Tag: poetry

• Purpose

  I watched everything I held dear

  splinter, break into a million 

  pieces, my life turned upside 

  down and nothing anybody said

  or did helped me. 

  I ate, drank, slept and smoked, 

  becoming the king of all zombies, 

  a being who loved closed spaces 

  and hated the sunlight, 

  a brooding vampire scared of 

  venturing outside because

  he knows he’ll catch fire. 

  Could I have done anything 

  differently? I ask myself, 

  but I know now 

  that irrespective of if I made my 

  choices or if someone else

  made them for me, 

  I would have seen the same misery 

  because we’re placed in particular 

  points in the grand scheme of things 

  to serve some greater plan

  and what we do or don’t 

  always aligns with it, 

  and I guess this was my purpose, 

  to endure by existing, 

  to move on without strength, 

  to fade to black. 

  June 11, 2023

  creative writing, depression, free will, life, love, Poems, poetry, suffering

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• Bland

  

  I remember walking on the

  beach in Mahabalipuram, 

  the waves raging, 

  the winds howling, 

  the pages on which I penned

  a poem for you swept away

  and I thought 

  that the rage that made that 

  moment, the celestial anger

  that burned through both 

  the earth and the ocean 

  described us perfectly —

  two ill-fated lovers 

  like magnets repelling each other.

  I gave into my cruder, baser

  instincts that one night 

  which titillated you, 

  making you surrender to lust, 

  and in that moment we 

  made promises in breathy whispers 

  and held each other, saying 

  we’d let the other know everything, 

  but thinking back, our passion meant 

  nothing, and our ecstasy 

  was without substance. 

  Perhaps we were never lovers 

  to begin with, and I doubt 

  we’ll be friends unless we let 

  the other in. So let the ocean 

  sweep the debris and ashes 

  away because the smiles

  and tears only amounted to a 

  weak simulacrum of love 

  and everything that comes with it.

  June 5, 2023

  apathy, heartbreak, life, love, lust, Poems, poetry

  ---

• Look at us

  

  Will we love each other 

  like we did here in the next 

  life? Will there be joy and glory 

  or ashes and debris?

  As a lifetime of fighting 

  a body wasting slowly, 

  and a mind crawling into the

  abyss inches towards completion 

  will we leave a legacy, 

  something someone will clasp

  and remember us by, 

  or will we become 

  fading memories 

  ensconced in the 

  darkest alleys 

  of a friend’s mind? 

  You said you felt like

  none of this matters,

  and that broke my heart, 

  but then you went 

  out of the way 

  to comfort me, 

  urging me to believe like 

  I once did, saying your mantra

  aloud, things will get better…

  things will get better…

  things will get better…

  Somewhere down the line 

  I stopped hoping in you, 

  and that crushed you. 

  I wanted you to put 

  your hopes in me 

  and you couldn’t, 

  and I don’t blame you —

  my chaotic drift from a deep,

  spiritual nihilism to 

  a radical faith and then to 

  incoherent madness 

  had to be too much 

  to swallow. 

  So, irrespective of where 

  we are when 

  this story is over, 

  after all the small 

  narratives combine

  to form a big picture

  and we finish our books, 

  let’s hold each other now

  and hope that 

  we’ll see more than 

  pain, wrath, swollen flesh, 

  nystagmus and madness, 

  and even if we lose hope, 

  let’s hold each other because 

  love without purpose 

  sometimes goes beyond 

  a purposeful love, 

  and though people mock it, 

  calling it simple emotion,

  I’d rather spend 

  an evening with you,

  coming up with stories 

  and names we

  call each other, 

  engendering a lust 

  for life, 

  and pushing us forward 

  despite the past 

  being one messy, 

  bloody scar. 

  June 2, 2023

  beauty, friendship, happiness, love, poem, poetry, relationships, sadness, sorrow

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• Numb

  

  I’m smoking my cigarettes, 

  lonely, watching some dude

  walk his dog around my 

  apartment complex, 

  and I want to laugh at the 

  mundanity of it all,

  or cry because life’s a 

  senseless burden we’re 

  forced to carry, but I’m too mute

  now, too insensitive, too callous 

  and too numb to feel or even 

  lose myself to thought. 

  Days blend into days

  and every dawn brings with it 

  a conglomeration of madness —

  disjointed shapes, 

  incoherent sequences

  and odd, disproportionate 

  patterns. I want to care

  about you, but I’ve seen too 

  much to reach out.

  I want you to reach out, 

  but I know you’ve seen too much

  to actually give a damn. 

  So spare me your opinions, 

  your bold-faced lying and

  let me continue watching 

  as the dog rushes towards

  another passerby who’s perhaps 

  not as lost as me. 

  May 30, 2023

  life, love, numb, Poems, poetry

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• Recovery

  I spent years disgruntled

  like a weary Ufologist pitching his

  tent in the desert and looking through

  a telescope for signs and symbols,

  like a first-grader attempting to play Liszt

  until time broke me like lightning tears

  a telephone pole,

  now, aged, with regret caressing my face

  with her fingers like the first five syllables

  of a depressing haiku,

  I realise that I have no other choice

  but to board the slow train of recovery,

  never knowing where it’ll take me

  or who I’ll share the journey with.

  February 26, 2023

  creative writing, depression, hope, life, poet, poetry

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• Post-Valentine’s Day Sonnet

  

  I think I’m letting go of the unsettling past

  with every tick and tock of the old clock, with each 

  sweet, precious moment spent with you. I’m holding fast 

  to rhythms, patterns, and things I’d deemed out of reach; 

  songs, sequences, and echoes promising much more

  than dying haunts — the yellowing grass and spoilt mead.

  I hope this lasts, and I don’t walk ennui’s cold shore

  again with its monotonous tone and slow speed. 

  Once everything came crashing down and angst and pain 

  were all I knew. Uneven planes and eldritch screams 

  made sure I lost my sanity and peace lay slain 

  by fate’s hand with all my hopes, purposes, and dreams.

  But day by day, time with you has its wonders and proves true

  these thoughts that echo that I might just be in love with you.

  Photo by Oliver Hihn on Unsplash

  February 16, 2023

  creative writing, love, poem, poet, poetry, relationships, sonnet

  ---

• Cringe

  

  I had a blog here in 2013 

  riddled with quasi-religious 

  poetry and redundant imagery. 

  I used the same words and 

  phrases to convey something 

  that wasn’t even clear to me. 

  Chaff, grain, tree, moss —

  words I’ve now almost eliminated

  from my lexicon, depicting some

  throes and triumph, some 

  vague battle that didn’t make 

  much sense. I wrote 6 to 7 poems

  a day, praising God with broken 

  Hallelujahs and terrible 

  doctrine that makes Jordan Peterson

  look like a saint. I’d read a quote

  by Augustine or Kierkegaard 

  and prattle on about some 

  spiritual awakening or enlightenment, 

  tossing in bits and pieces from 

  my personal life, which I deemed

  a Kafkaesque (another overused word)

  hell. I’d write about medication

  and changes in moods, lucid dreams

  and utter nonsense. Some poems

  were dark for the sake of being 

  dark. Not sorrowed dark,

  or chaotic dark,

  just dark dark. I’d begin

  my rambles with

  an O! and end it with a note of 

  false praise, reckoning myself as 

  a Psalmist. I’d even throw in a 

  cheesy love poem now and then. 

  They were cheap, without substance 

  and ended with ludicrous lines 

  like marry me my darling, 

  or Oh! How I love you!

  I cringe each time I think of them

  now. They remind me of bad 

  American Idol auditions where 

  some poor, deluded guy sings/squeaks

  She Bangs out of tune,

  and gives Simon,

  Paula and Randy the giggles. 

  She loves, she loves, oh baby, when she

  twists and turns, I go crazy ‘cause she

  looks like Neruda’s Jewels

  (Yeah, I probably

  wrote that without considering the 

  innuendo), but she sings like the sea. 

  Oh! (Wait, it was O!) Marry me! 

  I love you! I love you! I love you! 

  Anyhow, that was then, and this is now, 

  but sometimes a time machine

  of regret carries me to then 

  and makes it now. *Cringes and 

  crawls away*

  Photo by Thiébaud Faix on Unsplash

  February 6, 2023

  creative writing, cringe, dark humour, funny, humour, life, poetry

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• Meh

  I’m listening to No Surprises 

  by Radiohead and I can  

  relate to the song, despite 

  Thom Yorke’s terrible diction 

  which verges on drawling. 

  It’s like listening to a  

  dirge-lullaby or a romantic  

  funeral song, and I have to 

  look up the lyrics.  

  Yes, no alarms and no 

  surprises, and I mean it,  

  unlike those Insta-popular, 

  histrionic, selfie-takers 

  who champion it, but  

  love the glory, adulation, 

  and the 3 Michelin Starred  

  meal that comes with them.  

  I’ve led a depressing life,  

  a lonely, ostracised one,  

  reading non-fiction books 

  on Modernism to kill time. 

  What the hell is wrong with  

  me? Why should I care 

  if Hulme believed in human  

  depravity, or if Eliot wrote  

  something nobody understands 

  using myriad characters and  

  innumerable voices, or if 

  Pound misinterpreted some  

  essay on the Chinese alphabet. 

  They were all anti-democratic, 

  elitist snobs anyway.  

  It’s not like I’m writing  

  a thesis and even if I were,  

  I’m not going to  

  sit and read Ulysses. 

  The only worse fate I can  

  think of is doing it on  

  the beatniks, those weird 

  guys who stared at each other 

  after they snorted coke or  

  whatever and aimed at  

  telepathically connecting  

  or reaching some otherworldly  

  realm. Yes, Eric Cartman, 

  I hate hippies, too.

  Anyhow, I’m exhausted  

  and I’ve reached a stage 

  where I’ve fallen in love  

  with my loneliness.  

  Or have I? I guess it’s okay  

  as long as I’m euthymic, 

  without some bizarre train  

  of thought bursting forth  

  like lasers fired, urging me  

  to write, write, write,

  or some despondent meh 

  mood asking me to  

  give up and yada yada yada. 

  A constant strumming of  

  a minor chord, filling me with  

  ache until I eat,  

  order a burger and fries 

  and then pork chops  

  and then mutton  

  and then chicken  

  and you get the drift…  

  and yes, I’m unapologetically fat.

  So yeah, no alarms and no  

  surprises, and no batshit  

  weirdness straight from  

  the pages of Annihilation  

  or some other Jeff VanderMeer 

  book. We should replace 

  Kafkaesque with VanderMeerish. 

  Don’t you think the former is 

  dated and redundant?  

  While we’re at it, 

  we should also ban the word 

  petrichor. Ah! The sweet, 

  pungent smell of the earth  

  after the rain! How could you  

  possibly ban such a beautiful 

  word? Oh, I could 

  list several words we 

  should ban. Muse, poetess,  

  beautiful, dusk and dawn

  are a few.  

  Anyhow, here’s me signing  

  off. No alarms and no surprises 

  or whatever the guy’s singing  

  in a high-pitched, falsetto moan.

  February 2, 2023

  creative writing, depression, life, loneliness, poetry, reality, sorrow

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• Dilemma

  I’m exhausted and  

  want to say more 

  and not settle for  

  beautiful with a  

  😍 emoji, because I 

  think she’ll think 

  it’s just another  

  useless comment 

  by some guy who 

  hasn’t read the poem,  

  who wants followers. 

  It’s not true, but I can’t 

  think of anything else. 

  I’m drained, and I feel  

  a weltschmerz settling in,  

  a deep melancholy  

  evoking brown leaves  

  and pungent coffee. 

  I’m wondering if I should 

  change it to lovely or  

  wonderful with a ❤️  

  emoji, but what’s the difference? 

  I’m so tired that I don’t know 

  what I type in,  

  my fingers punching the  

  keyboard while my mind 

  reaches a realm of sweet 

  cakes and tea, which will 

  turn monstrous in a few  

  hours. I wake up  

  and notice that she hasn’t  

  even liked my comment.  

  I rush to her poem and  

  read it. Damn! That was amazing,  

  it says with 🍆🍑😫👉👌 

  emojis.  

  February 1, 2023

  blogging, creative writing, funny, humour, internet, parody, poetry, satire

  ---

• A dream

  

  The saints ascend to Elysian realms step by step  

  while I only dream of chariots of stars,  

  carrying with me from age to age my pain and scars,  

  burning with false fire and quasi-pep. 

  The saints cross sea green silky fields, 

  having fought the righteous war and won

  with their breastplates of redemption and strong shields  

  while I only dream of salvation’s sun  

  shinning on me, and releasing me  

  from chains of bondage and transgression. 

  The saints stroll into the candescent wondrous city  

  with resurrected kings, transparent rivers and the tree 

  of eternal flame. An end to oppression,  

  while I soak in the pernicious fumes of pity.

  Photo by Dameli Zhantas on Unsplash

  January 27, 2023

  creative writing, dream, life, poet, poetic forms, poetry, reality, sonnet, suffering

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