Don’t Speak

Don’t speak,
You echo in my head all day,
Sparking fury of the high moon tides,
Till it threatens to erupt onto the sleeping city.

Don’t speak,
You have only hurtful things to say,
Your words suffocating my heart,
Till it splutters tears, that mean nothing to you.

Don’t speak,
Because my mind tires of your incessant complaints,
Of all the resentment and bitterness you harbour,
Of the apologies that follow every time.

Don’t speak,
It feels like a hammer driving a nail into a broken wall,
Like a chalk screeching across a damaged blackboard,
A voice I simply cannot bear to hear anymore.

Don’t. Speak.


Exhaustion from an eternity
Resting in the crescents
Cradling tired eyes,
Once a sparkling brown
Now like the dirty sea.
Knowledge of the end
Writ all over her face,
But accompanied by a smile,
Skin like paper,
Crumpled for too long,
Brimming with tales and scars
From another lifetime.
Voice so soft and gentle,
Filled with regrets
And of decisions,
Unmade and wrongly made,
Dreaming of a different life
With a different ending,
And the millions of unanswered
So exhausted from an eternity,
That will soon come to it’s end.


“She sings really well!”
And mutters to me, “Show them!”
But when I hear myself sing,
I don’t sound how they say I do.
But my opinion of my voice
How much does it matter,
When I am just a trophy
Behind  the glass display case.

Everyone else wants to showcase
What someone else can do.
“Encouragement”, they call it.

“His drawings are out of the world!”
And tells me, “Show them!”
But he could see where the lines went wrong
And the colour is off by a shade.
But an artist’s opinion of his own art,
Does it really matter,
When he’s just a trophy
Behind the glass display case.

But that someone else
May not be sure of what they can do.
“Self-doubt,” is what they call it.

“She plays the violin beautifully!”
And asks her, “Play for them, will you?”
But is that really a question
Because when she played,
She could hear when the bow squeaked
And feel when her fingers slipped.
The real answer, did it really matter,
When she’s just a trophy
Behind the glass display case.

When they ultimately perfect it
And are ready for the world,
“Confidence,” they call it.


Red Chaos

Embroiled in tentacles of helplessness
I feel my breath leave my lungs.
My heart always on my sleeve,
My mind restlessly searching,
Trying to find reason amidst all the chaos.

Chaos spotted with shades of red,
Blood or love or anger, I can’t tell.

The clock ticks and the light fades,
As sleep threatens to drown me,
With gnarled hands of wishful dreams
Which could never condense into reality.
The pain of losing what never was,
Like regret borne of a decision never made.

Of Fire and Vines

Something within me awakened,
Which lay to rest long ago.
I felt it creep, prodding old wounds,
Grinning at the scars,
Like a weed that manifests,
It sprang fresh, around my heart.
And I ran,
As I felt it grow,
Creeping like rose vines
That never bloomed
But the thorns not resting,
Scraping off what remained.
Of what remained,
Some yet untouched,
Others just healed.

Something within me awakened,
Which lay to rest long ago.
A warm feeling,
So I run,
Run like I never did before
From the fire that came slithering
Singing old wounds,
Chuckling at scars,
Waiting to carve them back
And make them bleed again.
The warmth became heat,
Threatening to turn into fire
That would burn the remnants
Of what little was left.
The remnants,
Some yet untouched,
Others just healed.

Bleeding Wrists

I see bleeding wrists,
A flickering memory
Tucked far away
In the back of my mind.
I still feel the blade,
Cold steel,
As it grazed my skin,
Leaving a trail of blood in its wake.
I still remember the pain,
Feeling like sugar and salt, caramel.

It was not to bleed myself out,
Nor was it a cry for attention.
The aching pain, heavy,
Needed to bleed out.
The bleeding wrists brought relief,
In a way that innumerable words had not.
The throbbing pain in my head
Felt justified as it bled out,
For the agony came
From what felt like specks
That ought to mean nothing,
But hurt just the same.

Cold steel,
My only friend amidst the loneliness,
Without words,
Let the aching pain, heavy,
Bleed out.

A Cosmic Trap

Floating in empty space
Waiting for life to hit hard
But it comes with softness so sweet
That it takes my breath away.
The tense muscles relax
And the winds start to whir faster,
Gathering dust and gravel,
Slowing down when I tense again.
Floating on the wave of life,
Knowing… Thinking…
I won’t ever fall now.
Getting used to the breeze.

Muscles relaxed.

Eyes closed.

The winds start to whir faster
Gathering dust and gravel,
And before long I plunge
Into empty space I once knew.
Floating in empty space
Waiting for life to hit hard
But it comes, again, with softness so sweet
That it takes my breath away.

The Play

Act one,
You came up to me,
When I revelled in solitude
Born out of loneliness.
All I wanted was to let be,
But you wouldn’t let go
Came up knocking on
That old locked door.
You pried at all the locks
Till your fingers bled,
And my heart broke a little
So I gave you the keys.

Act two,
The walls were still up
But I let you cut through
The painstakingly built solitude.
A conversation now and then,
Few secrets spilt
Time flew by
And memories made.
With every golden hour spent,
Warmth seeped into the walls again.
You took down the walls,
Brick by brick.

Act three,
A vast expanse of memories
Where you and I ran free.
The walls of solitude broken,
And a light soul, flying free.
Somewhere, somehow sparks flew,
Lighting a fire of surprise and intrigue.
That fire touched only my wary heart,
Which burned with the secrecy
But with what was at stake, I let it be.
These were bridges that I didn’t want burning away,
So I tried my best to keep that fire down.

Final act,
Days turned to weeks turned to years,
Until one day, it was time to part ways.
I had hopes and little dreams
That despite the distance,
The bridge I tried to save,
Won’t crumble and break .
It was then that the curtain fell,
As did the bridge which I realized was staged.
Soon it dawned it was all an act,
So I ran to try to find you backstage.
But you were already long gone,
With all the answers owed to me,
Leaving me with nothing but memories,
Which I now wanted burned away.
Time heals and with time, I did
Set up newer walls, stronger
And padlocks this time, bigger.
I threw the keys into a chasm,
Irretrievable, even to me.
I weaved solitude all around, this time
With not even some space to breathe.

Yellow Paint

The canvas stared back at her blankly. She held the brush in one hand, it’s bristles gleaming in red paint.


She closed her eyes, trying to paint the picture in her mind, and saw golden liquid swirling, with little explosions of color here and there.

She opened her eyes; her hands were trembling and she clutched the brush tightly, before her frame began to quiver as well.

It took a great deal of effort to keep from flinging the brush and tearing the canvas.

Feeling resigned, she put the brush back in the mug which contained a multitude of other brushes, all dusty from lack of use.

She could not remember a time when her hands moved freely across the canvas, painting a projection of her mind’s image on it, flawless.  These days, the ideas came to her like shooting stars; blazing, but disappearing into the horizon.

She headed to the refrigerator, hesitating only for a moment; he would never find out and this time, she promised herself, this time, she would remember.

Soon, she was on the sofa, lightheaded. And she saw… She saw a red-brick house standing on water, with little blue lights floating around it. The roof of the house was disintegrating into the blood sunset sky. The water reflected everything in black and white, except the blue lights.

In the next few days, the stench of alcohol grew stronger in the house, and the layer of dust on the canvas, thicker.

When he came, he knocked first, but when she didn’t open, he let himself in. The house was dark, a deep blue, and reeked of alcohol. The light falling through the windows lit the dust that rose from the floor. He noted the lack of dishes in the sink; she hadn’t eaten.

The house stank more of alcohol than before he had left; he wasn’t surprised.

He found her on the couch, curled into one corner, asleep. On the table, was a wine glass and two empty bottles of Pont du Blanc. The canvas behind the couch was blank.

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