I watched the clouds cover the moon
And the rays from the light scattered across the night’s skyline
Sometimes, the silver lining is only present when the darkness is thickest
Same way my mind is the most depressed when my belly is its giddiest
It’s the biggest paradox – my life
How much having emotions gets me sad
So it’s an irony the way I keep chasing love
Even though I want nothing to do with this delirious disease
Handcuffs can be made to be pretty as well
A jail decorated to look like heaven
But out, watching the sparkle of a shooting star through the night’s sky
I realized just because it’s colourful doesn’t mean it’s real.
What is the value of eternity?
Is there a price to pay for time?
Desperate for the chance to see you smile again
Would an offer of my life be enough?
Who has the cell number of posterity?
How do I call her to bear me witness?
I swore an oath to Kronos to keep his biddings
But let the sands slip through my fingers in the heat of chaos
Friendships are worth the measure of time spent
The quality of memories created, the strength of the bonds formed
So the best friendships should last several lifetimes
Yet, here I am estranged by only thing I could call my own
At what point is the end of a circle, what is the dimension of time?
How is eternity valued?
Staring at shooting stars with my soulmate
Alas, it was dead, just like our love was.
Poetry is funny.
How it is a jumble of words.
An attempt by a person to sound deep.
To convey an emotion the audience never felt.
Poetry is a lie.
It’s you swearing you can read the meaning behind a line.
“My calyces – which are my eyes – blossomed in eternal praise.
The first day my heart spoke your name”.
Poetry is weird.
How a young girl writing her suicide note and someone commenting on how beautiful it is.
It’s rebellion, love, anguish, creativity.
Turning humour into a food for thought.
Poetry is for losers.
And boring people – or at least that’s what you say.
Why is the smell of the rain singing lyrics to your ex’s heart rhythm?
That makes no sense.
Poetry is really funny.
But my life isn’t.
Poetry is dumb, and so am I.
So it’s a wonder how this is a wonder to you.
My poems are shitty.
A constellation of penned down reasons I give myself to survive the next day.
Poetry is hilarious.
I hope to one day find a reason to laugh as well.
Do you need to be in fire to know it’s hot?
How close do you have to get to feel its heat?
It took getting doused to understand your tears.
To be able to truly recognize the culprit.
Your lips always formed smiles that your eyes never seemed to believe.
I convinced myself your previous pains had scarred out the gleam.
Last night, my chest bled from the same spot you had been stabbed.
And the my heart’s rhythm was a chant of the anguish your soul had seen.
Last night, I, like you, experienced my guardian angel join forces with my demons.
The skies betrayed me as they bantered my already soaked sheets.
My knees were swept by the wind of anguish.
And my gut stuck in my throat, blocking out my shrieks.
I haven’t decided yet if this is an apology or not.
But I admit to recognizing the bruises on your hands now.
I was so close all this while, but could never really tell.
Maybe to understand Satan, you need to go through hell.
Do you need to be in fire to know it’s hot?
How close do you have to get to feel its heat?
Your shattered heart accused me of murder as I held it in my hands.
And watched your death get avenged, as I was the culprit.
“The moon is beautiful”
But for how long?
He always hated making commitments,
Yet, somehow, he kept making promises he couldn’t keep
“The moon will always be beautiful,
Even on days when it rains so hard and the clouds cover it up
Even when the sun – a brighter and hotter body – rises from the ground
I will always find the moon beautiful
You don’t need to always look at something to find it beautiful
Because it just is –
And just because it is out of sight for a moment doesn’t make it stop.”
His words always seemed convincing
And as much as he meant every single turn of phrase,
She knew whether or not he meant to, he would hurt her again
“The moon is beautiful, but your inconsistency proves otherwise”
The moon was a metaphor for her, and its apparent beauty, a euphemism of his love
He always hated making commitments,
But he was prepared to commit this one time
The moon being beautiful is the hill he was willing to die on
But these days, all she had become was a level ground.
I don’t feel good enough anymore.
Almost like the world has moved on past me.
My mind no longer has the capacity to travel through space and engage itself in the thought process behind the birth of galaxies.
My mouth no longer opens in awe at the wisdom I could speak.
My eyes are now blinded to experiencing the magic of love, of hope, of life.
It’s like death, only with more entropy and no burial eulogies.
My bed, unlike me, has forgotten what it feels like to be alone.
And somehow, I’ve been too battered to consider leaving it.
Just like I was in my last relationship.
I don’t feel anymore.
Almost like the world has left me to my demons.
Demons I wish could still torment me.
These days, all I feel is nothing.
Body, soul and heart
A constellation of humanity
The aggregation of God’s disgust to sin
Forehead, chest, left, right shoulder
The sign of the cross
A symbol of remembrance of resurrection
Perfect from before the start
God pierced in his side and also his heart
Put on a tree to cross out sin cos of us
The irony of having to die to secure life.
Friday, Saturday, Sunday
The three days it took to defeat sin and the grave
When all of heaven and earth and hell stood still
God too understood what it meant to cry.
Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani
Forsaken by the very one who sent him to die
Beaten within an inch of his everlasting life
Stripped of the same breath he breathed into man at the beginning.
Easter, the bread of life comes alive
A reminder of God’s amnesia to man’s sins
It is finished – the declaration of forgiveness of a prodigal son by his father
Go and sin no more.
Forehead, chest, left, right shoulder
The sign of how much it took to obtain freedom
A symbol of the hurt he felt in his spirit
Body, soul and heart
All which are now made whole by his blood
The proof that God can love humanity again
The sun, even as bright as it is, has a halo.
Much like you did the first day my eyes were locked with yours.
It’s a miracle, like magic.
Not in the sense of being fake, instead alluring.
You, much like my best daydream.
You, a lot like the first item on my bucket list.
You, with the capacity to knock the wind off my chest.
You are magical.
With the ability to saw me in half and still leave me smiling.
With the power to attach each piece of my broken heart into something beautiful.
Much like you, all powerful.
You see, you somehow made me magic too.
What does failure feel like?
How does regret taste on the tongue?
At what moment do you feel the downcast swell in your belly?
What is the maximum dosage for pain?
When can your heart no longer bear the hurt?
How fast can you get dehydrated from crying?
These are the questions that run through my mind
While my eyes get stuck ajar all night
I despise the smell of petrichor on my bed
The rain has left my cheeks soaked again
I’m drowning from the hurt I feel in my head
This anguish is driving me insane
See, depression is not merely a feeling
It’s a sickness that hurts from within
Insomnia has gotten its claws round my neck
So I nicked my carotid and loved the feeling
They say death is not the end to pain
Yet I can palpate the serotonin rush in my brain
Alive, I was starved of sleep
But in death, I shall never suffer from insomnia again.
At what point does it become too much?
Falling in love, that is
When does it all become a little boring?
What is the count on these things?
A few months ago, I promised myself I was done with romance
My heart had gotten broken for the last time
Cupid would never catch me unguarded anymore
I closed my heart’s doors and window blinds
But what do you do when you experience perfection?
Is it possible to stare at heaven and look away?
Further proof that the world is out to get me
Having my breath taken away by the world’s first wonder
You – the first time my eyes were blessed by the reflection of light against your face
I cussed beneath my breath, grabbed cupid by the throat and slammed him on the floor
I could not believe he had got me again, so easily
And all it took was for you to relax the Velcro of your lips in my direction
I pride myself in being a wordsmith
But the constellation of characters in my vocabulary became water heated beyond its boiling point and vanished into thin air when I attempted to speak
Love is a charade, love is a charade, and I’ve convinced myself
Yet the bars I put around my heart melted like candle with fire when I heard your voice
You, the unforsaken abomination my mind is yet to comprehend
You, the reason for my gastroenteritis from having too many butterflies in my tummy
I never believed a human could possess all this power without even intending to wield it
You are a proof of existence of miracles
I want to love you till every fibre of my heart’s muscle knows your name
The kind of love where I strive to be my best, just for you
Where I have to change my call plan to one that allows me to talk to you for longer
To love you with all the shattered pieces of my fragmented heart
I want love – and just with you
To love you until I forget my ex-girlfriend’s first name
Till I forget how devastating heartbreak felt like
I want to love you – just you
And not for a long time
What is the difference between an addict and a junkie?
Why does one get sympathy and the other, judgement, when they both just want to get high?
Life is beautiful; it’s alluring, but it’s also hell.
It’s also painful and depressing.
Everybody wants an out, everybody needs one.
That’s maybe why people use drugs.
It’s also why people fall in love.
It’s why my brain was thought-tied scrambling for the correct words to form the first day I attempted to say hi to you.
Why despite you being so harmful to my soul, my body refused to ever let go.
You were my out, my source of, and also mechanism of blocking out the pain.
You, an irony of a human, gave me reason to smile at being stabbed in the heart.
These days, I’m clear-headed, no longer high.
No longer hurting from my feelings, just from what life throws.
These days, I miss you. And illogocally so, seeing as you seem to have moved on.
Moved on to finding your own new source of high.
Almost as though I never moonwalked on the cravices of the arteries to your brain to stimulate your CBD receptors.
I miss getting drunk on the brush of your lips against mine.
The only dopamine rush I get now are from thinking about how blissful our life was together.
The thought, like a hangover, also brings me pain in my head and heart.
I miss you, the same way I’m grateful you’re no longer here.
Misery loves company and you were my company.
These days, I’m no longer miserable. Just bare faced sad.
And in love with someone else’s source of high.
So what’s the difference between the one who breaks your heart and one who ghosts you, when we both felt the hurt?
Why are you seen as the victim, and I, the perpetrator?
This life, much like my skin and unlike yours, has never been fair.
What’s the difference between a junkie and an addict?
Don’t fall in love
It would bring chills to your heart and warmth to your soul
It would make you smile even on days the same colour as your deepest fears
Love is a Rudy Francisco piece transposed into music orchestrated by Handel; it is exasperatingly beautiful, but don’t fall in love
Love is deception
Love, unlike what I previously thought was merely the reaction of the brain to being bathed by endorphins from your eyes coming in contact with someone your mind is convinced you would like to rub genitals with, is real
Love is pure
It is life – it is being alive
The centre of the galaxy contains Ethyl formate; meaning it smells like rum and raspberries
Love is exactly like that;
It is sour and sweet – like spices and doughnuts
It is you reading this poem and thinking about that one person, or two (which is okay too, by the way)
It can get you depressed yet have you craving as though your life depended on it.
Love makes no sense
Just like this poem; just like you
It is your life depending on someone else
Who gives you no certain guarantee that they would not switch up on you the next minute
Love is a promise
Sometimes, it turns out to be a broken promise
Sometimes, love is hurt and tears and memories you get, hoping your Alzheimer’s kicks in and wipes it all off
The difference between a garden and a graveyard depends on what you decide to put in the ground
Love is something like that;
It is deciding to plant your heart the same place your soul was buried and hope this time, you don’t end up with a knife made of hurtful words to your chest
Once in your life, if you’re (un)lucky, you’ll meet someone who divides your life into the time before you met them, and after
They will completely shatter your view on life, and love, show you how misconstrued you were about what reality was, and how beautiful it could be
They would bring the hurt along with their baggage, and dump it with you
It’s stupid – it is me writing this and feeling the hurt all over again
It’s the clenched fist and tightened chest, the emotions that gush into your brain when you see that person you once shared your soul with in the arms of someone else
It is hate, it is hatred
Love is the reason I went to the gym and bench-pressed till my shoulders stopped moving and I didn’t feel any hurt
It sounds like the ignition to your father’s car the day he decided you and your mom were no longer part of his long term plans
Love is magic – not just in the sense of being wonderful, but also because it is fake – an illusion
Do not be deceived, don’t fall prey
Love is exhaustingly beautiful, but don’t fall in love
At least not with someone as clueless about it as me
Love is a repetition
It is me using the same metaphors as 4 years ago when I got my heart shattered for the first time
It is like the wet dream of a brother of the night’s watch during a wildling attack, feeling the same walls closing in on my soul
Love is you
Love is you doing the same thing as the first person I said “I love you” to
It is the arthritis I feel in my hands from the pain raging a warfare beneath my bones
Love is a trauma
And one I hope to God never to feel ever again.
PS: This is so stupid. Why do I still have these feelings?
The worst thing I’ve ever done was to hurt myself till I got to the brink of death, but lose the strength to finish the act.
I used to be a child brimming with happiness, grinning with love.
I got attracted to people too quickly
If they smiled at me, if they were too pretty, if they ever did anything good to me.
Maybe because the only good I had ever gotten was from myself.
Maybe that’s why I never resonated so well with the idea of a God.
I used to hate myself so much, I loved everyone else. They were an out from the infection called me.
Until I met you.
You were the looted hope I managed to find in the dusky meadows of my wretched heart.
You were trouble, right from the start.
On the day we first conversed, I already skimmed through the infinite possibilities of the different ways you would hurt me, or I, you.
How funny it is, we ended up doing both.
I adored the short breaths between our laughter, the gleam in your eyes every time my face turned in your direction.
You were my bright moonlight, on thick black nights when NEPA was wilding.
I looked forward to evenings, when you would burst through my door, seldom knocking and complaining about one seemingly mild part of your day that somehow triggered you.
I ran for so long all my life, meeting you showed me the importance of walking.
When I first met you, I warned myself not to fall in love.
Not to let my heart be confused by such perfection.
But the feelings found their way to wriggle through the bars around my prefrontal cortex, convincing me all I needed to be okay was thinking about you.
And it was right…for a while.
I learnt to love you, like spices and doughnuts.
On most days, it was spices; the sharp and occasionally bitter taste seeping through when my lips touched yours.
On several days, you were the trigger to my depressive spells.
Yet, the grip of my infatuation for you never weakened.
I looked forward to the days you were doughnut.
Days you were sweet and made me chuckle and blush just by being there.
Days when I could hug you and feel it was all going to be fine.
You broke me, even before the grand breaking.
I no longer was the “hard guy”.
I became soft, like your ass.
I loved your ass.
I remember the first day I heard about the both of you.
I laughed it off.
But I no longer was laughing when I saw you together, or eventually read your texts.
It was a miracle, how my smile performed disappearing acts in broad daylight, dancing in the cocoon of my face, playing hide and seek for weeks.
I love you, even now.
Even now when I’m meant to be over you.
I still look at my phone hoping you text me and say you’re fine.
I know you’re fine
I just want to be too.
This isn’t a poem.
I’ve been unable to write those since.
The last two I posted were about me seeing our relationship through your eyes.
If I ever get back my cojone, I figure l would still write about you.
It’s funny how our relationship has been left out to hang, like Jesus was on the cross.
But this time, there is no salvation attached to the death.
You were more fire than I could dare handle.
These days, all I ever taste is mere bland wax.
No longer my spices or doughnuts.
Those are for someone else now.
I just wanted to at least be able to talk to you maybe once in a week.
Maybe that’s just not meant to be.
You were me, just in a separate body. Same soul.
It feels weird seeing myself with someone else.
I pray you never see this, but hope you someday miss me enough to check.
You, my asphalt on which I could make track marks with my words.
My favourite piece of poetry;
Take care now.
Last night I told you I loved you
Last night, you too fell prey to my tasteless tact
You, like everyone else I’ve ever met, chose to ignore my caveat, and put your heart on my bruised jittery thighs
Thighs even I hate and continue to make bloodied lines on
My actions have always been a reflection of my mind state
And my mind is broken, much more than my heart ever could be
So how do you then expect me to reciprocate a feeling I despise?
To love you and not try to hurt you with my lies?
What do you expect when you put your head through guillotine?
How are you shocked I want you and your species as broken as me?
This is not what you deserve
But, I always say life has never been fair
One day, you will look back to this exact moment
This one that has your grinning from one ear to the other
This exact same one that you think is your favourite in the entire world
And you would despise it.
You will hate yourself for having loved it so much
You will call yourself dumb and stupid and foolish for being so deceived
You will think of all the things you could have achieved with this same time you wasted being happy with someone so deceptive
You will hate me.
Right now, I am your source of happiness
But you will look back and see me as the villain
Your story will have me looking like the devil
One day, you will abhor me for loving you so deceptively
But not today.
Today, bask in this false hope of what our tomorrow might look like
Let’s forget about all the bad omens.
Kiss my lips and love how they kiss back
Cuddle me in this warm embrace
Love me now
Let me claim to love you back
Be the man of your dreams and reality
Tomorrow is not important.
One day, you will miss this.
But not today.