Artist, writer, disaster

// Basically I finished Broadchurch, the BBC show, and had to get this out of my system

I found summer in your violences I found claustrophobia reckoning me Beckoning me To hold on And do right by you one last time In this love we bound each other in I found a one sided road to your garage And when I arrived there it was empty But the keys were on the floor Keys to a parked car in my dreams And you were on the driver's seat while the passenger's was empty I was on the road ahead And you were driving full speed with headlights blaring Mind glaring, I screamed And you heard me but didn't heed So here I was lying face first on the wooden floor instead of a concrete road And the stars shining up above could be seen through reflections of my pooling blood all around me Without having to lift your head up, up, high up and gaze at the clouds Beyond the roof, beyond the many floors over our heads A wooden floor under the open sky A car parked on the side An accident, a murder Deliberate Honest I thought you promised, I thought you promised.

There are parts of my skin that need itching Parts that need to be bitten There are parts that need to be cut And parts that need to be beaten

There are parts of my skin that need to be stitched There are parts that go low Like valleys and mountains and cities within There are parts that glow

There are parts of my skin that are boundless Stretching as far as the ocean untamed There are parts of my skin that are trapped Eternally in a void so endless

There are parts of my skin that have never been touched By someone unknown, but someone trusted There are parts of my skin that have been violated all over Bruised, cursed, blamed and rusted

There are parts of my skin that have never seen the sun There are parts that have never seen the moon Parts that have never felt a breeze But have always longed for them to happen soon

There are parts of my skin I have kissed There are parts I need to be kissed There are parts I need for someone to cherish There are parts I need to be worshiped before they perish

I have parts of my skin that are incomplete And parts that will repay the world's debt tenfold I have parts of my skin that long for promises unbroken And hold the record of a history forever untold.

Kaleidoscopes are good at judging people Their reactions to the shifting colours will tell you why they laugh and why they cry Oh restless soul, leave this hole before you fall in love with the city Sitting in a photo gallery is a comment on society They'll frame the lives of those infront of you who have never touched a camera before And force you to appreciate it as Art They'll look at your face expectantly As if asking for affirmation “This is moral, right?” “I did it correct, right?” “You love it, right?” Oh restless soul, leave this hole before you fall in love with betrayal

I'm sorry to the flowers I trampled along the way While I ran for dear life, far far away I'm sorry to the lily pads I carelessly jumped upon When life threw arrows at me while my mind was gone I'm sorry to the buds that died under my feet For I didn't have time to stop nor had time to treat I'm sorry to the cherry blossoms that went unnoticed When I was too busy reading a tapestry, unfocused I'm sorry to the wild ones that got tangled in my ankles Because I never reached out so you pulled me with shackles I'm sorry to the roses and the tulips in the hay That got left behind by a lovers dismay I'm sorry to the ones I've thrown at the feet of idols For I'd have only known devotion like a fifth grade recital I'm sorry to the unborn ones that perished under terror I wasn't there to stop it, and I wish life was fairer I'm sorry, beloved rhododendrons, I'm sorry to the moon I'm sorry I clung to you without melody or tune I'm sorry, dear rafflesia, no one appreciated your worth You had to feed on dead carcasses, yet not symbolised with rebirth.

She is a hint of green in a sea of blue She sees cracks on the glass as spider webs She has headphones on, not to drown the silence outside, but the loudness inside And her hand shakes every time the housefly lands on the cup of coffee sitting in front of her Long forgotten Gone cold

There are four cars outside the cafe window Parked in a neat row Their blinkers are on As if they're about to take a turn when the signal goes green Except there is no signal And there is not turn. The road on goes straight ahead And at the end stands black fur and yellow eyes Yellow eyes that feel like dual muzzles of an air rifle Pointed right towards her forehead No aim, no goal, just the suspense Till the trigger is pulled She finds herself not wanting to fight it She has seen people fight But she's not a fighter, no matter how much everyone tells her that she is She doubts herself every hour of every day She doubts all her relationships except that with her brother That one, she doubts the next day

She wishes people would just tell her That how truly alone she was That no one really cares about her She wishes people wouldn't lie about liking her There's nothing to like about her She has given it all away, has let it perish There's nothing left within that rusted ribcage of hers which is missing the last two floating bones Her insides are broken, battered, bruised And she wishes there was someone to whom she could show it all Open up and fall apart and break in their arms Only for them to pick her right up along with all her pieces She wishes she was not alone But she doesn't want to be not alone She wants to live, not die And she wants to be sure if the trigger will be pulled at some point after all She wants to be sure that she isn't the one pulling it She doesn't want to kill herself She wants to live As long as someone else wants her to as well, until her time is up And she wants to try her best till then.

She thinks of a climax, the last scene in her very own play And she wants to say goodbye to only her brother He's the first one that comes to her mind, And then she imagines her loved ones looking at her corpse long after the trigger is pulled Long after she was unable to say her goodbyes She wants to cry at the fallacy of it all But there are no tears left to shed So she drinks her coffee instead And drowns her worries in it And pretends that the cars outside the window aren't about to make a u-turn away from her life

She finds a string, and pulls And she holds onto that tightened string She doesn't want to let go But she wishes the string would snap on its own Letting her freefall.

He's walking He thinks of a poem while he walks He wants to write it when he goes home But will he be able to? Will he remember it with the intensity and flow it has in his mind right now? He doesn't ponder upon the thought though That's not what he wants to do.

He's in a lecture, a seminar And he drifts off He wants to be present He wants to show an expression of relatability on his face to the speaker in front of him The author, of a book he didn't care to remember Or ask, Was so vulnerable. (He could never do that) Instead he's thinking about that poem The room is cold It makes him want to sleep There is a bag on the table And the handle is hanging off the edge It's disturbing He wants to fix it It's not his bag Intrusive thoughts are winning

He's always been asked the right questions But given the wrong options to choose from They never give him the correct ones, only check instead if he has courage enough to choose the common one. He always wants to add a secret third correct option to the question paper Which he wants to tick with black ink Before submitting But that is never the case He regrets it He regrets the futility of it

His life is a mess of plugs and sockets In and out and off and on He runs the risk of getting electrocuted But he doesn't care enough to dwell upon that thought If the world wants to take him, he will let it Why anticipate?

Loud rock music blasts in his ears No one around him can hear The person sitting beside him can't hear the loud screams beyond the rock music His loud screams, that muffle the rock music His ears ring with so much noise With so much loudness It's unbearably calm

The bus keeps turning He clutches onto the bar on the seat in front of him He doesn't want to fall, doesn't want to lose balance Doesn't want to let his body be defeated by the momentum He's trying his best His monthly Midas touch, rapidly rusting away, screams at the top of its voice Much like the music He's trying his best His father begs His mother is dissapointed But he's trying his best

There is a beast on the footpath Running alongside the bus It wants to outrun the bus Seems as though it is giving the run all it's got It's giving the chase it's best shot He feels like a prey But in a competition with the predator much smaller than him He's not to be eaten But to be challenged He feels like he's going to lose. The bus wins, obviously It's a manade thing But does he?

His life is filled with accidents Drivers at fault Passengers at risk Never the other way round For once he's lucky that he's not to blame His life is in the hands of those who know less but act like they know more He doesn't care He can't bring himself to care If he does, it will drive him mad And he can't afford to do that He has to stay sane For the world's sake He has to stay sane

He walks with a limp in his leg He thinks about how The things you do to die are far easier than the things you do to survive And he limps He bumps into a friend who pulls him into an orchestra Or perhaps a circus There's someone dancing at the center of the stage “Look,” he's friend says, pointing towards the dancer. “What is he doing?” He asks. “Composing his next Best Seller.” His friend answers. “A novel?” He asks once again “Are you serious?” His friend nudges, “A play!” And he watches the composer in action

The playwrite with half lidded eyes dances to an unsteady rhythm that somehow he knows He recognises A foreign tune he heard somewhere Maybe in a forest, maybe in the gym It's a tune he knows too well but can't quite place He limps forward and there's no one to stop him He doesn't want to be seen by the dancer, Just wants to observe his effortless movements It's almost as if he's floating Somewhere along the way he thinks he himself becomes the dancer With an audience to watch him He makes them happy, he feels happy doing so

Somewhere along the way the lines blur His head tilts To survive becomes to die and to die becomes to perish and to perish becomes the reason to be reborn He doesn't want to be reborn Oh but he must For that's the rule of existance He wants to dance in this endless loop of existance instead And pretend if only for a second That he is alive, for nothing but himself. Alive and free.

When the rain falls, it's like a thousand thunders Splintering from the sky covered in grey The ash stings and the smoke kills The first sound you hear isn't a warning It is death. And when you hear it, you should know you have no time left Death is approaching, and she'll kiss you free She'll kiss the life out of you, every last bit She'll demand you in her world Where you'll see me Yes you'll see me, wretched, lost and broken Whimpering in a corner which might as well be the centre Of a million stars glimmering in the midst of a dark abysmal void And there's no escape

There's no escape from death, She made it very clear in her contract. So when the cold, burning end falls from the sky Know that she's ready Ready to embrace you with her icy touch And ready to pull you in, in a world where you're finally free. You should be ready too.

I've been feeling cold And I don't know how, But I can't get rid of it somehow.

I've changed houses my whole life. Big to small, Tall and all seemed temporary. They perished after we left Like our pasts never existed. Like I never existed.

I've watched you give away my toys one by one And unknowingly, the memories attached to them. I tried so hard to rip them apart, To make them two seperate things. But it seems I ain't the only one with attachment problems.

I wish I could say I heard their screams, Those objects, Aggressively shoved in brown carton boxes, But all they did was stare at me, Meekly. Like fish bone in a garbage bin And I let them go.

I've always let go, now I realise. One day I'll do the same with life too. Will you be there to give away my clothes? My soul? Will you be there to forget one memory after the other, like I never existed? Will you be there to witness the end? Or will I witness yours first?

Am I so damned that I shall never know my beginning But bear witness to the end of many? Am I so damned that I shall never see the end of many And bear witness to the creation of any that come my way?

Objects, We've dedicated ourselves to. Mere objects that we attach flesh to, That we assign lyrics to. Who are we fooling really, at the end? Ourselves? Or the countless past lives that never existed?

// On poems that I write in dreams

Poems come to those who never dream It comes to me when I am asleep When I'm tired enough to write, tired enough to speak Like Coleridge dreamt of Kubla Khan in Xanadu I dream of cerulean patterns on ceramic pots And all it takes is one shattering of the pot to shatter the dream I'm in All it takes is for my mother to drop the steel plate or bowl or spoon While preparing for the day to begin She makes food for others while I make poems in my dreams She creates my living fuel whil I spend every unwaking second far far away In a reality not so real. I sleep in a crowded place, I sleep in publicity But one by on the ceramic pots break and remind me how truly invisible I am When I look at the mirror and brush my hair for the first time this week I know I'm alive When the toothpaste tastes a bit too bitter on my teeth I know I'm alive But when I go to bed each night Trying my best not to weave poems in my dreams I am anything but alive Those who are alive would never dream Those who write poems would never dream And yet, here I am A sin, a whirlpool, a curse, a penny on the sidewalk Dreaming about poems I can never write.

// Domestic abuse

Leave while you still see black and white The daffodils will not wait Leave while snowmen writhe under rain Or the petals will disintegrate

The longer you stay, the more attached you'll grow The grey will show And you'll learn to love them beyond their flaws. They'll be a good person, with bad decisions And that's the worst.

They'll love you, but ask you to touch more. They'll hate you, hit you, and once the black and white is gone You'll come back for more.

There's no end to this unless you're the one to stop it. No outsider helps here, you're the one to leave it. You're the one, who's trying their best You're the only one they'll listen to Or won't, based on testimonials delivered with emotions or apathy

Or maybe they'll listen But not believe So you need to leave Before the black and white turns grey Before the daffodils that waited too long for you Turn to dust.