Your gateway to endless inspiration
Is a weak peace of mind,
Dangling like the balance
Of rickshaws,
Shared one and two-ways
Derailing thoughts
To the station tracks for long
And then, and then
…
.
The promise of repitition
Is of no reprieve from
Moans of limbs
As you hung on the mountain, the
Little helper a rope on your waist
And with the stopper
Called friend,
A human;
A dog;
A cat;
A plant;
A memory;
A sentiment;
A friend;
.
…A person.
.
Repitition is of a phase—
Should be a phase,
For staying in limbo
Bears lightness
No person could take
Without risking all
For the sake of
Finding
A peace.
Spaghetti
<•>
I remember being of full, of it being
Sweet but not too much as it
Bursts nicely
In my mouth;
The long noodles of tomato
Sauce and
Meatballs,
Creamy cheese melted
And I’d eat, eat, eat,
Like I’m chugging something
Addictive
My lips was covered; red
And messy—
And I’d remembered being
Full that It’d ask “Spaghetti”
For my Birthday,
Ten years later after that
Memory
.
Recognizing
Despair;
Depression;
Disappointment;
Dispassionate;
Determination;
Anger;
Happiness;
Love.
.
—To whom I put down these words
When described,
Could you
Tell me
The weight of the history
Each—no, all
Nouns that had
been
made(and continuing) expresses?
.
For I don’t know.
Yet I’m
Adamant in sharing
These
Common, large words, as
.
Addictive in my high
Of labelling, the power
I feel when I simply call
Them out, as
Using for my advocation, when reading
When writing, when recognizing, finally,
What am I truly saying.
.
I ask you, I beg of you
What is the weight of my words?
To them. To you.
.
.
Sincerely yours,
A surrogate child of your language
Describing Sweet Nothings
True to it
She was a form.
Subtle, gentle, and merely
A smooth, teasing
Motion.
She was beautiful,
For I see her
Eyes smilling in crescents
Or her nails were more deeper than
Her skin.
Juxtaposition to her tone
Her words clothed
In Red, pink, purple—a rainbow,
Colouring my thoughts
With its slow poison.
Series of thin coils.
Bit and bit, a pull whilst in peace
In months, days, minutes,
Seconds
The line is never-stopping.
.
Fingertips are humming
My mind wandering,
My feet are planted
And my heart
Murks
And sinks.
.
To cringe
Infer from the scene
Of the tone
Red and blue, mixing purples and
Shades.
Nerves of my wrist,
My calves,
Screaming like
My veins
.
Thin, bit and bit, I pulled.
Wisps of the thread disappears
behind.
I see the dust
Ever-constant,
As the bubbles of rage
On my throat.
.
My fingertips still burn.
Keep going
For my position
And my
person
Ever-moving.
On a wall so paper thin it’s visible, I see
Clobber sounds I imagine comes when people walk, their footsteps heavy or soft depending on the pits of rain,
Trees fluttering, the sounds of crackles coming in faint rumbles,
Like the grass beneath but perhaps the feeling or warmth and softness is more apparent than whatever things I hear from it.
.
The sound-out groans, it moans in whistles,
Reminding me that things I described are things
I cannot hear behind where I am.
.
Yet I can imagine the echos the wind makes
When people walk, the thud and clobber the sounds of their shoes would make
The pitter-patter of rain, distinct
Sound of the sharp stream a car going past, motors screeching I fell more in
Curses rather than calm.
.
On a wall so paper-thin it’s visible, I hear and
Think, pictures aboard,
The muffled sounds of what a wind would speak