I borrowed my words,
I won’t lie or pretend.
I learned all of them.
None were mine.
All were stolen.
And each was taken,
From/by someone.
Yet, I feel like they are my own.
Only mine.
With how they understand,
The rough road in my head.
The scars of my soul.
And the broken cracks of my heart.
So, whenever they are scribbled,
Every time they are crafted,
I feel more and more entangled
With my borrowed, yet my own words.
Vainly, I followed the scent of life.
I traced the meaning of existence.
I broiled in the sea of freedom
To exploit the exempt from chains.
Yet, all was in vain.
For my stoned soul,
And my irretrievably lost self,
I recite my sad verses.
I sigh in sheer darkness
The loss and the burns
Of whatever was there
Imagined or realized.
For all the failed attempts
Of trying to speculate
The meaning of life,
I laid off the strife,
And I send myself off,
To the lighthouse at the reef.
To rotate and revolve
The constant lights
On all stumbles and the loss.
Perhaps, in a hope
To see the dark knots
With the broad lights.
[Maybe I’m hiding.
Or else, denying.
All the failures
And the trials.
Yet, in my lighthouse,
All is in peace.
In absolute silence.]
So I would say…
All was in vain.
All in mere insanity.
All for nothing.
And all for none!
With all the rages
And the riots in my head,
I burnt the bridges.
I burnt them all.
With all the overthinking I mastered over the years,
And the words I have gathered,
I verbally exploded.
I said it all.
Unhinged and unfiltered.
With all the quirks I have left,
The tiny swords I crafted,
I poked my own heart,
To let the poison out,
To squirt the venom
And to banish all bad.
I burnt all the bridges.
I cut all the ties.
Standing on the tower of ashes,
I sing the hymns of heroes,
The songs of the gods.
In a whim of my boldness.
My heart aches
For the mediocre heartbeats
It creates.
For the relentless noise
It jumbles and hassles.
My body loathes
The second Monday
More than it detests
The real Monday.
My head mourns
The throbbing aches
My face is half asleep
Raving in the deep.
Yet, my heart unceasingly beats.
Riveting in loud voices.
“I am alive!” It yells.
“You’re alive,” it reminds.
And it aches.
Mere existence aches.
Void survival echoes.
And life continues.
Life goes on.
Oh my dear, please come by,
Let us sip and sway,
Till we tire and sigh.
Run, cross the field
Before the day ends
We shall drown our sorrow
In the desolate meadow.
Come, make haste,
Do not be late.
The sour of the day,
Cannot stand in our way.
Together, we feast in the hey,
Denying the mist ,
While envisioning the ray.
We drown. And drown.
And then we float,
To the heights and the beyond.
No, this is not a folly.
Nor a waste of a night.
The toils won’t abandon.
The work shall remain.
Yet, before the new day comes,
We shall drown the sad
With the feast of the vine.
Oh my dear, please come by,
Let us sip and sway,
Till we tire and sigh.
I would’ve poured my heart out
But who would want to see my broken heart?
My bare, scarred, and marred heart?
I would’ve said it all
But who wants to hear the unending rants?
Who shall be interested in naked minds?
I would’ve done it all.
But who likes a do it all?
A know it all?
I would’ve would have it.
But I didn’t. And I shan’t.
Maybe I’m lazy.
Or too busy.
What could’ve been,
Or would have been,
Might have been better.
Or worse.
It is all uncertain.
And that’s a might.
I cleanse my defied soul,
Me defamed, poor, strunged self.
I rinse it on the altar
To edify the blemishes
To brighten the stained smile,
To smooth out the contours
Of my heart, soul, and face.
I cleanse the burnt ashes
Of the days I have burnt,
I rinse my frights,
My worst nightmares,
My raging angst
With a mere survival.
And now I’m freed.
I cleansed. I rinsed.
And I am free.
From the depths of betrayed trust,
Unbecoming fright
Of feeling left out,
Unloved and abandoned,
My cynic heart utters
The pessimic fret,
The sarcastic tunes,
And the unending jokes.
My wounded heart is plagued
In regrets and resents
For ever believing
And confiding
In anyone else, but not I.
And it sighs
A deep, sad sigh
Brewing a cynic chime.
My beckoned heart is antagonized,
For being a human once,
For uncomplicated existence,
For having a finesse,
Unyielding passion for living.
Now I sing along
The cynic mantras.
I chant the the rues
And overflowing despises.
Just to flaunt the distance,
The miles I walked
From the rest of the world,
And my old self.
I am outgrowing
The tiny world I have
Created for myself.
The minimized outfits
I have sewed for my thoughts.
My realm is shaking.
The blocks are rattling.
And my limbs are stretching.
To feel the extended world.
To writhe in the beyond.
Is this maturity?
Or is it just curiosity?
Have I known more?
Or do I just want to explore?
Am I a god of my little world?
Or have I just lost my hand
Over my own island?
I do not know.
I don’t suppose to know.
My thoughts outgrow
The former things I know.
And here I stand, staring
Not beyond my infinitesimal window.
Whenever my pen touches
The leaves of my notebook
I write.
Unstoppably. Unendingly.
I don’t suppose I’m a writer
For my words keep trailing off
Of my head.
My thoughts, unfiltered.
My heart, crumbled.
But,
We are not writers, are we?
We are imposters
Faking to be writers
We are thieves of moments.
Moments that should have been erased.
Hypes that must’ve been removed.
But,
We write.
With our bleeding fingers,
Into the walls,
Onto the papers,
We keep raining the letters.
I removed my spectacle
Hoping to see the universe
As a whole.
The world
As it is.
Between the dark and the light,
The cold or the hot,
Or between the thought and the act,
There, I stood straight.
In a complete realization.
Or a sense of fascination,
I, maybe, in need
To recede from this body,
To rise and float
In other altercations.
Perhaps the glasses
Were only the start
To see the world
As a fact,
Not a personalised puzzle
Or a riddle.
It existed, exists
Until it halts.
(Or they say).
It is not the past
That beckons us, is it?
It is not the realm
Of yesterday, that bothers us.
The past is past.
It ended.
What haunts us is the now.
Our present.
The leftover of the ceased.
The past we never parted from.
It is the tiny chains
I despise most.
The minute addictions
I can not abandon.
The giant faults and wrongs
I can erase.
The visible cuffs
I can easily break.
It is the itsy-bitsies
That I cannot condone,
Nor can I hid from.
While the day fades,
Into the realm of the black,
To the darkness on the brink,
The setting sun glooming,
I. Sit. Still.
Without a blink,
Nor contemplating.
In the realm of a grey dawn,
A partial joy, not a full white.
A part dehaze, not quite black.
The day recess,
With no shines,
Nor somberness.
The sun simmers.
The light glazes.
The day awakens,
At full brightness.
And the morning shreds,
The half gazes into full.
In a yellow morning,
I feel my pupil widening,
My thoughts, abiding,
To see beyond the scars,
The wrinkles and the grazes,
Into a full ambiance,
And a genuine bliss.
Unabridged Manuscripts 