This room

all the memories 


this room has swallowed 


sits in silken, sad uncertain ;



if asked for a drink and chat 


i forbid it from coughing up


all my stories 



for they are nothing but 


the ferocious atrocity


of opportunities missed



the last of which


i swear


will always be you. 



New kind of stuff

So I decided to move my sassier, more socially aware, less idealistic and dreamy self over to a new space where I post articles, most about the very interesting way I learn the world works and any moments of humour I salvage from my life. Enjoy 🙂

Link: www.damnitq.wordpress.com

She couldn’t.

She couldn’t. 
This is the story of the girl
Who was afraid of herself –
There is wondrous power
In the human conscious and she,
Well,  she was afraid to use it. 
These people could not accept that
Kind of girl,  so she believed
She couldn’t become it. 

She couldn’t. 
She just couldn’t,  and
Nobody noticed how much she
Wanted to be defined not by
Everything she couldn’t do,
But by the way heart liked to believe
This universe was never out of reach.

She couldn’t. 
That is the story of the girl
That thought she could
Grasp the world by the horns
And tame it. 
But her love was enough for only little,
And in that little,  she was
Eventually content. 

What a beautiful day when she learns
that the things she could do will always
far outweigh that which she couldn’t. 

What a marvelous day when you learn that too. 

All is wild; all is free

There are certain things only a city can teach you. The way it stops your breath, no time to fill lungs with sweet oxygen before next stop; your stop; you stop and walk into more people before- Friday? Sure, I can make it and so make every shred of free time you have disappear. You can’t find this sort of treatment elsewhere. Here in the city, you’re always surrounded by strangers. What I mean is if you died, the only clue to some sort of organic existence would be that very organic smell of disappointment and lost dreams and a deceased home wafting through the hallways from underneath your doorway. The same doorway of the tiny apartment your father is still paying for and my father, before I left, set a condition for my future husband and marriage – it was only that I don’t marry an idiot. At 28, I’ve married a city. A city that has so much to offer to the point where it becomes rain on clay. People keep coming here seeking baptism in its showers, for the sky’s always overcast and so’s 78.92% of its people. Here the only kind of baptism they’ve ever known was that out of a home into a battlefield, washing away that last bit of belonging the town grew in them. Of course, happiness looks different to different people but a population that finds it in drug induced delusions, secrets pouring out over foam and blood – they ensure this city needs a doctor. One to cut open the clogged aortic highways and drain these glass prisons of all the innocent blood looking for paradise. This is not paradise. This will never be paradise. This is where you look upon the people you love and wonder why they make you so lonely. I wish I whispered this to you minutes before you arrived in this city, my city, looking for paradise. Soon, once you absorb this city in, you’ll learn the only honour of passing this classroom test is the freedom of knowing all things are born wild, all things are born free. Except you.

Frustratingly fascinating people

People are really the most frustratingly fascinating creatures. They can be maddening but also absolutely breathtaking sometimes and I, I have no clue what to do about that.

I know people who can be magnetic. People who command attention when they speak, as if the same words that I can say find power only in them. They have interesting things to say, sometimes. It’s more of how they say it. Their ease in conversation attracts people. It makes them feel comfortable. I am drawn to such people.

I know people who can be caring. People who could look like jerks turn out to be some of the nicest people I know. They’ve genuine hearts, ones that put others before themselves because they truly do love the people they surround themselves with. Their smiles are full of understanding, eyes of the kind that see too much pain they cannot help. I am drawn to such people.

I know people who can be stubborn. People with the attitudes of celebrities who are allowed such position due to wealth and influence, things the people I know do not have. But they treat life with nonchalance. Quick to love, quick to forget. I am drawn to such people.

I know of people who can be interesting. People who don’t have any sort of redeeming quality save for the astuteness of their mind. Their answers hold much depth in them and behind their lack-luster exterior they spin threads of thought too tangled for passers by to accept. I am drawn to such people.

I also do not like all of them.

The people who command attention can be needy when they have none; people who are caring sometimes forget boundaries but will mind if you overstep theirs; people who are stubborn – their eyes are hard, the glint of steel in their hearts can clearly be seen when their gears scratch and grind against those of others; people who are interesting can be a pain to interact with because they never lose the faraway look in their eyes.

But tell me, isn’t everyone all of those things?

You can be magnetic to the right people. The way your eyes glow and your mouth is set in a half smile every time you talk about something you love – it’s irresistible.

You can be caring. Every time you see your friend cry or hurt, you hurt too. Your heart aches for them and you wish you could help. You try in your own way, and sometimes they notice and thank you. You love when they notice.

You can be stubborn. When you refuse to  see someone else’s view although they’ve tried every way they know to get you to understand. You’re sure you know what’s best.

You can be interesting. So interesting. There are forests growing inside you that are too vast to understand and sometimes too much to venture into and make sense of.

People fascinate me to no end, the way they can move between the thin lines of good and bad.

You see, we aren’t static beings. We mould and shape ourselves like plastic being heated under a flame as time goes on. We are imprinted on; sometimes the contours we do not like are there because we let someone help. Sometimes we are the way we are today, beautiful in our own right, because we let someone help. These someones may not good, not bad, just not right for us at the time. Or perhaps they were almost perfect.

This fluidity of good and bad, of whole and broken – there is much still for me to understand, much to be observed, much to be learnt.

I take what I find, what I’ve searched for in other people, and turn it into poetry. It is the only place I can immortalise them. My poems are littered with chance references of people I know mixed with people I don’t. Sometimes I find people I could write so much poetry about. I do not. I cannot. I will not let myself be confined to the outlines of one muse. So I write about all of them.

One day I should like to remember the people I used to know from their trails in my poetry. On that day I might hope that they remember me. On that day, I’ll hope they remember their stories too. That’s really what it boils down to. What you know of people are their stories. They know only your stories too.

People are stories. Stories are people. Perhaps in this universe stories would exist without people to pen them down. But really, sometimes the fun of stories is all in the telling.


 

I should give credit where credit is due. This post was inspired by some people I know. They are all amazing and they have no clue how much I enjoy their company. Perhaps I’ll find the courage to tell them one day.

 

Sympathy

My darling,  I don’t understand
Why you feel pain for me. 
I can assure you, 
I would not have life any way else. 

Iron heart

she has an iron heart in a glass cage with blood red curtains and wooden stools littered around its armoured resting place. he is oceans of emotion welling in eyes that do not speak. he still writes poetry she throws away but can’t forget. because somewhere in this iron heart, she feels it tear. they do not believe iron could tear but at corners, the seams of armour are ripping apart, tendrils of blood leaking through rusting rivets and screws. he is laughing at her. him and his pen. him and those eyes that are silent. she has never seen those eyes laugh or ache with pain. she thinks his life is better that way because now this glass cage is bursting with everything she’d rather not feel; she thinks she is drowning. he begun this. him with his glass eyes and iron pen. he cannot save her.


I guess I’ve a habit of using prompts by other people to write poetry. Here’s another one, by a different close friend who doesn’t seem to want to talk to me anymore. So yeah, this is also somewhat painful to look at for too long. So what do I do? Put it up on the internet. I suppose it’s just my form of catharsis.

Losing you

she was always scared of losing you

she asked that lights be kept on,

morning calls of dawn don’t startle you

and tulips don’t make you sneeze

for

she was afraid of the shattering

of you against concrete tile –

the moment you were broken and lost

amongst the dull hunched grass.

she was scared of losing you to you.

————————–

Inspired by ‘Losing you to you’ performed by Hammock.

Hitch-hiking

In retelling there always seems to be an even mix of the believable but untrue and the unbelievable but true. My stories perhaps land in the category of unbelievable and untrue, for the truth to me always seemed like something you chose, the facet of a diamond you liked the most to view it from. But it is true, I swear, every word.

He said alright. Or perhaps he did. I cannot remember. He always sounded like he said the same word with different intonations. He said he’d let me hitch a ride thirty six miles down the road.

I got in, and slammed the door shut when a loud whirring noise began. Before we knew it we were falling, the ground had opened and we fell.

No, it was me falling. Me falling off a cliff into clear water.

No, it was him disappearing into dark green forests.

No, it was us at opposite ends of a road that lost its distance.

At the end of the day, it was me, it was him, it was clear water in glass jars, it was artificial waterfalls against cliffs whose spines I wanted to kiss – I swear it was just that.

As night fell I watched for headlights. He said alright. He said he’d drive me the thirty six miles to the end of the road.

Where is home, he asks.

Home is arbitrary. I’d like to make it here. It’s a nice place.

Then there is suddenly light and now 0 miles from anywhere. So I watch for headlights.

This time, after he agrees to drive me 36 miles to the end of the road, I tell him about the sunset I store in yellow mason jars and the night I’ve cradled inside my backpack.

Of course, all of it is true. You just never believe me.

The night

the night cries as the stars grow distant.
you’re like the moon,
afraid of her own shadow;
unaware of the light of her beauty.
my God, how much poetry
can be written about the soul
you bare every night.