On some days, it takes
Twenty odd minutes, that whiz past
Like twenty breezy seconds
To separate each limb,
Contorted itself into an intangible mess
That is my body,
Trying to make sense of the harsh, morning air.
On some days, my dark circles will scare you;
My concealer isn’t as effective as the insomnia
That painted them as I lay awake,
Twisting the same thoughts and trying to fit them
Into boxes with labels of
“This is what it should be like”
“This is what it ought to be”.
On some days, I’m crawling under the burden
Of your snide remarks and leers,
Your hungry eyes grazing my legs
When I walk past in short skirts;
My red lipstick
A ruse I worked
To mask my blanched lips
So you can’t tell I’m skipping meals.
On some days, I can’t be the Wonder Woman
I want to be
My head is reeling under the pressure
Of the monsters creating havoc,
And all I want
On some days, I cannot handle
Questions I know I’ll eventually find
But maybe today, is not the day.
On some days, I would like to tell you
That a part of me
Skims over the maybes of our undefined reality.
But all the roads have footprints
So I know I’m in a labyrinth without a map,
That I will find,
But maybe today, is not the day.
On some days, I’m only trying
To keep my head above
Or learning to dive in deep –
A mermaid to my circumstances,
I’m trying out all magic potions
To help me find my feet.
On the other days, I breathe.
27 July 2017
The problem with
Soft hands, is that
Unlike soft hearts, they
On being bruised.
Out of habit,
You rummage into the medicine box
For a band-aid.
It settles cautiously,
On your hurts –
Gaping and mauled and proud –
To obnoxious accidents.
To foolish mistakes…
I would rather be the mishap, though,
And leave a mark…
(Like a fossil,
…Instead of the makeshift skin
You have me reduced to…
This, from an over-sensitive soul –
I’m tired of being that band-aid.
6 July 2017
(image courtesy: http://according2g.com/tag/band-aid-art/)
Stranger City, your wide roads
With unexpected turns
Gave glimpses –
A kaleidoscope of déja vu.
Your sunsets and long shadows,
Bathed in filtered rays
From orange curtains
Of forgotten days…
I look up, at towering skyscrapers
And dream of plunges and conversations
Doused in mirth and menace;
Will this crippling fear of vanishing hands
Not leave my side?
Stranger City, with your dazzle and
Like some new raiment mirrors crave
To reflect –
You will soon turn into rags and ashes
And haunt in-between my fingernails.
Do you know?
How in the middle of my heartbeats
I have tucked in memories
Like the sands of time;
And the waves are drawing them in.
Your fireflies and billboards
Are blurring the lines between
Myth and reality
Your foreign tongue makes noises
You call language
I try to hold on to strings
To make sense of.
Each minute, a recollection,
Strung on the threads
Stranger city, I’m a stranger
In your roads and rendezvous and rainy skies.
I’m a stranger with a strange taste in my mouth
I cannot get rid of.
4 June 2017
I’m gulping mouthful of lies,
Clinging on to a fistful of hopes
Like dew drops on mangled spider webs,
I’m decorating my
Each night, when I pull over
My thin sheets
I’m trying to hide
My invisible scars
That won’t stop resurfacing
In nightmares of old cassette reels,
Crammed of delectable
Old habits swing on uneasy strings.
Broken clockworks sing no tune;
At wee hours of dawn,
I’ve forgotten what
Ambiguous skies look like
Since fear made me
Close my windows.
Every autumn, I’m
Erasing your imprints from my
As showers in Spring
I’ve lost count of months
And your name is a distant
Ring, woven of forgotten thunderclaps
In untimely rain
22 April 2017
All my silent cries
Are two edged daggers,
Peeling the walls of
One swig at a time
While the stars danced
To vile tunes –
My melancholy was the crowbar
To force open
The drawers of self-loathing
Purple nights crept up
Behind old walls
Of shadow puppets, playing out
Ghastly scenes in past tense;
You dwelt comfortably
In plagiarized tales,
Mimicking my skin;
I find myself,
Renewing the lease
Of your stay.
When I run out of metaphors,
There is Famine –
At the cornice of my
Or making love
To the tunes in my head –
I cannot tell.
22 March 2017
(Motel (2015), Clem Crosby Image courtesy Pippy Houldsworth gallery)
Orange sunsets from crumbling porches
Take me miles away
To lanes, doused in perfumed memories
Of old books and damp walls.
Like dust specks on spider webs,
I have decorated my fermented thoughts
With arbitrary imitations
Pretending they were of imperative consequence.
How long does it take,
For a memory to go stale?
Even paper boats come with
I’m an accumulation of cities
And I cannot wipe away
That clings on to my identity.
I am a slave
To this symbiotic equation;
I cannot dissociate from this obsessive need
To feed off your existence.
Don’t be afraid
When I’m uncontrollable on some nights;
I take time to recuperate
For they have me pinned down at gunpoint,
As they sew their shadows on my back
Like a black cape.
18 February 2017
(image source: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/248894316882654168/ )
It’s 2.30 AM
And I’m struggling to find
To questions that have built a home
So deep underneath my skin that
My bones have turned into a basement
From midnight panic attacks,
No better than carpet bombing in a war-torn city.
Yes, I am a city trying to recuperate
From the ghosts of my past
That left bloodstains on the walls
Of my blind alleys.
For when there is a war
Between your rationale and its stubborn counterpart,
You are the muted spectator,
Struggling to make a choice.
In the dark room
Of silent and unconscious movements,
The sighs drenched in stupor are
Like familiar faces in a boisterous party.
And my rugged breath exhaled like melodies
Out of tune
Is desperately trying
To fall in sync.
I’m Alice, trapped in a Wonderland,
With a motley set of minor characters,
Rehashed from drab idiosyncrasies.
For the grin of the Cheshire Cat is waning,
As are the effects of the drink I took a swing of.
This is my Wonderland
And I’ve lost control
Of my realities.
11 February 2017