Kash Baloch — Poetry on Identity, Love, and Survival

When I was seventeen, I lost my mind for the first time, and the world became a frightening place. I lost my understanding of reality, when the bipolar beast reared its ugly face. Suddenly, my brain malfunctioned and made me paranoid, I no longer trusted anyone, and believed they wanted to ruin me. It was like my life had been destroyed, and I was living in a post-apocalyptic, nightmarish dream. Attempted suicide so many times the hospital staff all knew me by name, oblivious to reason, I was convinced a microchip had been implanted in my brain. I watched afraid as everything I knew and loved went up in flames, in order to refrain from harming myself or others, I was placed in restraints. Traveled across Canada by bus in order to escape and get away, running away only made it worse, and I was locked away again. Days turned to weeks then months, as I slowly returned to the me of yesterday. There is nothing in this life that compares to the anguish of mental illness and its...

One loose thread is all it takes for an entire tapestry to unravel. An entire year's labour of love can come undone in seconds. Emotions change as quickly as colours in kaleidoscopes, a single misperceived look or pointed barb can turn the comfort of calm into an atomic bomb. When personalities can range from laidback to neurotic and back again, there is no guessing when moods will sour from resentments repressed for far too long. Like earthquakes that strike unexpectedly, and level entire cities in an instant, the ego can take control, and tear families apart in minutes. Strong, silent matriarchs are reduced to tears by their ungrateful children, siblings, once inseparable, act more like polite strangers who tiptoe around politics or religion. Effective communication is the only tool capable of scaling the walls we build when we are hurt. Alas, it is a rare talent that so few of us possess. Unless assertiveness is an option, conflicts will snowball until ...

Auto-erotic asphyxiating whilst gazing lustfully at his own reflection, Narciso was in disbelief at his own perfection. No need for a partner when you are an Adonis yourself. why ruin the fun of self-adoration by including someone else. His arrogance was unmatched, but he was apathetic, why would he care when he was such a fine catch? Delusion ran wild for he was convinced his weak chin was chiseled, clearly confusion corroded him as he believed he was a leopard when he was more similar to a lizard. Narciso wrote his own fate that day he passed his last mirror and became too aroused, his face was still torn apart by shards of glass when the paramedics arrived at his house. In his passion, he had mistaken his reflection for the real thing, so caught up in masturbating that he hardly felt the blood dripping. With skin ripped, like meat cut by a butcher's blade, he was committed, still entranced by the thought of how handsomely he was made.

Growing up gay in a big city, there was no end to stories about acquaintances who had been diagnosed with HIV.  It was said they were 'positive' as though saying so made it any less frightening, or any less real.  The threat of contracting it was omni-present for a young boy who behaved promiscuously and often engaged in recklessness, all the while thinking with the wrong head.  Fortunately, for me, I managed to steer clear of HIV, three letters that I convinced myself were a death sentence, but I have many friends who were not as lucky.  They inspire me, though, as they have shown me that a diagnosis need not be the end of the world.  These friends have fulfilling lives, and continue to work towards achieving their dreams, like their diagnosis was merely a hurdle, and not a setback.  I am inspired by their resilience, and take pride in having strong people like them in my life. There was so much ignorance then (and there still is) within the community....

When my moods change without prediction, I withdraw into my shell.  Like an ostrich obstructing its arrest, I plant my head safely into the ground.  Although life has thrown me curveballs, planting many obstacles along my path,  I rose above the rain to reign resilient.  As the sole male heir-apparent born after four, fiercely independent daughters, my parents' religion and culture collided to overwhelm me with a list of duties, and obligations.  Until my father took the downtrodden road for deadbeat dads, creating a strong, empowered single mother out of the waif he left behind. Mom fought hard day in and out, wreaking havoc on the system, her education taught her tolerance, and blessed us with integrity, and wisdom.  Calm prevailed for a short song, until addiction dug its ugly claws into my sister's broken heart.   At twenty-three, her lungs, kidneys, and heart stopped, and set her free from the LUPUS that medical research seemed t...

As an ever-repeated whisper, you are more myth than monolith, mysterious as midnight Mojave-mist, though rumours are the only remaining proof that you even exist. Like legends from less-desperate times, you have always been larger than life; whenever old wives retell the tale, they all agree that you are the reason  for every rhyme. No fairy tale is complete without you, the absence of 'ever-after' is a crime. You are praised in song by swallows, and bleed through every glass of wine. Held on to by the hungry,  you are at home in hope-filled hearts. I pray, now, as my own flame flickers, for your presence through the dark; You—the currency of counted blessings. You—the love that lights the endless sky. Lead me to salvation, and away from anger. Lift me up! So my spirit can finally let go, and learn to fly.

Words wrestle with it present, like a symphony of silence. Downcast eyes drink in every sight to spite desire. Sighs surge through throats-hoarse from swallowed pride. The hurt is heaviest when I've made my mother cry. Disregard disappointment, but you'll still find it  behind every ache inside your weary heart. 

I love you, world wonder— like Shah's love for Noor Jehan erected a Taj Mahal in Agra. Like Mumbai city streets love  the smoky din of rickshaws  during rush hour traffic. Just like Amitabh loved Rekha in timeless Bollywood classics. I would trade it all; every sari, gold bangle, or string of pearl, for a spin around the white  ceramic floors inside the palace of our love.  I would forego a million fragrant jasmine petals just to fill my lungs with  your sweet breath. I am balsam, you are agarwood; our passion ignites in smoke. I bathe in the Ganges of our love; only these waters purify me.

Happiness is the elusive harlot whose face I recognize but rarely see, it evades me like snow fall on a Hawaiian beach.  Although the occasions on which it's revealed itself to me, were fleeting and sporadic, albeit few and far between.   She is the harbinger of hope, the jezebel of joy; evident in strangers' smiles, and the empress of all that we enjoy.  Visible on children's faces, she lives in their laughter too, she is the gatekeeper of good vibrations, as her demeanour is quite infectious, too. Happiness is having your loved ones at your shoulders should you need them, it is igniting their euphoria, and focusing on their fulfillment.  Although her affection takes much effort, her fruits are worth the wait, for once she decides to smile on your fate, her loyalty always remains. Found in the feeling of unconditional love from family pets, you can discover her dancing when there's a spring within your step. Like the radiant sun, she kisses your glowing skin; h...

His every breath, my sustenance; for I am weak without His voice. Humbled by His covenant,  in His worship we rejoice. For God so loved the world, he gave His only begotten son. He has wisdom of every pearl, thy kingdom come, thy will be done. Give us this day our daily bread, His kindness shows us mercy. For our sins, our shepherd bled, of His sacrifice, I am unworthy. The world burns and evil reigns, when will our Saviour come again? Only He can heal my pain; in His name we pray. Amen

It is the appeal of stolen, serene moments during unhuman, late-night hours; in this solitude I rediscover fragments of me, that I'd anxiously been losing.  Insomnia, although nefarious, provides these opportunities for introspection, where I've learned to love the silence, that is as melodious as violins.  Here, amidst all of the violent stimuli that I'd ignored, I reflect on the many lessons through which I've been transformed. I've learned to bite my tongue and eat my acid words; without this realization, my loved ones would have all flown away like frightened birds.  My growth has come through counting blessings; gratitude keeps me grounded. It was in these cathartic sessions, I lost my attachment to material possessions.  Alone time needn't feel lonely, it recentres our soul, reminding us to keep evolving, for it's the secret to becoming whole.

As noble as Noor Jahan,  she nestles, like the fragrant nectar  of nourishing neem.  Unbeknownst to her,  her pheromenes emit steam that lures many suitors. With the exact majesty  of her maharani predecessors, she silently seduces from the sanctity of her sequined settee. 

It is blurred lines and electric shock; when your brain declares war on your world, unleashing an endless barrage of twists and turns.  Like a tyrant foaming at the mouth for power, it attacks you from behind then tries to tell you that it loves you.  Running on empty, the highs soar through pastel skies transforming you into superman; with serotonin as your sole disguise. Shopping sprees take your hard earned money turning it to dust; your reality bursts into flames, your thoughts begin to rust.  Like the walking dead, your lack of sleep takes the lead, treating paranoia like an honoured guest.  Anxiety, conspiracy, and chaos hold seats in the polluted parliament inside your head, each chipping away at your sanity, pushing you closer to the edge.  At the brink of madness, betrayal holds secret meetings with despair, causing your only light to flicker, before it finally fails.

Reaching for a light switch as it  transforms into a ferocious beast,  words fly from my chaotic mind, at record speed, then slip out  from between artificial teeth. I boil water in egg yolk,  then eat a banana peel,  put my pants on backwards,  and fail to separate what's fake  from what I once knew to be real.  Elvis wails as Ella croons inside my head, the whole day through, and I sit, confused about the way  that Billie Holiday could somehow sing the colour blues. Horns outside my window transport me back to safari elephants, as I become convinced that they've returned to give me a taste of my own medicine. In my return to innocence, where everything old is new, I stop to smell the flour, for life is far too short to spend  each day retightening loose screws.

Carrying her sorrows in silken sac, unwavering whilst weaving wildly. Under a sombre sun, or callous cloud, she spits, and hisses; feeling jilted. Centuries since she's  been hopeful; eight eyes, wide open,  filled with wonder. Mourning every almost happy ending, crushed as she counts  one less blessing . Scarlet letters sealed  her fate as a spinster, wrongfully accused  of eating men for dinner. Society classified her as  a sinner, once jade, emerald,  but now black widow. So she spun her salience armed for battle; no army could have anticipated her arrival. Adorned in a coat made of her ex-lovers. Hell hath no fury like the venom inside her.

As I stare into the end of the bayonet, my grief enfolds me, disheartened that I have sunk so low. Saddened to have finally reached the end of the line, my last breath catches in my throat as I prepare to go home. The images of my life arrive, like clichés, to flash before my eyes; I watch unfazed, and even through the happiness, all I see is failure. I am immune to optimism, idealism failed me. But seeing the reality of my world is what cured my insanity. Accepting that I was not perfect painted my canvas with the brightest colours, as I found myself in corners of the Earth I had only seen in magazines. The selfishness of my final act is not lost on me, even though, try as I may, there are loved ones who I cannot let go of.

“When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.’” Mr. Rogers’ popular quote has perhaps never been more relevant than it is right now, in these times of upheaval.   It resurfaces after every inexplicable atrocity, repeated and shared until we are convinced that we can retain our faith in humanity.   Recently, it has become a mantra for me, providing a fleeting moment of hope in between the merciless chaos and despair. Currently, it seems as if the whole world is involved in an elaborate scheme to keep my heart and spirit broken.   The past few weeks have been particularly depressing, with one senseless act of violence preceding another, overlapping without a single second of peace in between.   It has become impossible to turn my head without encountering some form of injustice.   Whether it was the worst mass shooting in recent history that targeted th...

We lived high, upon the mountain, the streets could not seduce us anymore.   Far away from the sounds of the city, no traffic jams on our way into work.   All we could hear was the sound of the ocean slapping playfully at the lazy shore,.   Here we could celebrate in silence, serenity filled every corner of our home.   And all we knew, all we needed was beside us, here was somewhere we could grow old.   I was always frightened, afraid of losing you.   So everyday, when I came home, you would be endlessly accused.   I could not swallow my paranoia, insecurity was eating me alive. All the hurts from the past kept piling on until they were as majestic as Everest.   That day, we woke early to trembling, our house shook until we felt a sudden jolt.   If only we had paid more attention, and strengthened our foundation, then perhaps we wouldn’t be awash in water, or drowning in the seventh se...

Holy water valentine, whose lips are cherry red, strolls into the pastor’s shrine, thoughts filled with dread. Temptations consume her, she is burning in her sin. She clutches her rosary so tightly it makes her singe. “Father, father, help me.   Forgive my evil deeds,” she calls out for mercy, or a cure for her disease. Her fishnet stockings tell a different story, one many believe is inspired by greed.   But with the Lord as her witness, she only worked the streets so she could eat. Jezebel of virtue, once she was so pure. Devoid of any wrongdoing, that was her allure. The other congregants turn up their noses when she walks. They return to their stone houses, before pelting her with rocks.

he bought my innocent time with promises of candy and wine but when i opened my eyes, i learned that those were just lies for him to feel my underaged insides. fourteen years old, in chicago, when i ran out into the february frost. i collapsed, then decorated the street with this agony i refused to accept. and this, the trauma that i could not eat. there, beneath the famous lights of wrigley field, i cried until my tattoo tears erased the sparkle from my eyes, unable to survive after learning that the world could also be like this. the vicious, windy city won this wicked war, burying me alive that night, without a fight. it threw the ashes of my adolescence in the air, like criminal confetti. it stripped away my security, to soak me in my own sorrow. i crawled into the cocoon inside my head. remaining here in this self-induced coma until i'd shed the sympathy-stained skin of being a victim. i REFUSE to be anything but resilient. still, no butterfly should ...