i want to give up writing. inspiration doesn’t flow from me anymore.
there is too much pain to vent and not enough words. with my limited vocabulary and terrible concentration how will i ever express my truest feelings? even voicing my own thoughts seems hard these days. when i sit to read all my past work, i feel alien to myself. i can’t recognize the person who wrote this.
i realize this because i don’t know who i am. i have questions but no answers. i have means but no will. i have goals but no hope. all i desire, leaves me. all i cherish, dies and all i keep, decays. i did this to myself. my crooked arm of evil twisted the levers and swung the fulcrum. savoring the regret. i have a million. one for every scar, stab, spit and more. they will pile on until i’m crushed under the weight of my anguish.
everything this world has to offer is wonderful. i don’t care about any of it now. all wonders are paltry. all laughter is forced. only pain feels like home. married to despair with emptiness on its way. as of now, the chaos of thoughts will only entertain the conscious mind. soon thoughts will freeze. words will halt. i will go mute. incapable of even speaking with people. walls will be built. prisons of self hate and apathy. this will become my habitat.
nobody will bother to remember my name. incognito, i will chase the flame in my dark maze of tears and drool.
Never sit to re-download your long lost dubstep collection in one night, you will be cumming music all over your keyboard since you will immaculately find your old groove and not know when to stop successfully defeating the need for food, rest, hygiene, sleep and surprisingly music itself thereby ironically killing the reason for which you mindlessly deprived yourself in the first place.
NOTE TO SELF
A quarter to one at 3 in the night
could ideally be fun, not without warning.
Sitting alone in a room full of one
waiting for clues that glue the hour,
Fluidly spacy in the psychedelic lull
of drifting silence just half past none.
One and three quarters align
magically, weeks have just gone by.
"Your poetry these days is quite depressing son.
Cheer up before the waning comes.”
My fingers have ribs
directed inward, the squiggly lines
that make up the prints
on the walls with eyes
face to face with the mindful trees
nature listens to my shriveled cry
as morning breaks into an evening sky.
Christmas is done with
the new year is gone
boredom sings its sadistic song
frozen beneath the empire’s lies
the truth is fading in the mire
smoothly set in place
set pieces are falling away.
If this won’t sustain
I can find my way back again
I won’t be blinded by illusions,
indifferent to the calendar’s milestones
and get away from this confusion
for once, I’d like mourning to feel
not like another gloomy dusk.
Another lucrative year of waste
Sordid hours of tasteless taste
Quiet evening in stupor lay
Hung suspended in the new years day
With witty demurrals and ignorant chaste.
The wicker man was right
Like him we all shall burn
Ask the darkness that weaves the night
The wicker man was right
Daylight has brought us spite
The dusky Rubicon shall never discern
The wicker man—was right
Like him, we all shall burn.
To the one who hosts competitions…
Which bastard gave you the right?
I wouldn’t listen to your rules even if you paid me.
Nor would I let you tell me how I would write my poem.
I could write something totally not related to your competition and submit it.
Maybe I’ll fuck your girlfriend and let you read about how it went.
She didn’t take your name when she came(just so you know)
Who said you could take such liberties?
I’m gonna bash your head in with an exhaust pipe
And when it dents and gains a sharp edge I’ll start scrapping your eye with it
Just one, I want you to see…
You wanna host competitions, do ya? meet my little match
Ever wondered how a lit match feels in your nostril?
If I sparked it and let the gunpowder catch flame in your nose, how wonderful would that feel?
Listen here Mr. you asked for this by hosting it… there’s no backing out now…
I still have a few things to run you over with.
Anal umbrella? no splash guard? ugh… too messy…
Ah my favorite! the serpent’s tongue.
For that I’ll first have to break your jaw, then hold your tongue out
Then I’ll stretch your tongue out with clamps and slice it right down the middle
Such a fitting exercise. For you.
You have become what you really are.
I’ll leave your manny parts intact… I know how we are when It comes to those.
I will tell you though, you won’t be able to use em ever again… sorry about the irony.
Lets get down to business, shall we?
I hate you. You know why.
I’m gonna inject you with a pain enhancing serum.
Then I will administer XXXX XXX
It’s an ancient technique of entertaining someone.
Dating all the way back to almost 900 AD
It was banned, sadly, in the last century.
Anyway, you’re lucky I have knowledge of this
It won’t spoil our fun… lets start with the obvious places
Eye lids, lips, ears, finger tips, toes, arm pits, the nipples, the wrists….etc….
You shouldn’t bother keeping count, that’s my job
But I highly doubt you’ll even live past number 233.
Ordnance of the wealthy, corrupt
Sculpting the public image.
Garnishing with admiration, cloaking gall.
Mass murder and grand larceny
Have to, in some way, come clean in the books.
Money is fabricated out of thin air.
Know that you don’t know anything.
When debt is created, pockets are lined
This is the white way in a dark world.
When the receipts are missing, the cash is stashed.
Black must then become white for the sake of tax.
All of this ultimately boils down to charity.
Deplorable or reliable, evil or honest
Easiest way to wash the attic and eyes of the tax officers.
Feigning effigies and respect in the face of media
As they donate to those they’ve stolen from with a hearty smile.
Neither will recognize, but will be eternally grateful the other exists.
Just an excuse to wake up in the morning and not feel awful.
I can’t make out what he’s saying
Why is he speaking so slow?
A drug coursing through my veins?
I want to retort
But, this lengthy pause in my throat….
When will my first syllables reach the air around me?
Is it air that surrounds me?
I can’t feel it on my skin, my face
The sky appears to be motionless
How long as it been since the clouds moved?
It’s been months, no, years,
Centuries since I felt my heartbeat
So much time to think, to dream,
I can’t remember the last time I took a breath
Am I still exhaling?
Am I even?
I feel old
Far older than I was when this battle began
As old as time itself
He tricked me, it wasn’t supposed to be like this
How long has it been since his blade pierced my arm?
When will I feel the pain from this razor’s edge on my palm?
How much longer before it reaches my heart?
I can’t take it anymore!
Damn you, Stop torturing me!
Hurry, hurry, hurry!
Hurry up and kill me!
A mere trifle, this thing that troubles the lid.
Forever in fear, unable to compose
Vision stoops to comprehend this failure,
A glimpse of blindness,
With the ardor of helplessness.
De facto, it is in the eyes of another
Where you, were mistaken.
The red in between
Defining ties of the wicked, wise
In stupor and pain, in insomniac lethargy
The poisoned gaze, returns quietly.
Sun shades, remember
Anger cheats as much as it destroys.
The flaming ash of a cigarette,
Another excuse for a Gimlet.
Optimized my ass!
My ass lets out farts
quicker than my PC starts.
Ah deceit, you wicked bastard
creeping up uninvited, as always
no one sees you coming
none will know when you’re gone
your delicious lies stay but for an instant
and here still, you find a cue
to salt the exposed wounds.
You were never missed
your many forms, vibrant faces
the infamy and calumny
stories unchecked and forgotten
buried under the moniker of bygones.
Yet the scars remain,
deep cuts betrayal, but never fills.
The entrusted deceiver
your snake in the grass
silence is deadlier than a sharp tongue
this venom cannot drown a writhing heart
hope, kindling another tragedy
the reasons are always above par
emotions run amuck on monkey bars.
The tongue blackens every time
you sever the threads which bind loyalty
leaving the void to suck away the remains
into a crushing dark abyss
the face carries a smile that never fades
the heart has long since withered to naught
now, it cheats itself to bitter death.
Seated high on the throne of infamy
His smarting embrace envelopes pure desire
From the water you drink to the air you breathe
From the riches of kings to the rags of beggars
Your freedom, your mind, your possessions, your obsessions
Craving greatness and gall, everything and all
Senselessly slaved to the poisoned yearning of his core
He is avarice absolute, he wants the world and more.
This city has changed
People are strange, perceptions, deranged.
Its inhabitants stained, weak minded and frail.
broken hearts going stale.
Promiscuous minds wander the streets,
frivolity calls, idle minds weep.
Blazing past the anguish,
the glass persona of society creeps.
Selling soul, for a moment’s grace,
to shame that tattoos without a trace.
Withering away into another day,
humility sings songs of disgrace.
Ignorant and blind scurrying to find
a companion to vivify their lonely day.
Drowned in blood in alcohol, in mud,
stripped to the bone, they cry in vain.
Never was this the way it is.
A new face now hides the bliss.
The shadows are hollow, destitute is joy,
inhibition has blown it’s final kiss.
Dead by day, raped by night,
used and abused in all their spite,
torn between what’s wrong and right.
Sin wreaks from their skin,
lust and avarice, the envy of hubris.
Lost in profanity, autonomous reality
still cursed and proud, still unknown.
Beats of madness and colors insane
rekindle debauchery, revive the pain.
Controlled by debt, everything is a borrowed lie.
Alive they are useless, life is a disease
living is horror, only death brings ease.
- Edited by Harish Nair
- Original A new face
Now is not the best time to explain things
I’ve only just started piecing it together and I’m already growing impatient to let it out.
We all dream, keep your defenses.
It doesn’t matter if you can’t remember, or you simply choose not to, your mind works while you’re asleep whether you want it to or not.
Monks are lying bastards.
They dream of more nude women than Hugh Hefner dreads to.
It’s a cognitive world within your own. You control its limits, you rule its boundaries… you bend reason. Your very own simulator. A poetic response to your inner turmoil and imbalance. Capable of flow, direction and evaluation. Something to teach you while you’re sleeping or entertain you while you’re easing.
But more often than not I end up on the dark edges of my mind’s shriveling synapses, desperately trying to make sense of the erupting chaos within. A strategic backlash of reality with grim undertones. Void of logic or pertinence to anything even remotely related to my life. Almost senseless.
Dreams are for the innocent. Nightmares are reserved for the wicked, or so my elders said. But when you grow up, your nightmares grow with you becoming darker and bleaker with experience and knowledge that you’ve consciously or sub consciously gained with age. A cacophony of thought igniting every mental nerve until the shock reels you from your hell.
Lately, my dreams have been lucidly obscure. Irrationally dim.
Two, three, sometimes even seven, one after another. Within the span of a couple of hours my mind is thrashed by the recurrent horrors of imagination. Uncontrolled and violently debilitating, I lie weak and drained in bed every afternoon. There is no mourning in my day. Enveloped by its melancholy I am forced to reset my train of thought. The overture of this madness spits on the spark that would otherwise lighten up a new day. It’s become a chore to wake up and lie staring into space trying to recollect reality and separate newly forged memories, that shouldn’t even exist, from those that should remain. I’m unsure if my eyes are even closed when I am fighting this sub conscious war. Fever dreams are a walk in the park. This is the real deal. A reverie on acid in the river Styx, and Charon is Jesus.
What follows after the liberation is a mess of things. Disorientation and apathy subtly set in. A million questions with no answers and no one to ask but the mind. A mind who’s whim even I myself can’t fathom. So my tasteless day is decorated with deja vus I shouldn’t feel and nostalgia I can’t. If I don’t pull myself out sooner than I do, I’d be lost in limbo til dusk. Then in the dark I will find more demons running astray. Some at the bottom of a glass bickering away, some in the crevices of the walls preying on consorts and others in the harsher solitude of unsought company wearing smiles to their dismay.
Whatever be the case, I will ultimately find my way back to the bed and into my head, and once again, this motion picture preview I will dread. Another page from the book of agony will then be read leaving nothing unsaid.
By the way, do you know how Bloody-eyed Mary died? She drowned her dreams in a sea of red and dreamed her last before she bit the lead.
Her eyes are now mine. Praise be to the dreaming dead.