The Cart// BLUR

Was it a blur from the very start
Or an unusual stake right through your heart
Or you remember never to fall apart
OH’ you just couldn’t let go off the ‘evocation cart’.

Occult invocated in each cut and curve of that cart
An energy, evil energy that slaughtered every heart
Post-slaughter, treating the harm
Whole-prepared for a new start.

Here, half-dead took a leap
Hope of vanished-cart, drifted to sleep
One nightmare, two more
sweaty sheets, drowning deep.

BLUR.

HI ROOM

Alone in my room,
tied with invisible coughs of denial to my bed,
sour throat, sole head
corner table, stale bread.
Pink signified delicacy quite well
but my pink room with pink flower wall-paper on my left corner and pink make up box right in front and pink geometary wall-paper all-over was never that frangible to me.

From alone to lonely in my small, suffocating pink room,
I was so tiny when witches fled brooms
and set off with fumes.
In the course of time, many of my myths got doomed.
How else am I supposed to conclude?
BOOM BOOM BOOM?

My old, lonely, microscopic, pink room,
we have fought a lot of conflicts together,
we have been victimised and bothered, scruitiny has been a loyal brother,       make-up smothered,
screams and cries and squeals, covered.  But I still can’t hate you less for always being there at my bad times ignoring the good times.
But I still can’t hate you less for being there when I did not want you or even when I did want you.
And I still can’t hate you less because I know you hate me equally
and here,
negative and negative isn’t positive.
It never will be.

Not a story 

I used to read all those biopics and watch those movies when I was a midget, still am, but its okay, determining the struggle of ‘self war’ and I always chuckled on the idea of fighting myself, it was honestly unusually hilarious for me to even give it a thought of fighting me, I mean whaaa? Do I have to hit myself or gotta curse my own gut out or what? Obviously I was a fascinated child with fairytales and demons and flowers altogether jumping in my then-little brain, okay, still is, little brain. 

Now that I know how is it to fight yourself, fight your good, fight your bad, fight your everything, just because that sense of hatred for yourself would never leave your side, just like a shadow, flying behind. 

Sometimes, I wonder if I could ever be a good human, good people do not envy their mates, I remember wishing good for everybody I knew and everybody I did not. I remember never regretting anything for whatever my life turned out to be also I remember being a sport, I remember being happy. 

Happy? Is happy’ something like butterflies? Something like colours? Or just satisfaction? Or just something that I always deserved? Or happy is just good experiences? Happiness is like to feel the beauty of the trees while you listen to some ed-sheeran music, is it? 

Well I can never define happy or happiness, mybe just because it’s been years that it knocked my black-walled-door. Maybe happiness seeks colourful doors instead, maybe? Umm yes maybe. 

When I sit at a corner, just wondering, something or hay-waaya anything, was any of this my fault? The accident? The negativity? The benchmarks? The expectations? The choices? The mollest? The heartbreak? The circumstances? The give up? The self harm? The etc? Ever? 

I have questions all over my head, I have answers not even close my poor brains’ 

And this is not a story. 

Road 

walking out, pink cover doubt
head and ear drums blown out loud
cars, motors, dirt and faces
empty spaces and downcast traces

rumble and fumble there she steps
glimpses of bald and razor wrecks
rolls down loch her collar feck
where she stands is that her desired trek

no, no that’s not where she thought she’d be
no, that’s not where she always flee
No, no this is not that same old passing machine
No, this is far off her glee

Stepping down the aisle was a scared woman
looking, finding nothing in plan
she went still for minutes
minutes were days when she couldn’t fan
not a move not a hand
Staring eyes and
And her blood red lash

I am seventeen

I had two imaginary friends when I was a five or six year old, one looked like more of a tinker bell doll who used to stop me from doing certain things like touching plants after 6 or digging in the corner of the ceiling to collect grey coloured cement for snack, the other one was a boy with some twinkling sparkle around him, he used to listen to me, only, I just don’t know why, I do not get to see them anymore, they usually used to sit w me or fly around or just stay in my head speaking something or the other every hour and then one day I told them that they weren’t real, they never came back. 

Umm, basically I was okay scribbling down on the paper or drooling over my own hand-squashed chits or tissue papers or filling my 32 gb iphone memory with my notes and was also okay stalking and envying all sorts of bloggers the whole year 2016 rather than registering myself over this just because adding fuel to being a joke already was not what I wanted until today. 

Until today, that I was scared being publicly tortured when I type my shit which isn’t exactly shit but is shit at the end and that’s when I realise my life is already public and tortured respectively.

The funny part is, I have no idea how the blogger’s world roll but I have stories and days and tears and everything that my life revolves around to share which will take me guts and a hell lot of courage to even move a fing. 

Also, I am seventeen and I dance.