Tag Archives: Fiction

The traffic on the highway

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The construction on the highway
Has the traffic crawling
So I cannot normally cruise
But rather spend long hours in line
Stuck
Looking at blank faces
Men and women
Some have children in the backseats
Looking ahead
To nowhere

The rush hour has everyone
Running back to their homes
To their bored lives
Running to watch soap operas
Which shows a life of romantic grandiose
The likes they will never live but only see on the telly
Running to watch the news
Cursing the government but unable to start a revolution
Running to the end of the day
Only to start again

What we need is a revolt
Against our old systems
Rip it out from the root and burn it
Throw it in the air

But we don’t
Because, a revolt against the system would mean
A revolt against self
We’re quick to take action against others
Not ourselves

I pick a bottle of whiskey on my way
Running to no way particularly
Cheers to my own revolution
I smirk
Maybe, I’ll be a changed man
Or so I would like to think

Forgetting & Forgotten

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So you found God
When they left you
And you prayed
More and more
Each day
You begged to forget
Knelt for amnesia

Two months from now
You never wanted
To forget a love like that
The thought of it going
Away
Would send shivers down your spine

Now
You’re trying not to
Remember what their name felt like
In your mouth
You pretend
That
You don’t know what October kisses felt like

Time, kid
Time
One heck of a fucker
That hits you
When you least expect

Sorry Not Sorry

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I’ve been spilled out to the world like an apology. “Sorry”, is a word that has been engraved in my marrow. It’s a war. A conquest to be something that I am never meant to be. Acceptance of current self is futile.
I was taught that empty prayers are better than silent hymns. It is better than what others have-defiance is wrong.
I run away, always, and apologize when I get caught. I’ve been spilled out like an apology. I am sorry.

I read your horoscope

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I’ve never believed in horoscopes
The constellations alignment
Doesn’t dictate a thing
Infinity and stars
Are just knots of hope

Like what mother said
That the twins don’t represent
Anything in my life
But the centaur
I always read

Maybe, I want them to proclaim
A love that was suppose to be endless
Because a glimmer of hope is nice
Even for a moment
Betrayal from reality
Never felt so good

I’m drowning and you are too

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One of these days
I knew we would come to and end
But I know that the love we share
Never will

With you, dear friend
It was never a future
The present was ours
And the past forgot about

Someday, my friend
I will tell my children about you
About a man who loved not with words
But with his laughter
And he looked at the world
Then at us

I was always sure that he would pick us

My daughter will know you as the man
Who wore her mother’s heart around his neck
And will search for men who hold promises
Not bodies

I will tell my son about you
As the man who thought conquering the world
Is a matter of heart
Not an issue of courage

They will know you as the man
Who loved without words
Who loved with laughter

It wouldn’t matter to me
I will tell them it didn’t matter to us
That we never married
Because, love is love
The beginning and end
Is based on moments

You and I didn’t drown that day
When the tides were high
And we learnt survival
By crashing against the rocks
Over and over
Again

Time and Memory

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If you had wanted
To be saved
You would have
Let me
And I see him
Sipping his bourbon
As his hands
Try to trace out a picture
Long stuck in his mind
On canvas

I could have been
If you had
Let me
But you’re too emotionally invested
With your depressive tendencies
As I hear him
Hum out a tune
By Radiohead
Smoking his marlboro

We’re just about the same
Three years ago
The first time I saw him
And he told me that
He can never distinct
When a certain moment becomes memory
But he doesn’t forget easily
Since, remembering invites alteration
And that is a risk he isn’t ready to run

Three years ago
We would collapse bone to bone
And not know where his skin ended
My heart beat began
But now, he makes art on canvas
That resembles blaspheme to the God
And I kneel to the same one
Praying to save us
And I don’t know which is funnier

The fact that we changed with time
Or the fact that we never outgrew it

Conversations with Charles

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“What matters the most is how well you walk through the fire”, Charles Bukowski had written in one of his books. He turned me into this mess of a person who has a weak heart layered with iron.
“It is okay to cry, you’ve cried it all out of your system” ,I say to myself curling up in between the sheets.
“Oh! Who the fuck are you trying to deceive?” ,said my mentor standing right beside the door.
I like to have conversations with Charles every now and then, usually at 3 am in the morning. It is one of those times where he is talking to me. He’s the only one who calls me out on my sad bullshit.
“You don’t even know how to cry. You’ve only forced this tear droplet to convince yourself that you’re crying.”,he says, sipping on a bottle of beer and makes his way to the corner of my bed.
I sit up and light a cigarette. He takes the lighter from my hand and lights a smoke for himself too. We’re sitting in my cold dark room. “I bet your anxiety is kicking in right now.” He says and smirks, “you’re suffocating, like when someone jumps in a puddle of water and it becomes empty. It’s the same. You’re the same. You’re just as empty with spillage on the sides, kid. A temporary catastrophe of emotions.”, Charles takes a long drag of his cigarette.
“Sadness is a person sitting on my chest making it hard to breath.”, I say and grab the bottle of beer from his hand gently taking a sip. It’s nice to drink with Charles. He makes sense to me on so many levels when the world fails to.
“You get out of breath and then sedate yourself just to numb out the physical dynamics of the pain from your recent heart break. I hope that pill was enough to knock you out when you felt like reaching out to him.” He says and I nod in affirmation, “A pink pill is always helpful in controlling bouts of loneliness. It puts my heart in a cage when all it wants is to barge in through the door. I know that the doors are open and a single knock would lead me to back. Resistance is hard where the love is mutual, Charles.” I repeat to myself, “Resistance is futile.”
“But you’re lurking in a state of mind where you try to move on and your feet are running back. You still wonder kid, how can that be?” he laughs now and throws his cigarette bud on the floor, “A heart in the wrong place and a mind at the right. But, these two had declared war long ago before this person came into your life.”
“They have been at war since the past fourteen years, Charles.” I exclaim, “Don’t you remember the past wreckages of loving impulsively?”
“Ah! What lured you into the realms of heartbreak isn’t the longing for another soul. It is your addiction to the chase of wanting what you cannot have and putting in efforts to attain it. A blaspheme to the God above.” He says and I look at him wanting to refute his argument but unable to do so.
“It has reeled me back into the pit, again. I’m wondering if I can get out of this or not?” I ask him.
“Want to know a secret? You will survive this and make it out alive because you have made it out alive before. Remember, if you’re going to swim there will be times when the tide will be high enough to drown you. It takes even the best to perfect their swim against or with the currents to survive. I hope you learn to swim with the current or walk through the fire. Just keep going” He says and places his empty beer bottle on the table and before I could, he walked out the door.

Foreign In My Native Land

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“They wouldn’t understand you,” she said and I knew what she meant. I have multiple people trapped inside who refuse to leave me alone unless their story is told.I feel every emotion with twice the force and sometimes days go by without feeling anything.

“Love is constant and you’re not.”, she said

I don’t have a constant.
I have variables.
I lack empathy.
I have a false bravado.
I don’t have weak knees.
I have a stiff back.
I refuse to let my guard down.
I will drown you within myself.
I love you.
I refuse to be with you.
I am voices trapped inside your head and the person you know but never meet.

Before love turns cold

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Some days we’re like lovers in France. He holds me and tells me that I’m all his. I hold his hand and know that he is mine, forever. At times I whisper, “Iloveyous” into his crooked bones like a prayer. Other times I wander around his body trying to find something that would make me fall in love with him. He laughs at me for loving him but only after he broke my heart and before he broke my hand.
He says that I don’t know how to love, unless they are broken and need fixing.
“You don’t love, babe”, he says,“You try fixing what can never be fixed”.
I see in him a child who lost his way seeking shelter in an abandoned house hiding behind the sink so that the storm doesn’t knock him out. It is a game where we both hide and days go by before one of us is found.
On the good days he lets me in and we crash into each other like it is the only way we know how to love. Messy and destructive. On the bad days he locks me out and I become an immigrant in our house. Shunned and ridiculed. Last night, I asked him to tell me three good things about himself but he couldn’t answer. Then I asked him to tell me the three flaws he has and he stated a list.
“What about you?” he said
“I try fixing what can’t be fixed and I don’t know whether this is a flaw or a merit.” ,I replied

A poem about longing

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It has been forty days since I last kissed you, he says

And I sigh on the other side of the line

My lips tremble as I ask him, when will I see you again?

We’re both afraid of the answer

But he says soon and then the line goes quiet

It is one of those nights

Where I feel like we’ll break open like colorful beads on the floor

Spill into a kaleidoscopic pattern

Never to be whole again

He tells me we’ll be fine

I repeat it with him, We’ll be fine

Fear gets to me, when I cannot recall the way he smelled

Or the way his hands fit into mine

He is hopeful

Hopeful for a future where we conquer the world

I wish my heart wasn’t in doubt

“You don’t love me, do you?” it is the fifth time I’ve heard him say this

I say I do, but it’s a complicated form of love

1427.0 kilometers lay stretched between us

Approximately 886.6967 miles

I’ve mapped the distance out like veins in my body

He assures me, at least we’re under the same moon

We look at the same sun

For my fragile little heart this is consoling

I can always look at the sky

But for how long can the clouds form his face until they disappear

The last time I saw him

I went straight into his arms

It was the most natural thing to do

He gets angry at times because I test his patience

Distance doesn’t make the heart grow fonder

It makes the heart grow cold and restless

His conversations are laced with I love yous

I tell him that I know and that I miss him

He talks about how he’ll see me in a couple of months

Till then I just look at the rose he bought me on our very first date

That rose has shriveled up in the corner of the closet

Sometimes I think my heart is doing the same

But it reminds me of how once we we’re together

Happy, content and found bliss in the little corner of the world

When things get out of control

I hush my tone because maybe, my silence would not let things fall apart

I haven’t written love poems in a while

Frankly because, I can’t lie to myself through poetry and assure my soul that it will be alright

People ask me, how can I hold onto this long stretch for the past two and a half years?

And I reply, there are people with miles stretched between them but their souls are one

Then there are people who sleep in the same bed but a thousand miles stretch between their souls

How can I let my north star not guide me home?

So as I sit here to write a love poem to my lover who is miles apart

All that comes out is the longing that I have for him

Lingered with hope and strength on how I’ll try to make this one last