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.
I’m like an old oak tree in the city centre with roots growing toward the side of the road
A site for the children to play under, and the old to appreciate its history
But the city leader would rather have me cut down, chop me off at the knees
Cos to the citizens I might be a fun old oak, but to the leaders I am a troubling tree
Did you count my rings when you bled me, when you cut me off like a useless piece of wool attached to a cloth?
Did you try to figure out where it hurt me the most, when you chopped off my branches?
Frail, sitting calmly by the way side until you decided being a whole piece was not something I was worth
You decided I was a felon with a broken record so you shattered my wood and left me in a dead pool like Francis
Baby, this is to you! Did you think about my fears when you decided to haunt them?
What even they were afraid of? Cos it seems like you did.
It seems like you sought out the perfect way to end this old oak tree and mastered the art.
And cut me where I would feel all the pains but no sympathy because I wouldn’t bleed.
I figure now that the first hello I said to you was my welcome to hell
My introduction into my biggest horrible night mares
That stare, that fucking smile, that “hi, are you free tonight? I was hoping you’d show me how to understand something I was taught in class”
That fucking deceptive smile, that haha, you’re funny and all the fucking stares that caught me unawares
I wish I could say “fuck you, no, I’m busy, please meet someone else”
Then maybe I would not have these tears dropping from my brown eyes
Yes, brown; that’s how you claimed to prefer your men until I saw you meeting someone else
Maybe if I had smiled back and not said hi, this old oak tree would not have been cut by surprise
Last night you told me I was paranoid, I was sitting in front of my PC writing a heartbreak piece
Just like I always do just before I get one, just like I was done doing the first time I met you
You called me paranoid and told me you would never hurt me or give me a heartbreak.
So why the fuck am I cut open in the streets with a knife that is most certainly yours, and you’re there crying, with fucking tears in your eyes like I upset you?
If I had a knife or a gun or a broken bottle, I would stab you until your heart stopped, until my hurt ceased, until my heart scars were gone;
But that would be stupid, that would then make you a healer
My words are my only trigger, yet here I am keeping them to myself like a misplaced treasure; see, I am hurt with every myofibril of my heart, yet, I love you with all of it,
Because you see, the difference between me and you is I stupidly fell, like an old oak tree, for you, and I am not a killer.
I have tried, but it seems I would never learn how to love you
I am far too engineered, far too imperfect to hold anything and not try to improve it
So I keep getting scared of putting your rounded fragile heart in the hollow of my shaky palm
You see, your heart does not need improving
You are my level up
Stay with me
The flavour in the sound of your fast-paced breathing blesses me with the curse of Ondine
My chest is covered in a thick sheet of latex, which is to say, I did my best to protect my heart from love
Yet somehow I got infected with the need to inhale your smile every single day I’m alive
Which is not very common as I’m only alive two times in a week
Yet I continuously want to gaze at the petals of your lips
My pocket is pretty deep, not with money, but like a box, filled with unanswered prayers
You are an unanswered prayer, because I wished you far away from me so I don’t corrupt the perfection in your personality
Yet somehow, the attraction keeps growing stronger than my will to not hurt you
You whisper floodlight, when my soul swears it wants blackouts
You are the metaphor in the tone of my anguish
The coloured freckles on your pale beautiful face are an anagram for my intentions towards you
You are the crimson cord guiding me away from the broken figments of my feeble heart
Sending me towards the mirror of hope that you call your eyes
I am nothing but the mirage of a lost boy in the rain; you trying to hug me would only leave you drenched and alone
Yet you, striding like the leader of a women market march, unafraid of the eventualities of my troubled mind peeking into your peace and grasping the silence of your happiness from the brim of your mouth, leaving you tongue-tied for the rest of eternity
You, even with all the possibilities before you, still choose to love me
You still decide to make me the centre of your happiness
How on earth am I supposed to not fall in love with the tower of graceful spillage of white wine that you are?
It seems I would never know how to love you, it seems I would never learn how to love you
But I would rather stumble across the right way to broaden the spectrum of devotion I bear towards you
Than let it fester, and allow my appetite for your heart wane like surname of Batman
I love you, the same way this poem was written; rushed, but with good intentions
And though it seems I would never learn how to really love you, I hope we stumble upon it together, every day we stare at the sunset through the bespectacled lenses of our frail souls.
I hope we stumble, together.
Stay with me.
You’ve been unable to sleep three nights in a row.
No, you haven’t always been this way.
You realize it is finally coming to an end.
You try to rest your head, and each time, your demons come alive.
They remind you how much better it would be to die.
They tell you, “Maybe this time, cut your wrists a little deeper”.
Blood is beautiful when it seeps out of a broken soul.
And your soul has been shattered for an eternity.
Yet you have found a coping system.
You have found ten ways to enjoy the hell you have grown into:
- Every single time you find that your world is on fire, you just pick out a marshmallow to roast.
- The pain no longer haunts you, you no longer hurt; you are numb now. Maybe dying might turn out to be the one thing that would awaken your soul again.
- Heaven and hell are both states of mind, and you have been through it all.
- You used to consider dying as an escape from this life. You have come to realize it is merely just an end to it. The blackness and emptiness of eternity is far more resting than the paradise your Sunday school teacher told you about when you were 9.
- You have died more than once…in your mind. And every single time, it was magnificent.
- Your best friend calls you beautiful. She rebukes you when you try to correct her that you are obviously ugly. She thinks it is self pity. She does not realize that you have come to accept that everybody is ordinary. When people tell themselves they are special, they do not comprehend that every other person tells themselves the same. If everyone is unique, then that makes them all identical.
- These days, you no longer leave your bed. It is easier to rot when you are not moving. Everybody else thinks you are just an indoor person. They are right. Only, you will soon be an indoor dead person.
- You started writing out a suicide note. You tried to explain why you were doing this. How much you had experienced in your existence and how you were screaming for help yet the words never left your mouth. You could only write one word. One painfully stretched out word. You wanted to write more, but that is all you could muster; yet nobody would read it now because it was covered in your blood.
- You started reading this and hoped it would have a happy ending; you desperately wanted an extra reason to be convinced you needed to live for one more day. But your mind was made up from the start, because you are the author of this.
- This was never meant to be a finished work…
It’s not daylight yet, but it’s morning.
The litotes of it all.
Just like you smile yet you’re unhappy.
The sky is covered in shades of unfolding blue, with a tinge of orange, or maybe pink, darkness infused with a little bit of light, a little like your soul.
The moon is on the other side, looking down at the occurrences, soon to be buried, like your hopes of ever finding happiness, soon to be put behind by a sun, that brings light but isn’t all that friendly. Maybe your ex was the sun.
This isn’t poetry, it’s a comparison.
You, you’re exactly like what the December winter sky looks like at 5:45 am.
Dull, but soon to be bright again, if you survive long enough.
Maybe you should try to survive, for one more day.
I don’t feel the ache anymore
My chest no longer feels like it is about to be pulled apart by the pain wedged in the substance of my soul
Like the hell lodged in the firmaments of my lungs is about to burst
I frankly never have the time these days to be sad, and that is kind of sad
I’m too busy putting up a front, faking smiles and trying to pass my exams
Last night, an event occurred that should have triggered a bout of cyclothymia
But I was too tired. I tried to think about it; to, like old times, let the darkness surge from the wells buried in the closet of my belly up to the back of my chest and pervade my core
But I slept off; and when I was awake, it was already 7am and I had to prepare for my 8am lecture
I haven’t been depressed in months; I haven’t been happy either
It has just been weeks and weeks of me passing through a loop of just passing through the day
Of just surviving
And maybe, just maybe that is all I need to do
Maybe if I make it to tomorrow, I might have enough time to be sad then
Or to be happy
I met an angel
And I don’t mean that in the corny way guys refer to girls these days
I met a girl that literally made me not recall my middle name
She’s the type of beautiful that makes colours have sound and music smell like expensive cologne
Her face would make you forget about wanting to kill yourself for a second
If you ever saw a flower so stunning it made you smile on a bad day
A flower so appealing, even the hardest guy you know looked at it and said, “that flower kinda looks nice”
A flower that smells like heaven
What would you do, if you ever came across such a flower?
Would you pluck if off, or just leave it right there so someone else can appreciate the perfection?
I’m literally in a jinx, because I know I want you
Scratch that, I need you. I don’t want to let you go
But I also know I’m not worth you, and would hurt you if I tried to pluck you
Do you believe you could meet your soul mate at the wrong time?
I wish we met for the first time next year
This is a dilemma
It is better to be happy than to be pretty, or maybe not.
I remember it well, the first time I was depressed
The first time I felt the blackness of hell in the hollows of my belly
I never was suicidal, but I somehow wanted to stop living
I no longer wanted to continue in this realm I once relished
Have you ever felt your chest suddenly tighten and you no longer can breathe?
The darkness swoon in through your oesophagus and your brain shuts down
You see, depression isn’t a feeling, it’s a sickness
One that has no particular drugs or treatment around
Doomed in the bottomless pit of cyclothymia
In the eventualities of my suicidal heart
I’m down in the depth of all my gory days
In the charade that you have all termed a smile
Darkness no longer is a visitor, she moved in to my life
Someone once said the best way to stop being depressed is to love the depression
Cos it would leave you too, just like everybody you’ve ever loved
I persuaded myself cutting my wrist would release enough serotonin to convince me I am happy after I realized it was the same disease that killed Jesus (Depression; that’s a story for another day)
The fastest way to grow tough skin is to get burned and I’ve been burned a lot
Scars are what make us human, scars are what make us human – I retort
Scars are what made God human, Jesus
After all the rejection and pain, the only thing he could not commit to was a grave
Scars are a proof of healing, a proof of previous battles fought and won
They are a proof you are like Jesus, for even he has scars in his wrists
Scars are a proof He is alive, a proof of his divinity, of your divinity
And the proof of his healing, the proof of your healing.
So maybe, this isn’t so bad.
Maybe I shouldn’t be ashamed I want to die – Jesus wasn’t.
It’s no longer a blackness, it’s now a fire
My belly feels like an unending pit
I’m not sure if it’s anger, frustration or the depression
Last night I went to bed but couldn’t go to sleep
When my eyes finally shut, I hoped they wouldn’t open again
This is not poetry, it’s emotions
Maybe I’ve perfected the art of hiding this off
Maybe you wouldn’t believe some days I wake up and want to die
Would you believe me if I told you last night, I stopped just in front of a speeding car but somehow the driver hit the breaks before he hit me?
Would you believe me if I told you I had my bath with scalding water this morning but my skin wouldn’t fall off?
I have become an empty doll despite my supposed happiness
I’m in pharmacology class and the topic is something about antidepressants
Maybe those would cheer me up
I really think my only refuge would be going to sleep and not waking up
Everyday I pour my heart down on scripts
And lie that its poetry
And you call me cute, and think I’m good
This is not poetry, it’s emotions
I’m really screaming out
I really need help
I remember the time before the depression came
How I always thought people who were depressed were “cool”
And happiness was overrated and not “hip” enough
Till the first day I felt like no longer being alive
And wished I was never born
Then I understood what this really was
It wasn’t just something everybody had
It was what everybody that had had, didn’t want
I don’t get depressed as often these days
I’ve found a coping mechanism, I block out the emotions till they fade out with the weather
It doesn’t always work
Just like today, like now
When the darkness builds up like an erection
When the fire burns behind my chest
I can feel my soul blacken
My mind gets numbed up and nothing seems real anymore
All I want to do is lay on my bed and never have to leave
I wish I never wished for this
Why is it raining on my laps even though my windows are shut?
When can I find a permanent solution to this hell?
Maybe my wrists would give me an answer if I make them bleed enough
Maybe I should let the darkness swallow me forever