Grid View
List View
  • thinline_mirakee 1w


    From afar, you saw a steady flash of beams,
    Those to guide your tipsy feet when an arm wasn’t available, your body hunched and bent,
    Searching for stable, you came across
    Lights intermittent.

    Steady, you whispered as your chest collapsed,
    left the place on your spine,
    footing lost in inequilibrium,
    walking in a line.

    The orange light from that tall pole,
    like a cyclops looking down, an eye glowing,
    Impartial to the fallen, impartial to the oncoming traffic,
    She holds no interest, her neutrality uncompromising.


  • thinline_mirakee 1w

    A series of speed poetry

    Read More

    Song on the radio at 2am

    The truth didn’t sink in,
    The sky fell down that twilight,
    Old faithful radio in an old splintered car,
    Played your song late in the night.

    That seat warm from your touch,
    On my side, once you’d got off to sway in that teal rain,
    Each step you’d taken, each drop that had held you,
    Each frame, my attention, yours, my mind fain.

    The truth would sink in once rain washed away,
    Your scent off the broken cloth seat, your perfume in that scar,
    And I couldn’t let it happen, I drove over
    a puddle deep enough to overturn a car.


  • thinline_mirakee 1w

    Night sky

    A lonesome cloud, herded by the wind,
    That lonesome North Star, that lonesome sailor, the third looking for company, love or land,
    Eager to touch sand.

    Miles and miles afar,
    that mermaid awaits your desperation, your stall,
    The north star tells you to come visit,
    A false promise as you spin on a ball.

    The cloud tells you where the winds would meet,
    Where gods would ride zephyr and his brothers,
    You found the realm of the celestials,
    but not one human who wants your love.

    The night sky, where deities in constellations,
    Share a meal, a home, scents that waft,
    And you’re left starting at the brilliant visage,
    Alone from a raft.


  • thinline_mirakee 1w

    I hope you like it @fireblast_

    Read More


    Sand trapped in her toes,
    sand that most times slips away,
    that sand that is notorious for never staying,
    Stayed with me perpetually.

    That night I held her waist,
    Terrified more than I was when I held thin ice,
    Careful not to break her,
    Some day I failed, left to my device.

    She trailed across the floor that night,
    Her toes following mine,
    She left dunes on the carpet,
    Soaked in white wine.

    I come home to no one,
    Unbarr a door to a hearth up a hill.
    To a house that smells of fresh wine,
    To a time some sand holds still.


  • thinline_mirakee 1w


    I used to love the ocean,
    The sunlight that got captured,
    That instax trapped someone I lost,
    Under a thin film, reflecting, old and ruptured.

    In that photo, her arm was around me,
    her lips tasted like mine,
    Saltier than usual, sanded,
    all in the past, in a picture that lost its shine.

    I used to love the ocean, under the surface,
    Myopic uncertainty, as you stared at up the sun, rosette,
    her large eyes, bright and hazel,
    as the metaphor broke apart, as the sun set.


  • thinline_mirakee 1w

    12. Happy

    (Short tales of psychological trauma)

Gut wrenching nothingness.

    “Come along if feel like a room without a roof”

    Miles and miles of roof extended over me, covering out bright as well as dull skies. I held out this giant bag, glimmering inside, worn on the outside, to the receptionist at the restaurant. There were netted pockets on the sides that were torn out of place by the stray steel bar extending out of parts of the metal city. It gave one the feeling of life within the hair of a titan, tracing steps between tall buildings, paths you scraped through, paths between unsurmountable walls you’d never know what existed within. Those public spaces were yours as you dredged along soil from nothingness.

    The giant city, a large map, most of it inaccessible.

    There were those slim paths were you could ride your bikes to provide nurture to those who were above you.

    “An order for Katherine”

    I was wasting time imagining. While imagining, I was wasting time recreating what I would come across and had already come across. I picked up the food and went on my way, trying to make sure I had enough money for rent on Monday. I couldn’t help but notice the dissected Pharrell soundtrack playing ominously to anyone who would hear, ignoring and being ignored by those who wouldn’t

    “Room without a roof”

    I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t want to breathe, the traces of air that open skies somewhere had left me. The scent of furnished human progress, and that of new products that give life and meaning to people stunted my growth, provided walls to the walls of my lungs, stopping them from expanding more than what was necessary.

    Her hair was vanilla in the open fields that I’d kissed her for the first time.

    I could reimagine what that breath felt like but then who would deliver the food, all food that smelled alike, not individual of their flavour, but of a kitchen background where an intern who had burnt his finger, was working training shifts, unpaid, trying to level up, so that he could afford those products that give meaning and life to people with a new pay check.

    A bead of sweat rolled down my neck, down to my back, cooling the scorching heat, of which there was more to come, a few kilometres in the warmth of the southern hemisphere’s summer sun, that gave away free second degree burns, touching me not unlike that man who wandered down Leicester Avenue, breath stale of old spirits, as he touches a woman who found herself there alone and helpless, hiding scars the next morning.

    I was looking forward to my three thousand and fifty sixth delivery, each adding up after another, showing me my place, like I wasn’t a least bit worthwhile doing anything else. I had to pay my bills, and continue living, like lice in the hair of a titan, a titan who didn’t care and frankly would be happier if the lice was gone. Existence was all I knew, and as much as flying when a car hit the bike at 90 degrees, being a superhero for nine seconds before I hit the sidewalk and had my skin peeled off of me, seemed like quite an offer, I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.

    So with skin burning up, cell after cell, tinging, a billion or so cells away from death, I rode to the directions on the map.

    This would end and then another one would come, ringing and I would gladly sigh out in relief, a chance of more physical strain, so that I could earn money to rent that room, in which I barely stayed, left with my bike for twelve hours each day, and came back after midnight, to which I came alone, to nobody.


  • thinline_mirakee 3w

    This is the first time I’m trying using humour to explain anxiety. Would it be interesting to make this into a short novel?

    Read More



    I looked at her like I usually look at everything else. Something about her stood out, just like I used to when I was 5 and the door was closed.

    Her dark beautiful eyes.

    Come to think of it, I wasn’t looking at her I like I look at everything else. It was a longer stare. A stare not unlike the one at the unknown when you miss a stair. If you put yourself in my shoes, the shoes that frequently do miss a step, you’d realise what I was talking about. It was a rude awakening.

    But then it got better, before it got worse again. When you miss a step on a staircase, it starts with widespread panic, and then time stops while only you are in motion, slow. You remember the stories your grandmother told you to put you to bed when you were 6, you remember every bruise and scrape you’ve ever had, and try to comprehend the pain that is about to befall you.

    “No that would be too painful, what if we toned it down?”, you think as you compare it to the time you were t-boned by a jackass while you were riding your bike at 7. “Oh, oh what about the time when I ate that spicy chilly raw?”, you think but your heart knows that you’re in denial.

    All of this when you’re missing a step, but then as time goes back to normal, and your foot overly pressurises the step that was actually there, it gets better. And then there is panic, and you don’t trust your muscle memory anymore. So you look at each step, as you try to climb down.

    This is what it is was when I saw her that night. “Saw” isn’t the right word. “Noticed” is. I noticed her for the first time. There was time slowing down, then it sped up, and all of that metaphorical congruency was over with fairly quickly. What lasted was the anxiety, the lack of trust I felt in my muscle memory.


  • thinline_mirakee 4w


    That drop of rain by my foot waited until I laid my eye on it. These were woods I had seen countless times when she sent me pictures. I was here tonight, with her. I was trying so hard to place each and every bush and shrub from those pictures into reality from a picture that was a few years old. A building would’ve stayed, but nature changes quickly and it can be impossible to tell where what once was. I could take her word for it.

    A building would’ve stayed.

    She rarely sent me pictures that had parts that were not subject to change. I had hoped recognising these pictures would make me feel comfortable somehow, create succour.

    The droplet of rain finally let go, and split into two at my toe, each to their own, so much in a hurry to be free that they forgot to say goodbye. The mud was sticking on the sides of my ankles that weren’t covered in cloth , while the rest that was, was just uncomfortable and itchy because it was wet, and I realised that I was feeling the surroundings. Each particle of dust was terrifying me.

    I heard her laughter and the sounds of her feet in the spluttering rain but I wouldn’t look at her.

    Wasn’t I allowed to look at everything that could go wrong if I took a leap of faith? But was faith supposed to torment you? As I opened my eyes, and landed back into the past, to a time when I hadn’t taken the step, I felt sad. Sad that I wasn’t in those woods with her, and when I had been, I had looked at everything but her. Her eyes that could’ve drowned out any fear, any discomfort that I thought I could feel. I tried closing my eyes to imagine a more hopeful future but I couldn’t go and fix it. Your idea of what the future could look like was also part of the past. This scared me, knowing that I had sent out my fears of a terrifying moment in the future out to the universe, whose only task was to bring it to life.

    Trying to fix an idea, a dream that you woke up from, and didn’t do things you could’ve in there before you returned to reality. Trying to so hard to go back to it, closing your eyes util the muscles in your eyelids strained and caused migraines because you regretted things you didn’t do, things you didn’t focus on that were good, and things you did focus on that were trivial and worth all the pain and discomfort if they came with the all the good you didn’t look at.

    I woke up and went to work that day.

    I tried to sell things. I tried to pay a few bills. And I tried to read a book.

    I could never go back to that universe and look at the good ever again. If I closed my eyes tonight, I would go somewhere else but not to that moment in the rain with her.

    It was night.

    I woke up and went to work the next day.
    I sold a few things.

    Next July, I went to see her.

    That night, bits of grass clung to my foot before my pants started, and the socks were wet and uncomfortable. My ankles were itchy. A drop of rain broke at my toe, without a pause and I looked up, at her, her hazel eyes, translucent even in bitter darkness, her feet spluttering the puddle that she wouldn’t jump out of until all the water had been displaced.

    The rain didn’t stop in magical awe, and the grass petal didn’t stop stinging. I felt her as much as I felt everything else around me because she was part of it. She didn’t stand out, and my heart didn’t melt in anxiety. I didn’t feel like I wasn’t good enough and she didn’t tower over me in her presence.

    Anxiety doesn’t write moments.

    Comfort does.

    I was there with her, and I was happy.
    She wasn’t an insurmountable wall, and I wasn’t a nobody.

    She was solace.


  • thinline_mirakee 4w

    Grey Twine

    The sun promised not to set that night,
    While she’d said goodbye to it so long ago,
    I craved for the night ‘that had long held her prisoner,

    Someone’s sod could be another’s orison,
    Or maybe it was just people that behaved irrationally,
    Be human to one, callous to other.

    It were beyond basic mathematics,
    I craved her as I craved night,
    She craved me as she did dawn,
    For once light and murk were intertwined unconditionally.


  • thinline_mirakee 5w

    Winsome Suffocation

    Oh to fill up spaces meant to be empty,
    because you couldn’t handle loneliness,
    asphyxiated by growing flora in your lungs.

    Various colours wilted into grey nothingness,
    grasping for support, from a being who couldn’t tend to himself,
    On sand pillars in the rain, to be strung.

    Pulmonary edema, caused by splashing sludge of decomposed love, of strange days, those different days, different colours,

    Death scented like sewage, by the park,
    Very inhuman, of extinction, of a thousand kinds of lives, all ended in one go, one odour.