Indecisive With Colour.

Imagine the world in monochrome,
Nothing but varying shades of black and white.
Would this still feel so wrong
Or would it finally feel right?
Because I wouldn’t have to filter through shades of grey,
Attempting to distinguish cruel from unassuming,
Or nostalgia from deep longing.
I wouldn’t have the luxury of range.
Maybe indecisiveness would evade,
This unsettled heart of mine.


Happiness vs Creativity.

I’m happy now.
Although, I fear I wouldn’t be able to write again
Because my poetry feeds off of pain,
Off of long suffering.
The fear of rejection,
The pang of uncertainty.
Things which now feel like a distant memory.
Like someone else’s reality.
I have comfort and compassion,
Peace and perhaps, something more than affection.
I have everything but, my gift
So I have nothing.


Curses For Freedom.

When I write about past experiences,
I hope that no one notices.
And when references are made to moments that I cherish forever,
I speak temporary memory loss into past lovers.
The same kind that made you forget my worth,
The same kind that allowed you neglect sacrifices made and emotions brought forth.
I speak a lack of care,
In instances where the mind is aware.
That you remember but are nonchalant.
So I can write without withholding,
Information capable of causing a spiritual uproar.



Lately I’ve been avoiding writing,
Just like I avoid reminiscing.
Just like I avoid falling…
Deep into a state of love.
Deep into a sea of vulnerability.

I’m afraid it’ll take away my perceived mental stability.
Force me to think intricately,
About the decisions I make today and the day after.
I mean, was that a closed chapter?
Or is this to makeup for the leftovers?

So, I’ve been avoiding writing,
Just like I avoid starting over.
Just like I avoid being sober.
It’s not the train of thoughts that scare me,
It’s the possibility of clarity,
A conclusion I’m not ready to accept yet.


Day 590 (nm).

If today was a colour,
It would be bright orange,
Like the flame in my heart.
It once burned blue,
Intensely hot and infused with passion.
But as the days pass, enthusiasm evades me.
Excitement now sounds like a foreign concept,
And my head no longer bops to the memories it stores.
My fingers are no longer eager to trace over familiar features;
Eyes, nose, beards like a king.
Chest, abdomen, arms with muscles like sand dunes.
There’s nothing here but a vague recollection of what was once irresistible,
There’s nothing here at all.
I’m afraid I’m cursed,
With a mind unable to accept stability,
And a heart, incapable of nurturing emotions induced by dopamine.
At what point do I accept this as my fate?


The End Before The End

“I’m leaving”,
Said my heart said to my brain.
But I act like I can’t comprehend that,
Because it has only been a couple of months.
Sometimes I humour myself into believing this came as a shock.
Like my life isn’t a compilation of half-hearted associations with people who deserved better.
People who asked for more,
People who longed for the one thing I did not possess.
How could I possibly give you something I have never known?
I can’t make up affection or compassion.
Can’t create emotional ties or intimacy.
These concepts only exist outside the realm of my reality,
But you knew that.
Yet, you still blame me
As we arrive at the last lap.
I know this phase too well and so do my readers,
It’s the part where I begin to speak the end into existence,
Hoping that “the power of life and death is in the tongue” isn’t just another fairytale story.



There are butterflies in your belly,
But you act surprised,
And that amuses me.
Did you forget?
Maybe hope that things would change?
Because you didn’t,
And neither did she.
But you act surprised,
And that amuses me.

Your cheeks hurt from smiling,
And your abs from laughing,
But you act surprised,
And that amuses me.
When did you think his jokes would stop being funny?
Or perhaps, time would alter your sense of humour?
It’s why you stayed away for so long,
But you act surprised,
And that amuses me.

All packed up and more than eager to go down memory lane.
It was your reality,
Your safe space,
Your hideaway even when life was beautiful.
It makes sense when you continuously make pitstops as you journey through nostalgia,
It helps with elongated encounters,
But 24 hours would never be enough time.
Not for you, not for them.
But you still act surprised,
And that amuses me.


Just Incase.

Incase we don’t have tomorrow,
I want you to know
Today is the best day of my life
Simply because I know you exist
In a space where I can call home.


Blank Canvas.

A paintbrush and some water
That’s all I need,
All I ask for.
A paintbrush and some water,
That’s all I require
To explain what’s stirring up in my heart,
To map out my desire.
My happiness, my joy
My god sent golden boy.
A paintbrush and some water,
To draw lines both bent and straight,
To represent paths crossed,
Beliefs intertwined,
Lips interlocked.
A paintbrush and some water,
Because this radiates colour.
Bold, Vibrant,
But nobody has to know,
Nobody deserves to see what I see.
So I dip my paintbrush in some water,
And start on this blank canvas.
There’s lines and curves,
Patches more soaked than the others.
It’s beautiful to me,
It’s colourful to me.
No one else needs to see the illumination I feel,
Not from up close, not from far away,
No one else needs to confirm,
Or reject or challenge,
Not to my face, not when I turn away.
When I dip my paintbrush in some water,
And let loose on this beautiful canvas,
All that matters is what I see.
It’s not just white cloth soaked in transparent moisture,
I see patterns and precision,
I see patience and passion,
I see colours,
I see you.



They call me crazy
Not out loud
Not even in hushed voices
They’re afraid I’d hear their every sound
Afraid I would know…

They call me crazy
In their heads,
On the internet
I know these things
I know everything
I feel like I know…

They call me crazy
Because my eyes dart around
And my fingers tremble
When presented with situations that make me panic

Guess what? I know..

My fingers pull and twist
Forming knots in places where they shouldn’t exist
Then uproot
Distributing a burst of pain which brings relief

I can’t help it
They can’t help me
So they call me crazy in their deepest thoughts
But I read minds
So, I know.