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Swayamsiddha Mishra



Swayamsiddha Mishra


A Poem For One's Own Self

A Poem For One's Own Self

8 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

“Who’s she?”

“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

Yet impacting

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

Of lies.

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?

Anorexic Vampire.

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.

Maroon-red, grey-brown.

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.

No apology

No remembering

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

Laughter mimicked

Conversations overheard.

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

Unspoken minds

From all that’s good

And faithful and true

I call upon them

To witness

As I invoke the lords of truth

To come and bless my poems of complacence

A fragment-hurt poem for one’s own self.


Every religion

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?

O Divinity

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

A marquee

Or a temple

Or any other place of worship

My God lies in helping other

Spreading humanity

The concept of the world was yin and yang

Day and night

Hot and cold

Death and life

The man

And the


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


I possess

The capability

To make

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

Go through

You might not survive

This is me;

My poem;

A poem of equality; of strength; for one’s own self.


Rain beats

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

Rain-fed lies

Blue lamps.

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

Random fingertips

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

Random footprints

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?

My thoughts

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.


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