So Much More

wondering how this will work

this is your self

feeling as if

you have left the

user manual to your soul


a pulsating,

pounding dance

beneath your skin,


as it

rebukes you for

every mistake

only you see

saying it would

be better if you stay



your words are hurtful

the people who tell you

that your words are nice

are abstaining from

telling you the truth

you have learnt

that the heart races only before

a race


what when you feel

every second

as it jogs on its

internal treadmill,

fearing, doom is upon


enjoy yourself,

a good time

is always upended

with a warning,

” this is only temporary,

good times are always gone

in a blink,

tomorrow will be

what you really deserve”

because you know that

it was only when you were


when you could commission

all the unicorns you want

to transport you

down the memory lane

of happiness

and magic dust

you collected,

where is it all that now?


every time

the throb drums

on your head

its eternal pessimism,

so much that your eyes

glaze over,

or when you are pulled

to the floor

your hair a mess,

what you need to


is that you are so much


than any notion

that tells your racing

heart that you

could be better

you are more

than your worry

that you

are alone

you are so

much more

than you think…

If Words Were…

see them come

and run away,

scared to be

so near,

but you are slow,

at least that’s

what they prove

every time for you

to endorse

with a nod,

they have scissors,

they are barbers,

wanting to make

you beautiful,

but that would

only be true

if words were



every concept of


you’ve had

every knot of

self-confidence you’ve

made to climb

a mountain of

your dreams,

they cut off

your relations

with every child

your age,

because they are


they deserve

anything but

dumb friends

like you,

when people ask


about your hurt


they deny knowing

because you are

a spoiled brat,

unaware how

a slap feels,


you’d know,

if words were hard palms,

making contact with

the fist, positioned

between your lungs

they say,

they are editors

of the beautiful

picture you are

that may be true,

if pictures

were like you


and forgotten,

then picked up


and cropped


and more


you are

a dot,

crying for help

from people

passing by and

stepping over you…


shadows of

what is your teddy bear

when the lights

come on,

yet now,

it looms

over you,

larger than it seems

its cute smile,

an evil snarl

every cuddle

crushing you,

you feel the

sweat on your forehead,


and face the brunt

of sleepless adult anger

or suffer,

those are the options

Teddy offers you,

you are five

yet old enough

to decide

its paws comfort you,

a soft cushion for every weal

etched on your tender skin

but only when

the lights are on,


the night makes it clear

to you

that you are

its sorry prisoner

only a few minutes,

yet they seem eternal

as you wave your arms,

crying for help,

but softly,

tears down

your cheeks,

looking for

a means of escape

from the uncharted land of your


with a form

of Teddy

you were yet

to discover

your eyes


so fast

your vision

a whirlpool,

as you try to navigate

in a world

without Mum

with a limited supply

of air

you are five,

but that is little excuse

for you to escape now

from answering

a question they ask you

throughout the day,

the few individuals,

surrounding you,

dumping their pent-up

hurt on you

for mistakes

that only they can perceive,

their voices echoing

as one,

when Teddy asks,

“why are you such a bad baby?”

The Only One

you know the feeling,

like you are

the only one,

sinking in

your self,

rather than mires,

they tell you

to “go,

get some friends”

as if friends are


as if everyone’s waiting

to hear about

your day,

it is difficult,

only you can know,

to share your innermost



your past has installed

in you a filter

that allows smiles,

however imaginary

to flow,

but literally

holds back

your tears

the silence around you,

so dense,

even if you are standing

in a crowded marketplace,

you are brave in the dark,

you were the only child

in school who sat quietly

through horror movies,

do you know why?

because you were afraid

of being a “crybaby”

roaming incognito

is better,

than wearing your heart

on your sleeve

they say they could die

of a condition,

similar to yours

but their statements are

a figure of the language

they speak in,

the same speech

that complains of the

mountains that you

craft of your

mole-hill sized


that they are

yet to experience

you cry,

when you are alone,

admiring their strength,


as you learn to

breathe, to live

in the depth of the

silent waves of sentiment

around you,

do you ever realise,

that the very same

people you think highly of,

are screaming,

flailing their arms around

in their internal swamp

of being human,

because they are

afraid of themselves,

just like you were?


a single word

she’s triggered,

as she screams at


for possible mistakes,

whisking you

by the throat

into your darkest corners,

sucking out all

the air in your body,

as your brain whirs

an uncontrollable

merry- go- round

hear her cackle

you are her

amusement park,

she pushes you


the contorted mirrors

that reflect your image

that only you can see

hollering to you


you are responsible

for your friend getting hurt

in a party

you left unattended

convincing you

that you are the only

one to be questioned

for all the problems

in your world,

making you regret

every word you said,

because she reports,

“They probably

felt bad”

(although they were happy)

her voice


until you are

alien to yourself

you deny her


as she has instructed

her prisoners to

yet she is noticeable

when you hug


and assuming you

strangled them,


“Did I Hurt You?”

Innocent Bullies

they looked at her,

a strange kind of



because she was

the same, yet

so different,

it was often

a long time before

they saw

a new face,

her gaze fixated

on them,

it was hard,

their amused jibes

that hoped to soften,

only hardened it more,

weakening her soul,

as she looked

at emotions of



that translated to


in her view,

they meant to be

friendly, have fun,

but the expression

was disgust,

she watched on,

even in the dark

of the room

as she prowled,

they knew her

to be harmless,

wanting to be

her friend,

little did they know

as they slept on,

as her eyes glistened

more than the knife

in her hand,

that for their little fun,

and her contorted view,

paired with a conscience

broken with anger,

they were dead…


This is about a period I experienced in the second half of 2018…

a familiar feeling

like the one

before a race

encourage it,

little knowing

you just let

an unwelcome person in

nervous, on the edge

you can almost see

a red alarm

on your head,

warning you of treacherous seas

where people,

the ones who care about you,

dive in a swimming pool

it strips you

of the very ones

you need,

convincing you that

survival means

doing it alone

that everyone

is against you

you’ve stopped interacting

with paper, for

the emotion you so adore

cackles as it asks,

“who wants to read

your foolish words?”

you nod, mute now

as you pop

a whole packet of

what you call

“comfort food”

as you bleed

every fortnight,

instead of every month,

thinking you are alone,

who suffers like this?

everyone is interested

in listening to music,

instead of a girl’s feelings

probably you could be

a nice girl,

you are a regretful


help someone out,

made someone else

your project,

it ended in

twin scars of

emotional hurt,

you and the others around

have stopped recognizing

you, the girl they knew

“you are useless,

weak, mental”

the guest droned

on and on and on

warning you to stay silent,

for in this world,

survival equals loneliness,

as you weep, pop in more food

go for tests, shouting,

that the only person you trust

is you (and the guest)


she asks,

“What’s been up?”

takes you by your hand,

saying that nervousness

is invisible, imaginary,

instead of invincible

like your strong spirit,

advising you to believe

in yourself,

to laugh more,

do what you love,

love yourself,

she counsels,


as you thank her once more,

for saving you

before you

sank in the

mire you created


she asks,

“Where is your pen?

Everyone is waiting

to read your words!”