broken shards


[Never good enough]

I stare at your lips the
Way they curve towards the corners
Of the newspaper and an
Unknown number of happy days
As if you forgot about the feelings
You used to have when you saw
Those happy days in my eyes;

While I pour acid down the
Curvature of my spine and watch
Myself bleed from the windows of
My ears and the pores of my skin,
As if I could neither taste
The word of love nor touch
The key in your hands that unlocks
The misery in me and the
Perfection hidden in the
Connection between our intertwined
Fingers and breathing souls;

Because one day you will run —
From the treasure I bury in
My mind and the weapon I conceal
Between the walls of my heart,
As if you have never smiled
Towards those corners of life,
As if you have never smiled
Like there were endless happy days,
As if you have never smiled
When you saw those days in my eyes;

And one day you will run —
To hide away from flaws engraved
Deep down darker in my flesh,
To seek shelter and find the
Perfection that you so rightfully deserve,
Only to realise I was never here
But instead resting my head between
My hands on the train tracks,
Waiting for punishment to
Be served as dessert;

And one day you will run —
Away from the love
You thought was true,
Away from the love
You dedicated your life to,
Away from the love
You had hoped would grow,
Away from the love 
That landed you bruises and scars,
Away from the love
That never existed,

from me. 


The Abstract Art of Life

I am swaying in the dark,

My hands bloodied as I
Struggle to stop the blood from seeping
Through my veins while I balance
A knife on the tip of my tongue;

I taste metal and flowers,

As if the latter bunch were blended
Perfectly with the cold steel,
To produce an explosion of wires
Blooming on the ends;

I wring my heart dry,

My arteries enjoying the burning
Sensation of guilt and adrenaline,
Galvanising passageways across
My bones and within the corners of my eyes;

I am staring into whitewashed walls now,

And slowly I catapult into a window —
In time I am dancing across
White clouds and psychedelic music,
Feeling my way through cotton and silk;

I come to a stop,

In front of red lines and yellow tapes,
And I see flashing green lights,
And as ominous as it feels
I made a run for it —

In hopes that

One day,
Just one day,
I will finally reach the light
At the end of the tunnel.

What happens when the blood in my body has turned into water? 

I am not prepared to face reality — 
A glistening stone with a lava core;

A wide abyss with its darkness strangling

You with every breath you surrender;

A fallen angel with broken wings and a bruised body. 

And no one has prepared me to face reality, 

I was not warned of 

The number of dives I had to take, 

The number of sacrifices I had to make, 

The number of hearts I had to break, 

The number of feelings I had to throw away;

I was not warned of

Temptation and greed,

Love and lust, 

Hatred and guilt; 

Never have I imagined

Sinking into murky water as I hear my own breath slowly fade away within the clouds, 

Or the day that I would find the colours of the rainbow the most agonising visual, 

Or finding myself trapped in an uknown body without spirit or sight. 

What happens when the blood in my body has turned into water?

I stop running, instead, I crawl.

I stop talking, instead, I am silenced.

I stop thinking, instead, I let go.

I stop loving, instead, I am blindfolded.

I stop dreaming, instead, I drown. 


You never asked.

How’s your day going? Would be nice for a change. 

The calluses on the soles of my feet burned — 

With every step I took to serve you dinner. 

You always sat on the same chair of 

The dinner table, signing cheques or

Counting the days till you could envision success.

Do you remember the day,

I packed up and left? 

The day I took away what was mine and 

Stole what was yours? 

That feeling, the kind that

Leaves you feeling a little too hollow;

As if someone is carving out 

Everything you did wrong with your life on your chest —

That was how I felt when 

You took away my source of fresh air

And stole the happiness within me. 

Sometimes, the bravest thing to do, is run. 

Broken Mirror 

She is curled up into one —
The spine that framed her back stuck
Like thorns of roses from their stems;

Her feet sprawled in acute angles —
Some at 45, others at a .5,
With gaping holes of everything human between toes.

Yet her hair perfectly settles on her collarbone —
The spectrum of life that dyed it a deep scarlet red,
All the imperfections intertwining around curls;

Yet her face is specially carved —
Cherry picked and thrown into a certain bunch labelled as perfection,
Features almost symmetrical, identical.

And yet, this very picture is embellished with all that looked like glamour, 
By tormenting it with the mice clicks and airbrushes. 

Check out her flawless style,” they say —
She is wrapped up in gleaming plastic covers and put on shelves for display. 

She is only left unsatisfied. 
Hastily, she puts down that last bite. 

Her body encapsulates life’s ironies, a bloody war zone, a never-ending conflict between self-torture and self-esteem, a broken mirror of a distorted self-reflection. 

For Joy

She opened her eyes —

Eyes that documented worries, sorrow, sadness;

Eyes that emitted ecstasy, love, glory.

Her eyes crinkled, a life on its own.

The lines circling her pupils were amorphous dark forms,


And she smiled —

The corners of her mouth sinking

Into the reams of her cheeks,

Her teeth perfectly crooked:

Left to right, right to left.


She was imperfection, concealed

By the way pride and courage glowed off the surface of her skin,

By the way both love and sorrow intertwined around the curls in her hair,

By the way every of life’s tumultuous turning points and precious memories were engraved along her lips when she smiled.


She was everything else like human — In the purest form of Joy.

Thank you, for being a friend that was like the sun: your smile and laughter shined through and gave light in dark times and lonely days. 

New in 2016

Your eyes are struggling to open while you’re at your daily desk job, 9-5, 9-5 — routine is more painful than it is exhausting. Why is life worth living, really?

New year resolutions are rarely fulfilled, and maybe this time, I should make it happen;

My main one, being: finding a reason for everything. A 9-5 will not seem so painful anymore once you think differently. We work to survive — as simple as that.

Reason is the nucleus of optimism: when you find a reason to overcome challenges, you keep on going.

Keep carving positivity along the lines on your palms, till the day you say “9-5, 9-5, maybe it isn’t so bad.”

Note to self in 2016: Give positivity a chance, being realistic is a choice.