Poem 6-Balloons

Bubbles beneath my skin
Inflate like balloons

My body beneath, covered
In helium, rising

A soft bed floating
Above the stars

Beneath my rib cage
Rising up into my throat

Acid swirls beneath my flaming eyes
Leafy spirals in lavender water

My head, a million miles
From its body below

And the helium leaves my mouth
And rises above the mirror

And in the bathroom the gas floats
Transparent, inodorous, silent

It exists above me unseen
And hovers with me wherever I go.





my cells would regenerate,                                                                                                                                           my mind would recuperate,                                                                                                                                                    my tears might evaporate

I’m lying on a cloud.

Nope, that’s just my bed.

Are my eyes open or closed? It’s so dark I can’t even tell. They must be open, I can feel a gentle breeze stinging them. I blink. The cold, dry breeze goes away for a split second and then it’s back, battling the warm sheets of tears.

Why can’t my eyelids stay shut? The breeze is causing the back of my eyes to prick and my head to pain.

To gather some warmth, I roll my eyeballs east and west, north and south. I am looking at a sheet of black as though my eyes were shut and yet that gentle breeze insists that they aren’t.

My mind could just stop functioning if that breeze were not there. I could drift into meaningful sleep and my cells would regenerate, my mind would recuperate and my tears might evaporate.

If only sleep were as simple as counting the bleats and hops of sheep. If only sleep were as simple as finding a good bed and immersing yourself in darkness. It seems that sleep must be earned.

To sleep, you cannot stress. You cannot think too much. To sleep, you must meditate. You must find time to relax. You cannot be working through the night. Sleep must be continuous and consistent. Sleep must be earned.

Why do people fear death? Sleep is just like death. The shutting down of all bodily functions. Your body simply breathes and dreams. Sleep is just death with a heartbeat.

And yet everyone is so afraid of death. Death is what I yearn for. Just to die peacefully one night and to awaken as though I did not just experience total paralysis.

It’s to not stare into blackness at 4:00am wondering whether or not your years of life are slowly depleting. It’s being able to get through the day without feeling as though there is a piece of lead in your head trying to fling you to the ground and force your eyes to shut. It’s having a mind that can focus so deeply that it remembers even the smallest details, like the color of the car that just passed around the corner. It’s being able to smile in the morning when you feel the sunlight on your face. It’s being able to be awake when you’re supposed to be and to be asleep when you’re supposed to be.

But I guess it’s not all dark and doom. There’s a peace that comes with insomnia. Maybe it’s the peace that holds my eyelids open every night. To be afloat and alive when all the world is dead. Your mind becomes a luminous candle in an endless cave.

All of your raging thoughts run out by the time it’s morning and your mind just dwells in numbness. There are no consequences for having an inactive, unimaginative, broken mind. You can stare into the darkness for hours, liquid time sloshing around in your mind and the world stays dark. You stay alone but you also stay at peace.

It’s the night that brings out emotion and then grabs hold and rocks my body until my tears are dry. My sheets are damp but my mind is like a desert. I prefer it that way because the sheets dry before I can fall asleep but my mind manages to retain it’s moisture for weeks or even months. It’s better when the water is released. It’s better to let it all go.

Maybe I don’t need sleep. The night gives me comfort.

I’ll give it my concentration. I’ll give the night my years.                                                                                             I’ll give the night my everything if it is there to hear my tears.

Poem 5-Ahead

My body moves but my mind
My mind remains static
Trapped in an idea
Of a superior destiny

Every action in a haste
Hastily consumed
By the gaping tunnel




The end it glows so bright…

And yet here I am
In a limbo
Being consumed

There is no light in
My intent-filled action
My movement reeks
Of desperate depression

And I am here
In a life so bold
So daring, so certain

I am living
I am not an action

Swallowed, undermined
By the forces
That hold the dreams
Of my future together

Yet, through the diligent suffering
I breathe and feel
And though I aim for goals
Higher than the night sky

I am alive.
Right now I am alive.




The end it glows so bright…

But today I must fight
For the light
That is


But also for the life
The life that I
Am here for


I Have A Purpose…



From everything. From everyone.

I like it.

Withdraw into myself. Place my mind into another world, someone else’s world, a fictional world.

Deep breaths return me to reality for a millisecond before I cross the dimensional barrier and my mind functions differently. My choices are affected by this world. My mind is constantly relating my actions to a person in this world.

It’s not real and yet everything about me is transforming. Words created and edited and revised to form sentences that explain the parts of life that matter. Especially the parts of life that don’t seem to matter, but do.

We always disregard those parts; our emotions. We disregard them to fulfill our ‘higher purpose’

You were put on this earth to achieve your greatest self, to live out your purpose, and to do it courageously. – Dr Steve Maraboli

Now, I don’t mean to undermine Dr Maraboli, but having a ‘purpose’ in life seems to cause me more trouble than what this ‘purpose’ is worth.

I say this having grown up in a world where being the best is the bare minimum. If I am anything less than that, it’s not good enough. It’s insignificant. Doing something without recognised achievement or ostentatious significance is pointless.

There is an inexplainable, unbearable force that drives me to perform tremendously and incomparably. And although it is a brilliant weapon, it is a weapon that often inflicts wounds on me.

The force not only brings forth my most extravagant performances, it brings forth a dreadful, bitter feeling. A feeling that cannot leave me no matter how hard I try to drown it in fiction or metaphor. It is not affected by mere emotions. A feeling that doesn’t leave me even when my mind is so far removed from everything and everyone else.

This feeling is that no matter what I do, it is never enough.

And although this worthless feeling is brought upon by my own mind, my own perception, it doesn’t help that the people who I believe see the world most clearly cultivate and nurture this mindset.

I try to sit and clear my head in the middle of the day. The sun shining, the world bustling about. I try to find the quiet amidst the discord but as soon as I find it, my own destructive thoughts begin to sound, louder than anything else.

A million voices scream at me. I hear every single “YOU SHOULD”, “YOU NEED TO”, “YOU HAVE TO”, “IT’S THE RIGHT THING TO” phrase bounce around and reprimand my stillness.

There is still so much that I haven’t done…

Tears don’t ever fall when the golden sun grazes over my cheeks but they do threaten their presence.

How is one person expected to do everything? In fact, why do I have to do anything?

Perhaps I’m supposed to live for a purpose. Perhaps those who tell me what I ‘need’ or ‘have’ to do simply fear that I will float along and slosh around with time until all my time is gone. Perhaps they fear that my life goes to waste. Perhaps they fear my eternal unworthiness. A waste of space and time and potential.

Perhaps I fear the same thing and that inexplainable force is not so inexplainable after all. Perhaps I’m just afraid of insignificance.

But why is life determined by what we do? Why are the lives of individual human beings dependent on whether or not they have a purpose? Why can’t I live my life like water, molding and bending and adapting? Feeding those that need it and then moving on? Following an indefinite, uncertain path? Why do I need a purpose in order to be validated?

We survive years of institution; school, college, work, to what end? In order to fulfill our purpose? For some, it’s so irresistibly simple. They can go through life believing that certain things are right and others are wrong. Some people can irrefutably argue that certain actions, deeds, people belong is silver-stained boxes which they have fabricated from their previous experience and outside influence. Some people have created the perfect path which they can follow in order to achieve something magnificent.

These people have created purpose and meaning for their existence and they write books, discover breakthroughs in science and medicine, change the world. The little things, like a good diet, a healthy mind and a good work ethic mean everything to them.

The ‘perfect’ people know that they aren’t perfect. Even though everyone’s version of perfection differs, why does perfection always involve a higher purpose or goal?

Why must this mindset be forced upon me when all it does is create a pressure that I would love to be free of?

Yes, success is it’s own special kind of ecstasy but it is still a drug. And with drugs, the more you have, the more you want. If I am told that I need a higher purpose, what’s stopping my purpose from changing? From getting higher and higher until it’s so high that I can no longer breath because the atmosphere, full of oxygen, is now below me.

I see people who are striving for this higher purpose. They work wonders and reap success’s rewards. But they are not done. They are not content, no matter what they say or do. They may fool themselves into thinking that they are happy with their lives, but their actions say something else.

Either they are dictating to their children what they should be striving for or they’re abandoning them in order to better themselves.

They always want to achieve something better, suit their idealistic life even more. Become the person in their mind and as soon as they become that person, a new one takes it’s place.

Why don’t these people, striving for something so large, take a moment to look at themselves.

Not their achievements or the people around them or where they stand. Not what they’ve done to change the world or what difference they have made in someone else’s life.

Can they remove themselves from all that is righteous for just a minute and say that they are truly happy with their mind? Can they say that they are truly happy with their relationships? Can they say that all of their love and compassion is coming from their hearts and not their minds? Has everything become a strategy, a means to an end?

Do they only want to achieve ‘peace of mind’ in order to succeed in the office? Do they only want to give to others because it brightens their moral wellbeing? How do they know that anything they do is genuine?

I have found that with myself, as much as I wish and try and fool myself to appreciate everything as it is, I am always thinking of the end. I am always relating situations to my fabricated ‘higher purpose’. I write because I can get good at it, not just for the feel of relief I get when my thoughts can finally escape. I dance to be able to impress others when the need arises, not to feel the rhythm shake my hips and rattle my bones.

I learn hard because I want to be someone in the world, not because I simply need to know. Knowledge is power, not beauty. I eat to sustain my life, not to appreciate it. Even if I do feel gratitude, it is synthetic because I am supposed to be grateful to be ‘a good person’. I am supposed to love God because that is my religion.

Do I do anything just to do it?

No. And I don’t really blame myself. I am constantly told not to watch too much TV and to study hard. I am told to hone my talents and suck up my feelings.

The only thing that I do just to do is feel. And even that, I do halfheartedly. If I could get rid of every feeling and convince myself, as many others have, that they’re just a compilation of hormones, I would.

But they’re the only sacred, human thing that I have left. I feel, not because I must. I feel because I just do.

I just wish that he’d stop telling me what to do. I have a plan to succeed my created ‘higher purpose’. I am already sucked so deep into this purposeful void that even trying to claw myself out, limb by limb, would be an impossible feat.

That unbearable force has already gotten hold of my lungs and is threatening to suffocate them further if I mess up. I am already drowning in its demands and expectations. All I can do is sink or swim.

It’s forcing me to swim. But eventually I’ll sink anyway. My energy will run out, I won’t be able to move. I’ll drown and land beneath the earth, just like every other athlete that has swam oceans. Just like every musician that has traveled the world. Just like every scientist that changed textbooks for centuries after them. Just like Cleopatra and Frank Sinatra, I will end up sinking.

Everyone dies and even their legacy will eventually die.

Is that higher purpose really worth every bit of humanity within you? Do you live for the world and willingly give yourself?

Not that you really have a choice. If you’re stuck, you’re stuck for good.



It’s like staring into a raging black hole and calling it your future.

All the light from today is stolen and sucked deep into its depths.

I’m on the edge. I can feel the force trying to pull me in. Sometimes I wish, no, I pray that I would knock my head against the wall so hard that I knock myself unconscious. Every little swing is harder than the last one and yet I’m still not bleeding. I think that my body is so afraid of bleeding again that the skin has formed a barrier so tough, not even the resonating bangs can tear it.

Even if it is not as effective as I wish it would be, the pain helps. All the blood leaves my brain and tries to heal the severed blood vessels on the surface of my forehead. It hinders my ability to think.

It’s a shame that, at night, when I lie peacefully with nothing to draw the blood away and my mind the only thing still alive, the black hole feels stronger.

Slowly, I can feel myself edging closer and closer. The more I think about me, my life, other people, what I have done, what I cannot do, what I still need to do, the closer I get to the raging storm. It starts in my chest. I can feel the burning, searing sensation of my lungs withering. Oxygen cannot find it’s way anywhere and my head is affected first. It feels as though it is on the roof while my stomach is six feet underground. My hands and feet tremble with sparks of pain, like a million bee stings all at once. As I get closer to the center of the hole, I want to scream but my mouth cannot open. Just before I reach the center and explode with writhing pain, I black out. Now my conscious wishes to leave me. I think that it’s all over, but soon enough, after hours of sweaty, blood-curdling nightmares, the sun kisses my skin and my conscious returns. Once again, it shakily tries to stabilise itself at the edge of this black hole.

No one is going to save me from this endless cycle of torture. In order for them to help, I have to let them know first. I have to release this black hole. I can imagine it. I am sitting, facing an empty face and my voice just seems to be flowing. With every word that escapes, a wisp of the black hole follows. I have the speech memorised, internalised, ready. It comes easily to me because it’s the reality that makes up every fibre of my being. The empty face, they understand. They do something that makes it all better. They make that black hole disappear or at least grab my hand and help me to fight it. Slowly, my lungs repair themselves and my head and stomach return to their places. The tears rolling down my cheeks are made of gold and are coated with relief. I cry into their chest and don’t stop until the black hole drowns. And once the tears evaporate, the remains left behind in crystals of salt are cast away, so far into the sea that I will never fear them again.

This person with an empty face does not exist.

If they did, I would have told them a long time ago. All I need is to release this. Or to share it with someone. But how can someone understand my mind, my thoughts, my emotions and my heart when I cannot understand any of it myself? I have such high expectations of people that I expect them to understand what I am going through. But I am yet to find someone that understands me when I say that I am tired. Instead of hearing “Get some sleep,” or “Yeah, me too,” I want to hear them ask me why I am hiding behind convention. Why I’m hiding my real self. Everyone can probably see the differences, but no one cares enough to go out of their way to figure other people out. Friendships are beautiful when you are willing to share yourself with others. But you cannot be upset when they react differently to what you expect.

I don’t think that I would be able to handle someone telling me that my emotions are invalid.

I don’t think that I could handle someone thinking that my thoughts are shallow.

I think that I would break apart if someone said one wrong word to me about the things that I really care about.

And often that black hole sits in my throat and throws showers from my eyes. I don’t think I could handle not being alone in those moments. Mockery is a possibility. Misplacement of my tears is another.

I just couldn’t handle not being understood.

So I rather hide myself. Imagine if people saw the real me, the me that I actually care about?

There is nothing to stop this raging storm from consuming me. Maybe I should let it. It would take that me and it would destroy it. I won’t have to worry about being misunderstood anymore.

A Treasured Ailment

The class was warm. The rays of sunlight rested gently on my right arm and cheek as the ink from my pen spilled onto the lined paper. The numbers fall so perfectly into place and the structure of it all calms my mind. Everything works out and makes sense. There’s no room for speculation or interpretation. The numbers are what they are and in this very moment, that is exactly what I need.

I am at peace and I am denying the existence of any disruption to my peaceful state.

I can hear gentle murmurs in the background, which I dismiss as classroom chatter. Suddenly, my peace is threatened as a hacking, scraping, unnecessarily emphatic noise bursts though the murmurs. I close my eyes for a second, take a deep breath in and refocus on the numbers. The hacking continues and I resist the urge to scream at her to shut up.

As sick as she is, there is a large part of me that knows that the volume of the coughs can be tremendously reduced. The raucous noises are meant to snatch the attention of anyone nearby who cares enough to ask if she is alright. As judgmental as I this is to say, she really likes to extend her worth and make a fuss of herself. She truly believes that she is the shit.

I struggle with these feelings. I hold in my annoyance and beg someone, anyone to ask her if she is alright so that I can go on ignoring her and focusing on my numbers.

At the same time, I wish that everyone ignores her annoying forwardness and she learns that people don’t actually care about others that much.

At last, my first wish comes true and the other girl seated beside her asks if she is alright.

She laughs sarcastically, turns to me and says “I am telling you, I have TB!”
I smile at her and shake my head gently, trying to hide my irritation.

I know that she is sick. She is my supposed best friend, after all. I know that she has been sick for a while. But the way she talks about things like this in front of other people proves something to me. She wants others to think that her life is special, mysterious and full of some kind of tragedy.

I know this because I get the same urges sometimes. But I never act on them on such a large scale. Why? Because it’s freaking annoying. It makes a person seem like an attention-seeking bitch. And that cannot be further from the truth. Life really feels like a tragedy sometimes and I know that that is how it feels for her but can she not be less forward?

I know that she is more open, more expressive than I am. But that doesn’t mean that her life or feelings are bigger than mine or anyone else’s. If you don’t want people to know about your tragedy, then shut up and don’t hint at snippets of you broken life. Either reach out or withdraw. I know that I choose the second option and it often makes me seem unfeeling or not empathetic, but that doesn’t mean I won’t be there for those who reach out.

I just find it hard to be there for someone who makes it seem like life’s tragedy is from some fucking movie. I understand feeling alone, lost, upset, depressed, stressed, sick. Hell, I understand it more than most people! But it’s not some piece of mysterious treasure to hone and hide from people but simultaneously making them want to see it. It’s not a diamond ring to hide from your mom.

It’s a life-altering, heartbreaking phenomenon that no one can understand. Hiding it is my defense. Reaching out should be hers but I can’t seem to help her if she keeps parading it like a forbidden jewel.

My cousin suffers with the same ailment but she, like me, is a withdrawer. There is no parading and teasing. It’s real for her. It’s real for me.

If my so called best friend wants my help then she needs to turn to me, and only me, and ask.

I would help her, despite the fact that she, like everyone else, thinks that I am some robotic, emotionless beast. Despite the fact that I see her suffering and she doesn’t see mine. Despite the fact that the only way I let my feelings out is through this blog. Despite the fact that I have no one

Despite all of that, I would be willing to help. If only this sickness weren’t a treasure to her.

Real people



It’s so rare to find.

In the same way, how do you find a real person? Someone genuine? Someone who cares about the important things in life? Acceptance, God and happiness?

Where do you find such a human?

It seems to me that everyone I know has a degree of fakeness. Whether it be that they’re overdramatic or selfish or self-opinionated or self-involved. It may be they have a slight holier-than-thou approach to most subjects. Maybe they are two-faced. Maybe they like to lie. Maybe they hide themself from others.

I guess I must be the most fake of all.

Who can I talk to about the things I actually care about? My family is the tip of the ice berg of those things and that’s as much as I discuss. Music is also quite important but it never gets that deep.
Why doesn’t anyone understand that I don’t care about success or boys or marks. I only entertain these topics to fit in. I don’t want to be boring. I like politics, but that’s such a basic level of me. Something external.

Why do we never talk about perception and theory and concepts and God? Why is our focus always on what is here and now. What about space? And time? And all things abstract? What about the deepest levels of a human? Is that not more intriguing than Kendall Jenner’s latest look?

I don’t always mind these topics but I do get worn out.

I want to speak to a real human. About real things. About real concepts.

It’s a bit too late now, though.