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Summertime Sadness

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It was all smoke and mirrors!! It was all a game to him, you are yelling. Everyone is staring at us as we try to pick the perfect bottle of whiskey for the occasion. You never know what’s the perfect drink to cure a broken heart though. So hold a second as we pile different flavors into the cart.

 

Watch me forget his name. Watch me erase all memory of him, you scream as the alcohol limits slowly play a game of who’s stronger with your blood. The fact that we’ve had nothing to eat does nothing to help this unfair competition. So i pour the whiskey and you rant. I smoke and you rant some more.  I start drinking the moment you start breaking down and hold you as racking sobs have your body shaking. I can’t watch you like this sober. It is not fair to either of us.

 

It is like watching a child cut himself crawling on broken glass. It hurts me more than it hurts you. You delete the beautiful pictures of you and him on the phone. They are so many you give up after you realize that your hands are too tired and the light is hurting your eyes so you drop the phone into the glass of whiskey. You seem to have come to terms with the reality of the situation so you start smoking, the tears caked up on your face making you look so vulnerable.

 

I am still holding you and your head is cradled on my shoulder. We are seated on the balcony. It is a Friday night. Life is going on as usual. Most of the neighbors are asleep. The stars look so bright it almost sounds unfair that such a beautiful night could habor such a dark moment to you.

 

You go over the details leading up to the moment and we analyze it till we decide to give it the middle finger. Surely there’s more to life than moping around. So we go online and book a holiday for the weekend. This was supposed to be your wedding night after all.

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Posted by on March 31, 2017 in Muse, Uncategorized, Writing

 

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Saudade

It’s a few minutes to midnight. I’ve been going through Tim Dowling’s writing for the best part of the night now. I’ve decided I like his writing style. He makes it look so easy and my life sounds so mundane and dull compared to his.

I’ve been shuffling my playlist looking for something to get me in the mood. I tried Chet Faker, that’s my go-to playlist when I want to be in the mood to write, then tried Tom Odell and am now listening to Saudade, which literally means Longing, as though I understand a word of Portuguese. The band pelts a great tune, the kind that allows you to get lost in the music and be nostalgic of a moment you are yet to live. The kind that makes you believe that life has a lot more to offer to you specifically. The kind that makes you wistful for things you don’t know.

And I am living a moment I have lived before, a moment I’m living and moments that are surreal to me. And I don’t want to leave this moment just yet.Am clinging to a memory that’s shattering me to pieces. Am hanging on to a pain that I needed to feel but numbed it before. Am walking a fine line between nostalgia and wanderlust.

.And I don’t want to leave this moment just yet. Am clinging to a memory that’s shattering me to pieces. Am hanging on to a pain that I needed to feel but numbed it before. Am walking a fine line between nostalgia and wanderlust.

I need to shrug off this dark cloud yet for some reason it’s comfortable walking these paths. Memory lane feels familiar. This boulevard of broken dreams is crowded but feels comfortable. There is a certain intimacy I have with my shattered dreams. The kind that is perverted yet puts a smile on your face. The kind of smile one gets from knowing that there’s nothing much to be done in some situations. The kind of smile a dying mother puts on for her child knowing fully well that she can’t do shit for them yet has to be strong to her last breathe because that’s what mothers do for their spawn, even the ungrateful and spiteful ones, they all deserve a mother’s love.

And you are a mean bastard when you are drunk. Hurling angry and hurtful words. And she is clinging to the baby. Because it’s the only beautiful thing that reminds her of you. And the baby is staring at her with scared eyes sucking it’s thumb. She is sobbing softly. Her tears falling on the baby’s face. He is screaming now. They are both driving you crazy. You bang the door loudly and drive off in rage.

Why doesn’t she get it? You lover her. You love them both dearly.

You don’t see the oncoming car. You are pounding your fists on the steering wheel cursing and mumbling under your breath. The blinding headlights jolt you out of your drunk stupor a bit too late and the only thing you think before the collision is that you don’t even know the color of her eyes after being together for  10 years. When was the last time you held her?

 
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Posted by on March 18, 2017 in Uncategorized, Writing

 

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Get off that fucking hijab!

hijab

Hold up a second darling. Don’t you think it’s about time to pause and reflect on the clutter? C’mon now, since when have you been a zealous bible-thumping bitch? Since when have you been a Muslim? I have nothing against this ardent religious freaks…I’m just concerned about you.

Last month you were a raging alcoholic. Tried every potent spirit you could lay your hands on. I remember how chapped your soft lips looked. And your hair was a mess too. C’mon honey, don’t take this road again.
Before that you were a football fanatic. Regardless of the fact that you just distinguish the teams by their jersey colors. Hold up, i have nothing against that..you can teach an old dog new tricks, if your record is anything to go by.

But this is where i draw the line. I am fed up with you and your gutter. Can you stop being selfish for a while? We no longer have time for each other. And I’m using the word “we” royally. Since you always crawl back right into my arms once you are done swimming the gutters. I always listen and play the sounding board. Even on days when smashing a bottle on your thick skull looks like a pleasant idea.

Not this time though. I love you to bits honey, i swear i do. But you have to kick that jerk to the curb. You ought to get some time for you. Look, your life won’t stop just because someone isn’t sticking it in you. You actually can get some without having to change your fucking religion. Did you know that? Now you do.
I won’t watch you take the winding spiral back into the gutter for another man. Not this month. Clean up your act honey-pie.

I don’t know how you manage to attract the projects, but you always do. And God bless your soul for always thinking you can manage to make them put you first, an exercise in futility if your history is anything to go by.

Hold up a sec now. get off that fucking hi-jab and wait…do you even know how to read that shit?

 
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Posted by on March 13, 2015 in Uncategorized, Writing

 

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Good Old Days

good

The good ole days. I am not old enough to use the term per se..but nostalgia doesn’t really care for age, does it? And when i hear your voice, i can’t help but go back in time. Look at me trip over my past. Wipe the look of disgust off your monkey face numbskull, it happens to the best of us. Judge me when you are perfect. Well, i read the phrase somewhere and i’ve been aching to use it.

Then your face comes to mind. And the movies. And the coffee. Always black. Six sugars. And the novels. And poems. It started with the poems. It ended with them too. Then we didn’t talk. Just miscommunicated our intentions in well-crafted poems that really had no truth. Others were true. The ones that held no meaning drove us apart. That’s what happens when tornadoes and hurricanes try to have a talk. That’s what happens when pride and ego try to dance together. That’s what happens when you come in on your high-horse and i can’t take off my straight-jacket.

But we never learn, do we? Every time i hear your voice, i am taken back in time. And you were different. You were.In a good way. I was in another world with you. Looking back i’m tickled. You were not the outgoing type. And i was a party animal. I preferred the sin now, repent later philosophy where parties were concerned. I just couldn’t quit it.

But with you it was movies and books. Poker and coffee. And music. Hip hop. I hated Eminem and you constantly blasted his songs knowing they pissed me off. Sincerely the guy needs to get a fucking therapist.

And then you. You and your laugh. You and your high-pitched squeal. You and your shouting. Well,only you can be so loud and still come off sounding adorable. You and you short skirts and bareback tops. You never really cared what you wore. Yet you managed to always look stunning in whatever you put on. Maybe i was too infatuated to notice if you looked bad though. I can’t be sure.
You were the party freak. And a sucker for movies. I remember us watching late into the night even on days we had exams. Aah, you and your wonderful cooking. We always managed to be raving hungry so early in the morning. And on the nights we got drunk, we’d wake up to brunch.

The good old days. Yeah. They were good. And not so old. The line evokes a cocktail of emotions in my dark, twisted soul. It’s sunny. Then it’s dark. It’s rainbows. Then it fucking rains unendingly. It’s happiness. Then i want to hurl my heart on the wall. It’s desire. Then lust. It’s love. Then wonder. It’s wishes. Then regrets.

Oh the good old days.

 
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Posted by on March 13, 2015 in Muse, Poetry, Uncategorized, Writing

 

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Poetry

USA. New York. 1950.

There’s a certain poetry to his rage
The way he breaths fast
His fists curled tight
With a fire in his eyes

There’s a certain poetry to his anger
Swinging with reckless abandon
As fist meets face
And eyes turn to slits

There’s a certain poetry to his audacity
Then it dawns on him
He hit the wrong mark
And now he is a marked man

There’s a certain poetry to his helplessness
Tail between legs
Pride swallowed fast
Pedestal already abandoned

And when the truth dawns
He is left high and dry
With a straight-jacket that squeezes
Injured ego at hand

 
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Posted by on March 13, 2015 in Poetry, Uncategorized, Writing

 

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Rejection

I am learning about rejection. We haven’t been acquainted for a while but i can taste her in the bitter aftertaste she leaves in my tongue. I can smell her in the acrid air in the gutters. I am blinded by her in the glaring streetlights just when you wake up from a nap in your car.

I don’t really know her well, but i am slowly learning her contours. She is not well-molded. She is just lumped up together like an afterthought. She is ugly, i can give you that. She is not perfect. But when she rubs on you, she takes away a part of you with a cruel smile. She leaves her pungent perfume on you for evidence. She puts a scowl on your face and makes your spirits take a nose-dive.

She is the desperate cry of a baby when it’s sick and can’t express herself any other way. She is the piteous look of the beggar with a gaping wound on his foot. she is the dead look of the cancer patient who is fed up with all the needles, chemo and the unendurable pain. She is the feel of betrayal that overwhelms her when she comes home to find you in bed with the house-help. She is the emptiness that drowns him when you call it quits weeks before the wedding.

I am getting intimate with rejection. I really am not up for the arrangement, but she is seductive. I find myself falling for her cheap words and colorful promises. I find myself enticed by her slow trails on my body and whisper of sweet-nothings. I find myself in marvel of her craftiness. Then find out a while later that I’ve rubbed shoulders with her. Shared my food and thoughts with her.

I really don’t like rejection. But once in a while she comes and hangs around. At times i entertain the thought of her and the possibilities of what could be. But when the sun rises, i find myself bolting the door on her ugly face and rinsing my skin off of her scent.

 
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Posted by on March 11, 2015 in Uncategorized, Writing

 

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Pandora’s Box

pandora

I’m feeling particularly jaded
Blase if you may
Bored to explain it better
Totally out of my element

I’m feeling apathetic
Unmoved by the extraordinary
Numbed by the ordinary
Suffocated by life

Today coffee tastes like mud
Music sounds like noise
Laughter jars my nerves
A bright smile blinds my eyesight

Today a simple hello enrages me
My moods took a trip south
Serving me a cocktail of catastrophic emotions
I simply can’t handle

Today chirpy faces make me stabby
Well-meaning hellos turn my eyes into slits
Don’t give me that look
I don’t get who i am today either

Days like this i want to take a walk
Down memory lane
Unpack the shitload of package i got
Inspect them for wear and tear

Days like this my demons knock incessantly
And my head is unlivable
Because the past floods in
And nothing can shut this Pandora’s box

Days like this i know the devil is smiling
Having brought me to my knees
Watching me stumble and fumble
To put the demons back in

Days like this i want to leave
To take a long walk nowhere
Never looking back
A journey to no-where land

Days like this I’d gladly swap my life with a total stranger

 
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Posted by on March 9, 2015 in Uncategorized, Writing

 

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