,
A hell far worse than earth awaits your grace.

 

 

 

Easy Art

I had rendered it impossibe

But you seem to have had passed

I thought it as the strangest thing

For a person to feel like art

Every quote that ever went

Along the lines of love

Felt to have fallen out of a fool’s fantasy

Too warm to break the ice in this heart

But when you lent me some of your light

The darkest parts of me grew roses

How did you do it, what a rude impasse

I look at you like I would look at the stars

The same wonder fills my gaze

How did you carve your place in my heart?

Should you be punished for such a crime

Or should I just spend the next few minutes

Locking in the memory of you, the scent of your being

The way your lock falls on your brow

Or the way you blush when we touch

Or the way your sweat lines the edges of your jaw 

Or how tears line your cheekbones when you look at children

Look at me already staring too long

I wish we could say out loud what went on in our heads

If only it was as easy as the love quotes make it sound

War guns

They say that it’s an art son
Making humans into war guns
Paper people, hearts blunt
Slide into your armours
That face deserves stardom
Your blood is to run in their gardens
Before planes shower pardons
What if the holy martyr
Turns out to be a bastard
What of the promised dark suns
This night lingers in all months
Go fix that paper mask
Paint it with soot and tar
Let flames engulf your mansions
Tonight we talk through arson
Die with brave scars sons
Reclaim what was ours once
Steady your guns, soldiers
Brewing wars they say, is an art son.

 

Tell

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Won’t you tell me of the things

That make your soul stir

And your breath shrink

Of things that set on fire

Your mind and you feel it burn

Course through your veins and reach

The tips of your fingers, tingling

And your palms itch, curl into fists

And make your eyes electric,

Diamond mines in coal lines

Tell me of the things that

You’re scared to say out loud

But the tip of your tongue

Has lost taste from being shut

And numb from suppression

And your ears long to hear

A sound of your kind

A sound that may rhyme

With the beat of your heart

And the whisper of your flaws

And with the sound of your soul

A silence that echoes within

Won’t you tell me of the things

That we share in broken glances

And broken sentences

Within broken caresses

Tell me what I want to hear

And our fears might live in harmony

 

 

 

 

 

How To Converse like Sheep


Sustaining a lively and unadulterated mind requires a practice of self preservation from any element of literature that might pose as a threat to the naivety of everyday life. The real struggle lies not in your pursuit for meaning or reason, rather it lies in keeping your demeanor and social display firmly eschewed from your beliefs; unless you wish your ideas and thoughts to devour your sanity as a whole. A distraught conduct leads the individual vulnerable and perilously exposed. An attempt to exhibit firm control on one’s actions must therefore, be practised diligently.

A societal manner best adopted would be hence to engage the listener in an essentially hollow yet witty chat regarding the latest gossip, carefully circumventing any topic of politics or social perils. Much like George Orwell’s oblivious society in his novel 1984, (but mind you don’t let anyone know the novel has mentally affected you, the simple excuse of casual reading should suffice if anyone seems curious) one cannot trust the people around to fully grasp and comprehend the grave nature of our current situations. Petty conversations about celebrities and fashion should be more than pleasing to ears that know nothing of the sound war artillery makes. 

The question then arises, how does one successfully spot an intellectul among a crowd of sheep. In a desperate attempt to find a mind with whom one can share their darkest theories with, one forgets that everyone has a specific threshold for darkness. One person’s level of darkness might be enough to drive another into madness. One risks the hazard of being responsible for stealing the spring from the step of their listener by rambling about reality. One risks surpassing the listener’s threshold for dark thoughts in their desperation to let theirs go.

The best way to go about, therefore, would be to take turns with one’s mind. Daylight means you control your body and actions. Night time is when, in the safe confines of your room,  away from people, you may let the darkness take over. A pen and a paper should be present always on one’s side for when things get out of hand and regaining control of one’s concious mind seems a struggle. There lies a beautiful strength in endurance.

An Ode to The Ocean

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You beautiful monster
Drifting careful in a slumber
Deeper than your thunder, how?
You deadly lover
Riding warriors on your back
Giver of life
Your ripples of anger
Setting in action only destruction
You magnanimous creature of wonder
How?
Your waters a thing of horror
Where do you keep your love
Does it come and then leave
Like your tides on days of glee
Where do you keep your love
Your barren surface deludes my ignorant, how?
Shall I bow down?
Your towers of liquid, send my blood to shivers
In these fragile bones, my heart booms
With warnings and rules
Your belly is a “valley of doom”
But I see no doom, how?
You astounding monster,
Sitting in the eye of the storm you conjure
You’re the chaos inside of a silent calm, how?
You show me blue
Another trick you use
To lure and seduce
Don’t seduce my mind
You know not how it weaves poetry for you
You’re the lover I want to deny
I run my fingers through
The liquid death you brew
And like the sun that you engulf
I long for you to embrace me too
Hold me in your arms
And give me the love you hide
Kiss my forhead and my mind
Envy burns in me when the sun or the wind touches you at night
You’re so beautiful when you sleep
What a perfect harmony You and I would be
I see no death in you
Only longing and a muse, how?

How

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What do you tell
The heart that breaks
When faith begins to shake
And all Reason feels fake
Existence seems a gory game
Electric realisation of mistakes
And all your hair stand on end
Shivers run down your spine
And your hands begin to shake
And your body contorts
To meet the knees’ embrace
The forehead that would graze
A prayer mat all night and day
Has now found a new place
Between two worlds in space
Blinded and dazed
The tongue that would say
Only grace and supplicate
Now stammers every time it prays
The eyes that held a modest gaze
Now struggle to detangle this maze
What would it take
To restore a broken faith
To put belief back in the mind
What of the heart that fails to find
The silver lining behind
The Misery of all time
How does The Divine
Intervene in crime
When crime sits on thrones
And the innocent fall prey
To the justice set by fate
How do you save
A stumbling faith
When the innocent pay
The price for the sins
Committed by saints
In the name of a god
Who silently watches us decay
As tyrants pave way
For eternally bound slaves
How do you save
A dissipating race