I listen to songs of melancholy in the dark, as the rain washes over my home. My home of hard earth and rocks, has become soft puddles of brown cocoa. The radio creaks every now and then, but the … Continue reading Songs Of Melancholy.
Since the very beginning of time as I know it, I have been what you would call, “different”, or “weird” or even “special”, if you may. For instance, my first word was “pooh”, and I spoke that when I was 1 and a half years old. And then, I went on to learn to read when I was 3. A spiral of events, my childhood was, in short. My parents were indifferent. My dad, a prodigal scientist, blamed (rather, prided over) it on his genes, and my mother, for one, an adrenaline addict, simply hounded over the brilliancy of her … Continue reading Go Big or Go Home!
Show me your elegant paintings of women sprawled out on the Floor, making gossip, in the mid-noon ochre. Dressed in robes drenched of oil And sweat, and their tired sighs Of life weighing them down, And “homely” tasks. Making their own music and Humming to old songs They recollect from the creaky old radio And songs they sat and learned. Their hair shabbily done to the rhythm of chores, matted in patterns inexplicable and complex And held up high with loose hairpins. with sunlight pouring in and women animatedly massaging and talking To each other. Beautiful women. Burdened. Continue reading Poem: Beautiful & Burdened
“Staying in the darkness, my girl?” a wispy female voice clouded my thoughts, it was almost like she was speaking into my head. I reached in my pocket, hoping to find a candle, and there it is, a pale pink … Continue reading Carnivalin’
There is no excerpt because this is a protected post. Continue reading Protected: Horseshit Harry
I stare at the stars in awe, and watch them twinkle, and I whisper to myself, you will be high up one there. But then I grow up and you tell me the stars don’t twinkle and they’re just small dots. You tell me they’re not where I think they are, they’re not as beautiful as I thought they were. You tell me I’m not as beautiful as I thought I was. not as wondrous as I thought the world was You tell me the world runs in a monotone of colors, and a routine whipped to death by mother … Continue reading R E A L I T Y: A façade.
chop your hair roughly with uneven edges with a blade. scribble profanity poetry in your notebook, with colorful pens. grow your nails till you eat dirt along with your food. grow your leg and armpit hair and wear goddamn shorts and tank-tops. take a walk along the beach waves, till you urge to drown. collect beautiful sea- shells and break them with all your might. burn your poetry journal and watch your words ablaze. cry while listening to music you hate, on high volume. drink a bottle of beer, and puke your … Continue reading do crazy things.
MUN, Model United Nations, is exactly what the name suggests. You represent a country, meet with others to deliberate over the agenda, and after hours of discussion, and a plethora of inputs from different countries, all the head of states(in this case, delegates) come to a conclusion and draft a resolution. My very first MUN took place within the bounds of my school, and it immediately struck me as very interesting. Having a never-ending thirst for knowledge, and as someone that loved learning new things, Model United Nations, paired with research and the interaction with elite delegates of my age, really piqued … Continue reading My First MUN
lungs soaked of nicotine, my blood rages through my skin. as smoke engulfs my nostrils, I feel closer to darkness. my dark emotions make more sense to me. seizures and impulses are my drugs. as my heart pounds against my rib cage, my veins, resist the urge to burst open. Continue reading of nicotine and smoke.
Death cloaked in white. Her feminine features glinting off her face, As she slowly approaches a sleeping me, And tucks the hair behind my ear, “Quite a life you’ve lived, huh?” she whispers, as I lull into my eternal sleep. She gently carries my soul, As she leaves behind a scent of roses, before the rot settles in. Continue reading Döden (a depiction of a liberating death, by artist Janis Rozentāls)