Day to Day Poetry, poetry

#5 Murder

One word to describe you – STOIC,
versus me – GULLIBLE.
Were you always that good at swallowing pain,
or were you just good at pretending so
that GUILT can flow out of me in an APOLOGETIC
deluge of sorry’s and please forgive me’s
coupled with bent knees, palms raised, pleading –
when a minute ago, I could have sworn,
it was you who was at fault?

You’d help me bury a body, right? she asked,
without hesitation, dead pan, straight-faced I said, “of course”.
And I would too, no questions asked, even at the edge of
life and death, even at the very cusp of it –
right nor wrong has no role in it,
FOOLISH and NAIVE are the clothes
I’d wear for you.

There’s a hammer that pounds into my chest.
And it knocks me out –


Day to Day Poetry


Wish I could still be pre-drinking,
and make it to a crowded place, limping
from high heels that tipple, short skirts riding
up to lace thongs worn proudly for a night,
lost in the morning,
fog in the mirror, birds singing, sunlight streaming
through a stranger’s window,
chaotic events memorialized in poetry
a few days later, smudged eyeliner
in an empty coffee house, amidst broken leather chairs,
torn out pages from a book with highlighted passages
meant for re-reading and then never re-used again –
to be happily snuggling into my blankets,
and take out my phone to capture a selfie worth posting,
assured people are scrolling through their feed and pausing,
what I put out for them –
wishful thinking, endless wanting
for validation from
people I don’t even care about,
to be working a 9 to 5 job and doing things I despise
just so I can come home to an apartment I can undoubtedly pay for –
and not worry about making ends meet or living
from paycheque to paycheque –
give up passion for a steady stream of breakfast, lunch, dinner
without having to compromise on health,
not having to rely on chemicals to ease that monster anxiety, peacekeeping,
serenity achieved through the purest of means,
instead of this day to day surviving,
battling every morning  when it’s the last thing I ever want to do,

Day to Day Poetry, poetry

Day to Day Poetry #59

There is fear in my tongue.
It prevents me from speaking truths.
I speak only in metaphors and alliterations
and manipulative codes.
Every story I share is full of
dramatic pauses and hesitations,
I am constantly second-guessing –
do I want to be heard?
Do they want to hear me?

There is fear in my hands.
It controls me from palm to fingertip
and forces me to clutch at every pained human being I see,
even at the cost of ripping my own skin,
because making other people’s problems my own,
is easier than having to be constantly aware
and recognize the deep well I have buried myself in,
made of my own denial and procrastination.

There is fear in my eyes.
It blinds me.
It filters my vision and only allows
the new, scary and unknown
to be seen with intense clarity –
it convinces me that these are the only things that exist,
because what is comfortable is a part of who I am,
and who I am is not worth seeing.

There is such fear in my heart.
It erases everyone who hurts me in the slightest,
and takes everything so ferociously personally.
I end relationships before it even begins,
to avoid being broken, betrayed and left bewildered,
floundering for closure, and
sinking within the memories of now empty apartments,
with only tiny tendrils of recollection to hold me still,
and fragments of arguments reverberating
with the listless pounding of my heart.

Fear is the only thing I know at 2 in the morning.
It sedates me into becoming a perpetual wanderer,
one who flies through universes, only to land randomly,
cornered into a cage of my own creation.

Day to Day Poetry, poetry

Day to Day Poetry # 58

There’s a constant stream
of self-blaming
and automatic learned helplessness
that nips at me relentlessly.
Some days it’s tolerable,
and some days
it swallows me whole.

Your voice
is a celestial hand
that reaches out to me despite distance,
in spite of walls built on
the foundations of self-defence
and thousand yard stares ingrained in
gauntlets made of steel –
bringing into life, words that
reverberate in my heart to keep
me hoping for another day,
awake and

Day to Day Poetry

Day to Day Poetry #39

I can feel the toxic woman rising,
from the back of my throat.
She grips me with her icy, cold fingers
and dips me in liquid laced with poison,
where there is no antidote
for the viciousness and relentless words
she spouts a mile a minute.

I let her take over me –
eyes squinting,
watching the faces of my friends
widen in surprise
at how venomous I can actually be –
I have no control over the words exploding out of me
like scythes ripping through the air
and cutting them in half –
all the acid I’ve contained inside
starts spilling,
burning and desecrating everything in its path

and I can only tremble and watch from the corner of my eye
the damage I’ve caused –
the loss of control I’ve allowed to happen –

I love you, I love you
I tried to be good,
I swear I tried to be good –
but the demon inside me has fought her way out of my heart
and taken my misery and insecurities with her –
to reveal the Mother Cunt
growing, in fury,