A Poem For One's Own Self
A Poem For One's Own Self8 mins 186 8 mins 186
The darkness inside me spreads like tar;
Scouring viscously every surface that I have scathed or not scathed
A buried innocent part of me
Hidden in your heart beat.
Betrayer; traitor; all my names
But none really show who’s the true me
And when I’ll reveal, it’ll be beyond the laws of recognition,
They’ll simply go
“She was not the girl we knew”
And yes, maybe that’s perfectly true
Maybe I was not really who I showed me to be
Even though it all the time plain to see.
So inscrutably insignificant
Life a world of fragile misconnections,
Yet all the time earth-shattering.
Lies concocted into the brew that she fed
To the one person she thought she could trust
Lies, lies, and lies—their deadly snare trapped her,
And refused to let her go.
In some eyes, she can see the reluctant admiration they have salvaged for her;
But how much of that admiration will last only fate can decree
But I unnecessarily blame fate
For isn’t it nothing but a Stone inscription sculpted by our choices?
Walking past me are those who think they know me
What they tell makes sense,
But then so did I
Until I discovered the infinite beauty of what-is-not-to-be
And oh no—I never meant to be such a mess-up
No, I never meant to hurt anyone
But my presence in itself is like hurtling of space junk;
Dangerously whizzing through the vast black cosmos until it hurtles its random damage in a new planet, denting its surface forever.
And they say feelings go deeper than the surface,
But the craters my space-junk presence leaves
Is not only a crater; no.
When it rains, it is the breeding ground of a new pond-virus.
The virus of loss, of pain.
The virus that cuts through your skin and enters your blood, infecting you forever.
And my crater was the cause of it all.
Spirals, black-holes, what are the words for the feeling of dizzy sinking?
The whirlwind tornado that has nothing to do with the weather,
It’s wind-smoke that brings with it the stories of people dead and gone
I’ll call mine a whirlpool.
My mind is the small boat, pushing against the torrents of the sea, the waves crashing against its dry wood, the lightning that tears apart the sea-infiltrated night sky.
And in the eye of that deadly black vortex; spinning, churning sea-secrets out for the world to see. The silent scream of marine creatures. Of my mind.
One crack in my boat; then two, the water seeping in like loss. Eventually it will capsize, and you can only go down with it. The tide rises; a wall of water. The spiral sucks in,
In you go, the alien sea-sponge light being the only illumination,
The cries of loss, the cries of retribution.
The midnight sharks.
A sea poem for one’s own self.
The cries of the nightly dolphins.
My shoes sink down to the ocean floor;
The same colour as a deserted moor.
Marine animals as gnarly as the twisted trees.
Olive, the colour of it all.
Waking up, lying down again
Not wishing to see the light of the day
Sunlight seeping through the dawn
A good-morning to you too.
Not from this world,
Not from this world,
For which earthling despises sunlight?
Whilst wishing for it all to disappear,
I also wish for the world to embrace me back.
Wanting to die and wanting to live at the same time.
Not survive, live.
The upbeat tune that last night were the screams of the sea anemones.
The eyes that dance with moor-mysteries.
The cautious prince who travelled till the very edge for his girl of the olive-eyes.
I tried to tell you
Don’t you see its true
What your love left me with
Your claims were nothing more than myths.
The dragons don’t exist
The dwarf who spun gold was a lie
The maiden was never locked in the tower,
The magic carpet never flew in the sky.
Murmur the grass in the edges of the moor to each other. The sea-anemones scream.
My pulse is nothing more than my heart struggling against itself.
Jerks against my skin, like the pulsing lights of a club.
A fire-trap fools do anything to be in.
The dawn lighting it up.
Fading away, the illusion of being together is, if it was there. Mist screens wiped away, to reveal cold unforgiving metal. Metal Monsters.
Trust dripping from the edge of a blood,
Depositing under rivers.
Who I thought I could trust,
They turned away finally.
I was a mistaken fool,
A deluded girl, quite simply.
The roots of the moors rise up from the earthen soil, trapping both friends and foes. The wind whistles through the bamboo stalks, a symphony of forest secrets.
And the woods come alive again, the squirrels in their hazel life, the glistening boa-constrictor, his scales the iridescent colour of emeralds. The canopy that hides sunlight, my refuge.
The twittering under-growth, the forest floor.
The whistling wind producing musical delights worthy of Beethoven.
A poem of moor-mysteries for one’s own self.
Shattered and cracked relationships;
Hurt seeping in viscously.
Shouted words colliding against walls,
Their loops spangled bitterly.
Tears that fall against the dawn,
Cheering; partying, and again forlorn.
The sky of truths, miserable mistakes,
Gambled everything; heightened the stakes.
A sunny sky full of clouds
Or is it a cloudy sky with the sun screaming out loud?
Again, the hurt
Again, the pain
Screaming; colliding; and breaking apart
Ugly minds and uglier hearts,
A black play where everyone has a part
A sinner of hurt who practised the black arts.
Fictions of love
And truths that hurt
Maternal woes that char the flesh
Singing the skin; a congealed mesh.
Just arrogant hurt
Just unrequited pain
We are supposed to call them role models
Our first teachers; they tell
Who are these teachers?
Are they all well?
Two teachers who are supposed to love each other
Cherish and care for until death do them part;
A vow woven with lies
Punctuated with cries
No expectation met;
No promise kept.
That’s how love shatters and breaks.
Two quiet witnesses
Instruments of silence
Their music unheard
Two silent souls of quiet retribution
Seeing all this hurt staining their life
Seeping into the clothes
Moistening the eyes
Fragmenting the soul,
Not leaving it whole
The marble of the floor
As they call after it
Oh yes, I’ll take you away if you wish it
Jump into me and try it
I’ll take you past the slithery lies
And uneased cries
Come with me to another land
Azure seas and glittering sand
People of happiness
People of virtue
People who are good; people who are true
But only such a land doesn’t exist,
It’s the people that makes a place what it is
We possess the power to turn heaven into hell
And hell, into heaven
But you can’t make a heaven of a person
And someone should have told them that.
It’s my lament
My only cry
White marble lies
From all that’s good
And faithful and true
I call upon them
As I invoke the lords of truth
To come and bless my poems of complacence
A fragment-hurt poem for one’s own self.
I’ve got only one God
He requires no sacrifice
No elaborate prayer
Women can wear whatever they want to
And there’s no Original Sin
Nor is there any violence
Between Hinduism and Buddhism
We’re all the same
Hardly any difference
To commit crimes in the name of that
Why, why let humanity down like that?
Listen to me long and true
I have cried and bespoken
Your golden words
Seeing the world, the way
You commanded me to
SO, what if I’m a woman
If I don’t possess the righteousness of men
What if, yes, every month some days I’m considered impure?
SO, what if you believe that every woman is behind a war?
I pray long and true
To you, O Lord
For true blessings don’t lie in
Or a temple
Or any other place of worship
My God lies in helping other
The concept of the world was yin and yang
Day and night
Hot and cold
Death and life
Two sides of the same coin
Call them anything you want them to be
But they’ll be equal
You can already see
Don’t you dare
Tell me that
I’m any less from any man
You might be the legacy of fathers who supported the house
I’m from the lineage of mothers from whom you sprung from
So, don’t, for even a minute
Confuse my silence to be weak
My quietness is my greatest power
When I’ll unleash it, you would only quaver
There’s something I need to
And break empires
Don’t even believe; for a minute;
That I’m at any man’s mercy.
This is me, not my lament,
A fair warning, not advice
That to those who dream of calm shores
You must go through rough seas first
I’m that sea
You might not survive
This is me;
A poem of equality; of strength; for one’s own self.
Against the windows
Again, the joy
Again, the woes
The tears of the clouds
Inky black scores.
Water of life
Water of death
The giver of crops
The river of floods.
Getting with, cries from another land
Your memories beat against my skull
As I listen to the rain
All the lies you told me
A single voice
Tears apart my soul
Warm shouts whispering cold
They move across my skin
Tears of red and gold
Sweat of young and old
I’m talking to myself in the dark
Conversations with nobody
I’m crying over the past
Drafty silent memories.
The rain does not go away.
Nor do your memories.
An anguished cry
Tears across the silence
Should have toed the line
Should’ve stayed inside the fence
They move across the floor
All the broken windows
All the unhinged doors
I. Hope. This. Darkness. Never. Fades. Away.
Are you somewhere out there too?
Is the rain beating against your chest?
Are you standing bare-necked?
Is there someone beside you,
A woman who’s not like me
A woman who I’ll never be.
In the raindrops…
…Can’t you recognise my tears calling out to you?
As I’m standing by the rain
I can’t help wondering
Are you somewhere out there too?
Go back to being
The whirlpool I’ve always taken them to be
My mind engulfs them far
More efficiently than any blackhole in any galaxy.
I can feel your presence
I let the blackhole eat that away too
In the raindrops, their viscous pitter-patter
I feel the compulsion to drown in my whirlpool alongside you.
This is me, all of me
This is my rhyme
This is myself
A rain-fed poem for one’s own self.