Flesh and Bones

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The empty space between my bones
The echoing rattles of hollow stones
The harrowing abyss of a hole in space
The blankness of a canvas sprawling my face
The seduction of melancholy on my skin
The blood in my veins infected with sin
The shackling muscles wringing my heart
The pushing, the pumping, the stop, the start
The verdict is final, the damnation eternal
The fallacy of a mortal; a tale infernal
The screams of agony fall silent like a mime
The battle of toil, a raging tide against time
The play begins with shrill of a piercing cry
The cry never leaves until the day you die

Quarter life crisis

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The green grass didn’t amuse her anymore. It annoyed her. She felt this surge of nostalgia take over. As a kid she’d always avoided grassy areas, especially damp grass. The texture of moist earth felt way too creepy. But with the passage of time, she’d been taught to love grassy blotches of earth. They would have a cooling effect on her mind and soul, some sort of spiritual influence and shit.

She didn’t feel the same about a lot of things anymore. She used to be obsessed with typewriters. I guess it was just a hipster phase when every upcoming instagram user with more than a hundred followers felt the need to spit a few mismatched but influential words on to a page. She tried to compete with them too. She tried to validate her talent by the number of double taps she’d get. But I guess most of the people who liked her content were either trying to cope with a virtual cult that made them feel special, or some people were going through that ideological outburst of a phase where they go through an existential crisis and question everything like freshly cut World War II wound.

So she’d rather just sit on a bench, at the brink of everything that was lofty, and contemplate all that had brought her to this point in life. Now that she was here, her quarter life existential crisis and a handful of compiled essays from people like Huxley and Durrant were fucking with her mind. Was she validating her existence well enough? Well, after she’d secured her name among the thousands of other fellow professionals with much lesser IQs, exposure and comprehension of the finer things in life, she answered that in a negative. She wasn’t a member of Mensa. She hadn’t scored any exceptional grades or done anything outstanding at a very young age.

Were her ideas even original anymore? In 2017, an original idea is overly eccentric, weird, vulgar, or offensive. You have to go out of your way to be recognized. You have to build a platform. You need approval of a significant amount of common people or a limited number of important people by catering to their likes and dislikes. Go for things that are “trending” or “in vogue” so that they could forget you in two weeks. At least that one time you were popular for that one thing. It is the best you can get. So maybe five, ten, fifteen years later some journalist who is out of ideas will dig you up during their mundane routine and resurrect your fame. That’ll validate your existence well enough. It’s the best shot you’ve got. It might help you through bad times, motivate you to achieve a mediocre milestone, and then you’ll just go through life like everyone else.

She wondered about the people who had gained fame after they died. Many people realize the worth of a person after they’re long gone. Those people are not made for their time or their people. So in another time, among some other people, they shine. Does that validate their existence? Will they ever feel they way someone feels when you compliment them during their life? Will they be able to absorb the sunlight through their senses? Or would it drive them mad. Maybe they’re better off dead. At least they’re making the lives of the mortals better.

She could evaluate her life all she wanted and she’d just find herself at square one. So I guess it would be better to look at life from where she stood, in her shoes, from her eyes. She’s the best person who knew herself. She knew where she’d started and where she was now; successful, educated, mature, diligent, kind, fairly good looking, domestically competent, socially loveable, witty, yet obstinate, moody, irritable, sensitive, distant, hyper and loud. But she was who she was. She didn’t deny her existence. Maybe she’d borrowed a few ideas from her mother, her relatives, people she’d met throughout her life, experiences she’d gone through, and writers she loved. She was a set of circumstances and traits that had brought her to this moment and she was okay with it. For the life she was given, this is the best she could’ve done while being true to herself. She’s come a long way and she’s got an even longer way to go.

Prioress

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Give me some time
Give me some space

Take me to a place

Where I won’t be asked
The tedious task

(A sigh, alas!)

Of rituals
Of prayers

By righteous sayers

Of pious deeds
Of noble needs

Underlying greeds

Pursuing what I cannot
Unforgiving when I forgot

To offer specific alms
To quell certain qualms

Shame
The sin to beautify

Blame
Till the day you die

Follow and obey
As they say

Dare not dismay!

Look pretty
Act petty

It’s all a game of pawns

Play dirty
Look sturdy

Until you are bygones

Mortals

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Flashing blurry faces
one, two, and three
Tiptoed, scurried paces
thinking that we’re free

Street lights are fading
down a flashing sea
Paranoia raiding
so we can’t believe

Betting like horses on
humans of the streets
Weighing down moments
counting to sixty

Birthday cake candles
flicker eternity
Blown out a lifetime
pursuing sanity

Mumble, bumble, jumble
like a busy bee
Set ourselves on fire
just so we can breath

The Void Without You

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No clouds fog the yellow skies
Yet a rain storm swells in my eyes
The rugged routine uninterrupted
So why has this flame erupted?
Realization of emptiness, the void
Of a hollow mass you left behind
Carrying the weight of regular strife
With your absence like an iron-hot knife
The blame, given or taken, not justified
Your only choice; to walk to the other side
But the questions still vexes my mind
Why did you have to leave us behind?
Or what would’ve happened if you stayed
Would we have danced, laughed, played?
Would you be there to wipe my tears?
Would you shield me from my fears?
Futile interrogations to empty sky, alas
All said, all done, another decade’s passed
A daughter prays for the heavens to bless you
O father! I miss you, I miss you, I miss you

Prenup

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Splotches of mud cover
my ugly orange dress;
black tear stains
chronicles of plight.

Do you love me, now?
Voodoo doll’s distress;
a hideous, melting rainbow’s
bipolar state of strife.

Scratching a throbbing tumor
chaotic, malignant mess;
blue, brown, purple, pink,
picture-perfect, and bright.

Veiled by a fabric
inhibiting my breath;
a kaleidoscope of moments
the most hideous sight.

Caught up in my throat
these hiccups called death;
jostling beneath my sternum
on road bumps called life.