Kash Baloch — Poetry on Identity, Love, and Survival

Buddha's students followed closely, careful not to miss a single word; they listened ever so intently, as he regaled them with the sermon of the bird. "My children," he said, "you mustn't forget  what happens when one falls in love with the nightingale's song, they clip their wings, surrounding them in flightless sorrow  then foolishly question what is wrong." "Everything is impermanent,  as you should already know,  thus, we must admire the beauty  of our surroundings with joy and gratitude. Yet, take heed, and do not seek  to possess that which you do not already own, for you may permanently alter its state or even worse, affect its mood."

Everything is changing, coming to an end, yesterday we were lovers, today we’re hardly friends. From familiar to strangers, in less than a night, don’t say you love me anymore, it doesn’t feel right. Falling to pieces, like shrapnel from the sky, I have used up all my resources, my tears have run dry. Take all that you can and go, just leave my side, as long as you always know, love is stronger than pride. I am not so weak that I won’t survive, this is not the first time I’ve had to stay alive, no, it’s not the first day of my life, I have felt the worst pain, love’s a knife Throwing out the pictures I still have of you, setting fire to the letters that only make me blue, letting go seems like the only reasonable thing to do, I cannot keep pretending that I haven’t got a clue.

Bourbon waves, tequila skies, champagne clouds, and whiskey highs. formed the landscapes of my youth; even drowned some sorrows with vermouth. Grottoes of gin, and scotch on the beach, led to shores of schnapps, their flavour: peach. Sobriety seemed boring, and lacking appeal, although so many memories now seem surreal. Red wine roses, Cabernet trees, Merlot mountains with a Riesling breeze, convinced the cure to my endless pain, lay at the bottom of each bottle, in vain. Fields of lager, rivers of pale ale, streets of rye and ginger-ale, often had me stumbling, slurring my words, still, I returned to this wasted water world.  Rum rain-forests, and cider shrines, sake blossoms with liqueurs so fine, I should never have chased these alcohol dreams, that destroyed my liver, and my self-esteem.

Wide awake, this consciousness is heavy leaden, like a weathered path often downtrodden, any second could deliver on threats of Heaven, or find you holding court in Eden's forbidden gardens. Remorse stands by awaiting further direction, in its place regrets are soon erected. The unkempt mind's arsenal overflows with deadly weapons. Poison's infectious effects result in perceiving curses where there were once blessings. Dastardly designed is this deceiving deadpan at the surface, as desperation damages my insides, determined to undo decades of bliss. Every breath an effort, I just stop and breathe uneasy, afraid to acknowledge the anxiety that eats me from within. All this madness--and lack of sleep is the one to blame; she starts fires but never puts out their flames. She corrodes sanity, like rats gnawing on the ropes that bind them. Her talents are tragedies, flowers that faded in beauty once denied of their stems.