Confined, within self forged walls I lie barren, next to the casket sprayed with gore drenched lilies, holding back for my ménage to finish thine rosaries.
The walls, they be besieging while the roof be plummeting, fast enough to swallow me, while I lie flat, and arms open to embrace my long lost love, my demise.
With every dawn, I flirt with the edge of the roof reckoning, if a fall would vow for my killing. With the rise of dusk, I pull out the knife concealed under my pillow, caressing the edges gauging the number of slits enough to free my wrist.
Tonnes, Tonnes of ways to die. Yet that one voice from within that desists me, wrests me from my collar and murmurs in my ear "Don't die fella, is she worth it? don't give her the pleasure." Heaps, Heaps of reasons to kill myself, yet I take a deep breath Light on my reefer and tell myself "Yes, I am suicidal but probably I won't die, not today"
Even the strongest amongst us have had their share of cold nights, the ones with prettiest smiles have cried behind closed doors. A shoutout to everyone who struggles to figure out reasons to wake up next morning. You are strong.. and no reason is worth committing that thing you have in your mind. It all gets better sooner or later, breathing gets easier, smiling takes up less effort. Just hold on, you are strong, strong enough to fight whatever is trying to kill you
Tonight, when my balcony doors bring some phosphorescence towards my stygian heart which is busy enough in intonating the verses I once wrote in the rustic pages using a lit matchstick, it refuses to get some newfangled air inside since it is already addicted to the hallucinations accompanied by the aroma of wilted roses which smell of melancholy and nostalgia all around. The very axiom that some signs are overlooked when in love is being reflected to every wall of my rooms so that it echoes to the extent where death feels inevitable. I've undressed the golden attire faith wore and burnt it down to ashes near my graveyard holding wild sunflowers in the garden where blooming was prioritized earlier. But for Satan's pleasure, everything has changed over time. /Ninety nine, ninety eight and walking towards the balcony where nineties and eighties are drinking champagne together/
The mellifluous melody which sung lullabies resting my head on those solacing laps and ruffled my blonde hairs with smooth hands has started roaring like a werewolf in search of a prey with paws clenched to grip the feast tightly by 12 of the blue moon nights. The clock ticks slower than before so that pain flows through my bloodstream the slowest way possible, sucking all of my halcyon days inside, while small cyanide doses of memories eject out from the lymph nodes and end up harming my thoughts and expectations, bringing death ten steps closer. /Miles ahead come sixties accompanying fifties n' forties n' all dirty numerals sleeping in between/
I go deep inside the warehouse of my brain cells and find happiness stuffed inside a box with the toughest lock ever found, while scars are wearing high heels and finding their couples and cousin danseuses even in absolute darkness. Memories are sidelined in a separate corner with legs broken and face distorted by acids of rancour, and the screams of those are making me feel my fairy sides flying away towards the stellars, the ones, which children fail in counting with their elfin fingers which cannot hold more weights and numbers. /The distance from thirties to twenties was just a kilometer, the end of my survival is not afar from my toes/
Nineteen, eighteen and seventeen, handling the pressures of my resumed life is no more possible as those cameras which once captured smiles has negatives which are haunting me day and night. Months feel like hours passing away from the hourglass slowly and silently; the sands seep down with the air holding my survival. Thirteen, twelve and ten, I'm choking with blood in my mouth. I try walking upstairs, but crawling like a toddler is what all I can do, but unlike the innocent one which then knew nothing but happiness in the roses back then. Nine, eight, seven, my legs disagree to move forward, my hands tremble vigorously, my heart prompts me to continue, but the brain sends wise warning sirens which are ignored, as always. I don't want to, but I want to, and I will. I have reached the terrace now. /Six, five, four, everything tastes sour/
With bloodstains all around me, everything seems crimson and black to my poor sights; the visions, which I curse now for making me what I'm today. I somehow manage to walk to the corner. In total haste and rage, I throw the bag filled with expectations and memories. /Three, two, one, and thud! I fall too; I'm finally dead/
~S r i K r i s h n a P S | Oct 22, 2020. ___________________________________________________
@raika Thanks a lot for helping me out with this ❤️
I read somewhere if you are suffering from writer's block write daily. I started writing this poetry /prose 3 days ago and I am still writing it, reminding me how I use to read a 300 page book in 3 days and now It takes me 3 months to do the same.
I started writing this poem about rediscovering stars and those rare northern lights, about how maybe these words could levitate the glooming sadness around the infrastructure of my imagination, forgetting that I spend more hours in speaking business rather than making love to words.
I couldn't complete it that day and I still, haven't done it yet and like every adult I just filed it up as bullet on the next week to-do list.
There is a common pattern of struggle between those unfamiliar faces in empty rooms, all at the same time trying to unravel the knots of confusion beneath and finding a home in all the chaos rattling around in categories that couldn't do justice to them.