Tag: #rants

Reverse poetry (1): you scar me and call yourself a healer/

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//You scar me and call yourself a healer
I cry myself to sleep at night
thinking it might eventually get better,
only for you to put the baggage of your ‘humour’ (read: insecurities) on my shoulders.
I pretend to stifle a ‘scoff’ (read: sob)
as i try to pass you by
being dumbfounded and laughed at
and my shoulders feel numb and tears threaten to fall.
You push me to a dark corner i can’t retreat back from.
With your hand around my neck
i can’t seem to find my voice,
I want to breathe, you’re choking me.

// I want to breathe, you’re choking me
I can’t seem to find my voice
with your hand around my neck.
You push me to a dark corner i can’t retreat back from
and my shoulders feel numb and tears threaten to fall,
being dumbfounded and laughed at.
As i try to pass you by,
i pretend to stifle a ‘scoff’ (read: sob)
only for you to put the baggage of your ‘humour’ (read: insecurities) on my shoulders.
Thinking it might eventually get better,
Lord knows how i cry myself to sleep at night.
Yet, you scar me and call yourself a healer?

creased canvas

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I lay awake at 3:07 in the morning
I groan and wonder should i sleep?
Can I sleep?
I want to paint that one image I have in my mind for days
But I can’t make myself to do so
The colours on my palette seem to annoy me, i can’t look at them
Yet I get up and reach for my brushes
They feel so fragile and satiny between my fingers
Like they might slip away just like my peace and resolve,
So I hold them tight.

I stare at the blank canvas with unblinking eyes
the crisp white acrylic paper looks unnerving.
It isn’t the darkness in my room weighing down on my shoulders but
the nothingness from the blank canvas that aggravates me.
My thoughts are blurring out,
Still I am able to make out indistinct letters in between the crease lines of the blank white paper.

Those letters seem to mock me
For being a let down,
for hating everything i am not supposed to,
for being unappreciative of the people that still hold on to me.
My head aches severely
Lord, how I wish I could cry!
But my tears probably have dried out.
I want to scream but all that falls from my lips is a faint sigh,
I wince at the sound of my own voice.

You see, anxiety is too chaotic, it fogs my senses
but I don’t let it loosen my grip on my brushes
I hold them, tight.
There might me creases on the paper but my strokes are as smooth as silk.
I can delineate my way through this nothingness into something graceful,
I just get lost sometimes,
Only to find myself back through fine strokes and elegant colours.
I can flawlessly blend the crease lines with my hues to make them appear almost non-existing,
I am skilled at it.
So, you see it gets blue around me sometimes yet i paint the canvas pink.

Scribbles that I can’t name (1)

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Ghosts of your stories are breathing in the fire /
I am sad just like every other person tells you, the only difference is I don’t complain about my life rather there are  raged ghosts suppressed deep inside me, feeding on my sanity and slowly  sucking the life out of me because of  things which weren’t supposed to go wrong. I don’t claim to be broken, I prefer to call myself scarred for I have burned in self-vacillation for years now. Yes, I can heal if I want to but I don’t have immense emotional energy in me to try and little of which is left I need it for my “routined life.”

You hold the key to the light of your life /
You tell me that you’ll always be with me, that we are in this together. I believe you because you treat me well, hold my hand when I’m cold, we fall asleep at night talking to each other on call. You preach about light of one’s life and the key to it but I reckon I have found it, in you to be more precise it’s you. You also write poetry about me and make me feel like a goddess. I start to think I am in love with you so I tell you everything, everything you ask me about my life, my darkest of secrets, my ghosts. I open my scar for you to perform a autopsy of my soul and I think I feel no pain because I’m so in love with you. I let you dig deeper and bring out the tiniest of things from within me till there’s nothing left and you write more about me? On me?

Oh, but you lie it got too hazy in the comfort of your love /
It’s been a while and things are quite different now. Your eyes seem so cold and your words are distant. Is it your guilt or is it my inculpating eyes gawking at you wanting justifications for why you lied? It hurts to think how you plump out the bloody scarps of horror and misery from my soul just to make it look like yours. It breaks my heart as you place these scraps so carefully in between the words of your labrynthine poetry to portray the persona of a heartbroken and lost writer because people like a sad writer more and you can’t fit in that character because you never experienced misery. It amazes me how cleverly you vended my soul and vulnerability to prevent the death of your not-so-thoughtful “poetry” and I did not realise any of that because I was so hazed by the idea of what you described as love.

Song:- Ghosts of Your Stories by Short Round https://open.spotify.com/track/29sUqcYMA5X3QRQORarmMR?si=QFkSn0ZTRUqbHHhbGTZlHw {PS. this song is the one I ranted about so yeah it was basically my inspiration for writing this piece :)}