“It’s cold in here. Time is moving slow, and I feel the seconds lash out like broken glass. My thoughts are racing so fast in my mind. And my memories clash into each other, but only the worst surfaces up. And I live in those tormenting moments once more.
I’m plagued with anxiety and stress. That I cannot lie. I feel I cannot move, and if I move then I will definitely fall. The whirlwind of inexplicable silent pain whizzes around me. I’m alone in this box of torture- calm torture, but it overwhelms me with excruciating pain. The answers to these existential questions lie unanswered. And I struggle to have hope, and be calm in the mind.
How often do I feel I can’t go on any longer? As if I’m running out of fuel that keeps me alive. Every moment is bitter than before, and my light flickers in the dark where all the air is sucked out. I dig deeper into my secret chambers of good memories, but it’s too deep and I don’t have the strength to dive in so deep. How often do I feel there is no way out of this suffering I’m living in.
It’s really cold in here. Time is moving slow, and I feel the walls pushing unto me; suffocating the hell out of me. These walls that I believed would keep safe from the outside world are now coming unto me with rage. And I’m so afraid that I can’t think straight. I’m afraid I won’t make it to another day of this suffering. There is pressure to let go and close my eyes into the monstrous darkness, and let it consume my soul, and wash away, but I’m afraid. I’m afraid that it will be more painful.
I look into the mirror and I see a broken heart, suffering with guilt and blame. My face has wrinkled and my eyes are empty. My lips are dry and there is no light left in me. My heart beats to no rhythm. And my soul trembles with fear.
I’m scared out of my wits as unwanted thoughts race in my mind with vengeance. At times it is chaos that consumes me, but until it expels all that pent up within it and quiets down on its own, I once again experience dead silence which is far worse. Not a single spec of hope, not a single whisper from the sky, and in this moment it even seems that everything around me has disappeared entirely. I’m in an empty world, and I exist alone, amassing the entire pain that was meant for other souls.
Things I so hate, blame and that hurt me so bad, liven up, and I alone stand in this little box of mine, scorched up with all the pain, my face wedged in the sky. It’s like woe runs on open taps that fill the little box with infernal pain; and I so drown in it.
It’s as if the sun rang and exploded above, flooding my mind with fire. Pain, guilt, suffering, blame, raging in the fire. And I alone is left to be consumed. Sometimes I want to scream out loud for help, but I don’t know how. Because it sure feels the world out there is far away and I have been left behind in this little box of solitude pain.
Sometimes I wonder why I continue living and trudging on in this path of darkness. Why shouldn’t I end it quickly?
In my prime wander much by chance, sinking in irresolute times, I feel the happiness I docked in my harbour has escaped. I’m now left alone, toying with dark thoughts of death fearlessly; my mind taking me to absurd levels of darkness.
Suffering is like a virus. It eats away the light in you, going for the weakest point without any mercy or decency, and breaking you bit by bit. Sometimes I tend to question if I should declare at what point that my life should end. And I know, it’s being impatient, ingratitude of me, and lack of courage. But tell me, suicide is a philosophical problem and it amounts to confessing that life is too much for you or that you do not understand it. To hell with it! It is too much for me and I too don’t understand it!
How much should I hold on to this void full of uncertainties and suffering!?!
Sometimes I look out in the sea, and I wish the waves wrap me in its cold arms and wash away with me forever. And take me away from this pain.”
How often do we feel we are all alone, and the world we knew has left us behind to solitude severe pain. Learning how to cope with depression is one of the most challenging tasks that we humans face. Of course, you are filled with pain, while also bombarded with guilt. And all these mixed feelings of anger and suffering are coupled with some actions that put us in bad shape- of self-torture and attempt suicide.
In reality, however, is us, humans, are fragile and prone to pain. But when we rise up from that perpetual state of pain and suffering, we get to view life as an arena, and ourselves as fighters. For sure we are; fighting for peace and greatness. And those things don’t come easy if your mind isn’t capable of harbouring positive thoughts that always propel positive actions.
Practicing mindfulness, gratitude, and contentment is very essential in living this modern life- prone to pain and suffering. Appreciating your life and other people is very crucial in having positive thoughts. Accepting that we are fragile, and not just to begin from there, but to actually base your growth in the fact that it only takes strength, determination and love. We should learn to talk about the experiences that hunt us down like an assassin, and which we struggle with as humans. When we keep them to ourselves, the issues pile up mentally and will definitely get out of hand. This I know, it is hard to banish negative thinking consumed with so much pain within ourselves. But you will need to substitute negative thoughts with more positive perspectives of how life can be bad, but also good when you embrace it well.
Speaking out from that point of exhaustion and suffering gives you relief. Because trust me, when you are depressed and hurt, or you feel as though you are alone, you feel like the sky, together with the stars and the moon and the sun are falling down on you. You feel as there is no point in fighting, believing and clinging to hope. You feel as though you are a bad code, and that it should be erased.
You have to stop accumulating those thoughts in your head. Everyone is going through hell in some way. You are not the only one, even if it feels like so.
― Regina Brett, “If we all threw our problems in a pile and saw everyone else’s, we’d grab ours back.”
And she also said,
“No matter how you feel, get up, dress up and show up.”
Open up. Go out in the world. Go in the open air and do something constructive. Occupy your mind with gratefulness, appreciate nature and beauty of life- even that’s left of it. Fill your lungs with fresh air. Open your arms wide and take long, refreshing walks and witness the beauty of infinite possibilities lying across the world. Talk to people and tell them of your ideas- of how you would wish to change your life, and perhaps the world.
Write about it, sing about it and create something about it, or out of it. More importantly, see yourself and the world with a positive perceptive- that everything you go through; be it pain, suffering, depression, is all for a wondrous goal, that if you believe in a far better person than being of all suffering, then you embrace every moment and rise up as it were a passage of the future. Because it is.
The beauty of your being is feeling your meat, not your skeleton. It is embracing, not overwhelming. Each of us is writing a book, don’t let yours consist of the same darkness defining every chapter. Light up!
It is not always about beauty, but also maturity. Beauty is deception, and can fade away with just a bruise or stain. We both know that beauty lies on the eyes of the beholder. And what is ones man’s beauty can be another man’s ugliness.
Maturity is being intact within time. It is being able to calmly understand how everything fits in perfectly, and how it doesn’t. And so when you walk you walk with pride, yet calmly. When you move it is quietly, yet so aggressive. And when you speak it is less words, yet they have so deep meaning. And what you do is always simple, yet so authentic.
It is not always about sexiness, but also realness. We can have perfection, but only for a moment. Imperfections have resided in our spirits, but that doesn’t make us not to see the amazing bit that always seduces us with their heavenly presence. And that make us fall into sin and regrets. To be realistic is to love the beauty, and also love how someone fights to retain it in spite of the flaws.
Beauty, maturity, sexiness, and realness, all these narrows down to how we love ourselves and others. How we care, and really show it. How we make promises and work our way right through their fulfilment. How we love and really mean that we are ready to give all that we can, all in the name of love. How we share our smiles, laughs, and happiness. How we share our warm hearts of kindness How we see each other as art; that every little paint matters, every little word and punctuation matters, even which is out of order.
It all narrows down to respect and understanding. The moral values that keep us in check aren’t just to be seasoned and like raincoats to be worn when it is raining, but to be bound to our hearts and flow with the blood in our veins. They should be the fuel that ignites the light in our eyes, and the color in our faces. And the lamp to show us the way in the dark.
Poetry is like a fairy who strikes you with a wand, ignites the spark in your soul, and you soar through the wondrous and artistic paths of this world- an adventure filled with love, pain, suffering, anger, inspiration, hope, peace and truth.
And this is all for telling the tales that come from every corner of this world. And confessions that come from every heart and soul. More importantly, to give life to our dreams and memories. So that if we may fade away through time, our stories may still live on, and tell about us.
What can you say to me that has not yet been said? I have felt love, and if it's pain I have consumed even which was not meant for me. If you talk of poetry I have written about my life stories, hoping this darkness in me would wash away. I have written about my fears and darkest secrets. I have written about love and happiness. I have written about myself, overwhelmed with sadness.
And philosophy, I even defined my own rules and still mend myself with the laws of the universe.
Now tell me, I know about friends and enemies, peace and jealousy. I know of kindness and hate. I know of faults and strengths, success and mistakes. I know of love and pain.
I have watched every layer unfold. Both evenly and spontaneously. I have heard hearts whisper into the cold night, hoping for warmth in the coming tomorrow. I have listened to the cries of a broken soul. I have been a witness, and a victim. I know how broken pieces look like, and how happiness stares into the stars.
I know every layer.
In this oasis of choices and consequences, what is there that I do not know? What more can you add in this pile of misery, that ironically, it has its beauty?
It's Not You, It's Me- I'm Broken, And I'm Fragile
It is me. I’m the problem. I’m the bad code. It has never been you, it’s just me, in this lonely dream, and it is difficult for me to let you in.
It is me, and the path I have been through. And the horrors I have seen. I keep looking over my shoulder every now and then. I’m afraid that shit ain’t done with me.
It has never been you.
It has always been me, and my beating heart, racing after my crazy mind full of tousled and tormenting memories.
I keep looking back at those paths that like any other story; began with a look, then a smile, then a crush, then a word, then a touch, and then the word love was finally spoken out loudly and courageously.
Like all stories that begin with beautiful castles and fairies, mine was no difference.
Unfortunately, there is always a beginning and an end. There is a reckoning and awakening.
Mine was much worse. It was a cataclysmic experience. The love affair that had dug deeper into my heart became not so much devastating as apocalypse.
If I may recall vividly, those paths I traced my steps along was like living in a haunted house, and coming out alive. Although parts of me were left behind.
The constant fear of wondering if I would ever make it in one piece and not in pieces; getting out and experiencing relief, which only lasts only for a few months, because I know, I’m never capable of being alone.
No doubt about it, the next path would bring with it, another heart to embrace.
And it haunts me because I’m never sure how much should I love you to obliterate recollections of the haunted house; which is full of pain, misery and heartbreaks.
The fear, the doubt, and the blame that I put on myself, you can call it insanity. But it’s a circle that I would want to go round its full circumference…. with you.
And this is me. Not you.
You shouldn’t let me infiltrate your heart, because trauma is a bitch.
And a bitch gets crazy sometimes; she then bites.
Don’t you dare tell me that I do not know what I want because I’m still stuck in the past. That there is much to live for.
There are not many people who would give up their hearts more than they could count, and I did.
I love you so much, and I know it will hurt me so bad. Because I will keep reminding myself how good it was for me in my past, and how much worse it became afterwards.
I want you so bad, and I know it will break me so much. Because I know some parts of me, those that you want me to share with you so freely, are erased.
It’s not you. I love you. And I know how stories go, because I have been down this road before.
I know how it plays out. I know you want me to be there always, and show you love of a thousand stars.
And you would want me to forsake my ego, and stand up for you even when I’m short of strength.
I know you want me to write you poems and recite them for you in the dark, motionless night, filled with cold air, and the gazing moon weighing heavily upon on our heads.
I know you want me to sing you a song, and pour bulk confessions of how you saved me from myself- how I had no purpose before I met you, and how you are the only reason my heart beats, because it craves for you.
I know you want me to walk you through the day and the night just to make you happy.
And you call me yours, while you whisper my name in the cold air, right above my neck.
I know you want me to always surprise you and keep proving myself that you are indeed my soulmate, and not disgrace.
I have been down that road. I know how it feels. It’s like at the bottom of a mountain; it’s so huge in diameter, and it feels like you’ve got it all.
But the higher you climb, the thinner it becomes with sharp edges.
And when it’s almost over, you realize you were just trying to keep the fire blazing right from the first time you uttered, “I love you.”
Yet it was never enough. Because you had said them plenty of times- with happiness, joy, pride, then came the thunder and you began saying them with pain and sadness, then tears fell and you begged until you became angry, but it was all over and they never meant anything to that particular person.
And so they faded away from you, too.
Their meaning was drained away and they became empty words that only filled the void for a pleasurable moment, but with time you remember when they were as real as the day, and hid so much beneath them like the night.
It’s not you, it’s me. It’s me and my scars that never seem to heal. It’s me with my apocalyptic encounters. It’s me and my horrible nightmares that attack me even in the day.
It’s me and only me. And I wouldn't want to hurt myself even more.
It’s me with the pain as my shadow; for sure it goes away and I smile, but it always comes back. And I’m broken once more. I become fragile again.
I'm ripped open. Stretched thin and stressed out. Tears dried out already and they've left bruises on my cheeks with my red swollen eyes. I'm curved up and caved in solitude torment.
Those memories that we used to hold on to with the rhythm of our hearts and the passion of our souls, are now left for me. And they are heavy. Both for the body, mind and heart. They overwhelm my shoulders and I'm left to cry out loud as I fall onto the ground.
And my spine is weakened by their taunting weight. Every time I try to stand erect, with my broken spine, it hurts, so bad. So I fall. No, I don't fall. I lie down remorsefully.
I just don't feel bad. I feel bad about feeling bad. And I cant help it. I just stare into the void and the dead silence, which was once vibrating with melody. And light was bright. And was beautiful.
I'm no longer a believer. I have had enough. More than enough! I'm now overwhelmed with emptiness. And it hurts, so bad!
I was all sauced up, but now I'm all dried out.
I'm bounded to pain. Pain which has made its way into my lungs, such that every time I try to breathe, short sharp bursts spread through my entire body. And I become numb. Its too much.
I'm in a loop; caught up between bruises for which I breathe pain. Over and over again. Every time. But then I have to live, so I breathe even if its killing me. I have to. Not for me, but for friends and strangers. I have to anyway.
I'm always on the ground counting the pieces because I'm weak to collect them. Let alone mend them. I know its over, but its too much to just stare at them. Everything around me is so heavy that I can't pull myself together to breathe.
And I'm trying hard to forget, erase the memories, and be strong, but it hurts, so bad!
The history was written in blood and not mere ink. The history was lived, with both the heart, mind and body. Even the spirit. And we didn't just live, we believed!
I did give plenty. I was all in, both heart and spirit, but I was ripped open and now pain is within me.
I cant seem to wake up from this reality. I cant seem to dream. I cant stop thinking about the memories. I cant stop hoping that I will be saved, and so I go through another day of pure torment. I just cant stop blaming life and everything else. I cant stop waiting for a miracle and things will be the same as before. I cant stop calling out to you, to heal my wounded spirit.
I just cant! And that, not being able to, hurts, so bad.
Meandering path filled with empty holes, I, with my feet, and my faults, Most days in disguise, but for sure I fall, And who I'm I to call If we are all made of broken souls?
Tattered faith deceiving the lives we want, We walk, not sure how, but we seem burnt, And exhausted, Pushing through the threads of time, Hoping that what we desire will rhyme, And our beliefs will be our redemption, And our actions will be our salvation.
As dark as coal, as white as wool, As clean as a whistle, as dirty as a used tool, As as calm as the sky, as fleeting as candle's flame.
We are all broken souls matching to the unknown, Hoping that all we be known.
Its not that I fully understand life and that I'm wise. Its just that I accept life as it is. Needless to say, when the time is right and the sun is bright, I, with all my strength and passion, I tip the scales of life to my victory.
I subdue seconds, enslave minutes, scrap hours and invest all I have through the days.
And I know there are times, as dark as coal, I will be broken. I know there are times when I'm dried out and my spine is stretched thin on the wall, and my energy is constrained. And my feet becomes sore and my heart is hurt and my spirit flickers in the terrible wind that is blown by life.
But I accept it anyway. And I live everyday, in every way.
I know sometimes life will sweep me off by my feet with what it has unfolded upon me. And my beliefs, values and dreams are tested every single day if for sure they are fully intact and are promising.
I just accept life as it is. Both with its jagged fangs and soft embrace and its joys. I accept it all. Because for sure I don't know who pushes the wheels of time and orchestrates tomorrow. I don't know who decides my fate, but I still don't care to know.
Thing is, there is nothing genuine with the future. You just have to plan, then wait and see if it will come to pass. And if it doesn't, just keep on trying because life is all about alternatives. And its only when you keep pushing things move.
She Is A Woman; A Lioness- And She Certainly Knows The Weight Of Her Roar
I didn't like her at first. She was very cold. And ruthless. She also harbored a kind of pride that only wise men wielded- she would look at you, search through your eyes, and perhaps scrap the depth of your thoughts.
I didn't like her at all the first time we met. She was always at war proving this or that. She was always loud and very possessive, especially with herself and her knowledge. I hated when she would just move past me; like wind blowing through me; rushing, that she left behind her scent which condensed into the air as it lingered around- almost like a tone of a tight string- to tell the tale of her greatness. So, everyone listened to her tales.
I didn't like her for sure the first time we met. She was always trying to show how right, things were supposed to be, and how well she knew almost everything- and she sure did. She would talk of the world, and how only the strong and bold survive. She would talk of concepts, that hold water. Concepts that even I, a scholar, never considered. She would talk of darkness and light; love and lust; right and wrong. She had a different view of the world. And I was embarrassed when I was before her, witnessing her, pouring out her perceptiveness.
I didn't like her completely the first time we met. She spoke out her feelings. Oh, you should have been there. She would skin you alive with her eloquent words, and a fluency that corresponded with her vast knowledge. She never missed a single letter in her words and everything she said gave meaning. But I just didn't like her because at times she tore my limbs with her arguments- they were always making sense, and right through her gestures, I saw my self: dumb as a bag of rocks.
I didn't like her the first time we met, yes. She was always challenging me as a man. She sucked out my manhood, and right before her, on my knees, I was just a little boy who just lost his first teeth- and knew less of anything. She made eye contact. And no, not that one that you flap your eye lids, slowly. No. She stared at me without blinking. She dared me, most times. Oh, every time.
I didn't like her the first time we met, I swear. And the next time either. I hated her. I even begged her to be like Emily Dickson; calm. But she was always loud. She was always on her heels. Sometimes on her sneakers, walking like a queen who was crowned without a king by her side. And she was proud that she had it all. She was proud that she could stand tall. She laughed and smiled most times.
And she would mock those who looked down on her, bark like a dog who lost her bone and she would show off- not to show how well she knows, but how bad you don't know. And you would feel sorry for yourself.
She was a woman, she said. She was a light bearer, she sung out loud. She owned herself, and no one could take that away from her: freedom and power. She was aggressive and her actions went along with her words.
I didn't like her the first time we met, I confess. Little did I know, she was being herself. Her true self. A woman who could speak out loud not caring how I thought of her. She was indeed a lioness; and she knew the weight of her roar. And she never stopped roaring, even though it pissed me sometimes.
And now, I like her. I love to see her roar. She is unstoppable and I have learned to live with her that way. She is a woman, and sometimes I wish I could be like her; loud- both words and actions.