Seventeen.

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 pain.

Family Feud.

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 they are impossible to resolve.
Until we learn to let go of past hurts
that weigh us down, we will not evolve.

Instead, we will remain
stuck in this revolving door,
where we can assign blame 
without ever accepting our own faults.

Narciso Rodrigues.

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.

Pozitivity.

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.  People are shamed for having it, as if they set out in search of contracting the illness, as if they are to be blamed somehow.  We are only human, and are susceptible to forget about certain things in the throes of passion; sometimes we take our partner's word for it when they tell us they have been recently tested, or that they are negative.  There are many factors that come into play, and one person cannot be made to feel like a social pariah for one misstep that alters the course of their lives.  The language we use when inquiring about another's status is even harmful, questions like "Are you clean?" only imply that a person is dirty if they happen to be "POZ."

A dear friend of mine contracted it from his partner, who had been unfaithful, and was devastated when his results came back.  He made the mistake of assuming society was not cruel or judgmental, and that he could confide in his employer's about why he seemed depressed.  That turned out to be a big mistake, as his employer feigned concern and suggested he take some time off, only for him to return and be followed around the office by coworkers wiping down surfaces he touched, and spraying air freshener in every room he was in.  Their reaction and torment resulted in a deep depression, that he is still trying to recover from.

It's stories like this that instill fear in me; would it be any different at my work?  What has changed, are attitudes even evolving in regards to HIV/AIDS?  Is there enough knowledge today to prevent a reenactment of Philadelphia, the first film to acknowledge the illness?  I do not think so, at all, but I feel like we are getting closer.  I believe, that ultimately, the gates of ignorance and oppression can only be unlocked by education. 
Once more people are informed about the virus, then there will be less paranoia surrounding it. 

Today, there are medications, like pre and post-exposure prophylaxes, on the market that allow for an HIV positive person's viral loads to be reduced significantly to the point where they will not be infectious.  Of course, these medications still require other forms of contraception, but they are proof that we have come a long way.   Thailand has even managed to reduce mother to infant HIV transmission rates, which is further evidence that HIV/AIDS research is making progress.  Either way, there is a lot more support for people who are living with HIV/AIDS and that, in and of itself, is monumental. 

Design for Trauma.

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 to have forgot. I was nine and had no idea who death was or what it sought, so I collapsed into myself until neither shrink nor exorcist could figure out why I'd began to rot.

Substance abuse, self-harm, and solicitation started my rebellious stage.  I felt caged inside the body of some unfamiliar fiend; rape resulted in recklessness, street gangs, and rage, as I raced against the clock.  Suicidal ideation, and attempts became my obsessive thoughts, until a dual-diagnoses derailed my disappearing act; Bipolar-II and post-traumatic stress became cut away at me, like a double-sided sword.  Eventually, I'd make another twenty-seven attempts to end my pain, three of them were near successes, but I'm so thankful that I got them wrong.  

Added trauma, anxiety, and visits to the ER occupied my time, when I wasn't exploring my sexual identity, as I tried to simultaneously grow and rewind time to heal the little boy inside who remained lost.  Another sister's untimely demise and I thought life had finally won; in an instant, I lost my sister, role model, and best friend then watched my entire world flash bloody red before fading to broken black.  With little strength inside to go on, I went out like the light inside me that had also died.  Until the day I discovered a reserve of strength inside me waiting for me to pull it out; this is where I began to heal myself before I could also help the world.  

These scars, this story, and disease are merely pieces of my flawed design for trauma, without them I'd be someone else but I am strong enough to bear these crosses.  I am better because of my battle, life beat me into beauty.  To you, my garden might seem overrun with weeds, or rotten but to me, it is the rain-forest that saved me.  

Divine Happiness.

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.

The Hardest Expression to Hide.

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. 

Agra.

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.

Joy.

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; her presence fills you with warmth, and illuminates you from the outside-in.

Happiness has always been a journey, not a destination. It's centred entirely on the process, instead of on the final product.  For it is there, along this route, where the transformation occurs; as you evolve into a fantastic phoenix, you are no longer a flightless bird.

Hallelujah.

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

Silence IS Golden.

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.

Noor.

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. 

Pervasion.

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.

Cluttered.

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.

Arachne.

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.

World War U.

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.

Help Me.

“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 the LGBT community in Orlando, bombings in Turkey, Iraq, and Saudi Arabia that killed Muslims during the holy month of Ramadan, deadly attacks in Bangladesh that occurred less than a week apart, the shootings of Alton Sterling and Philando Castile, in Baton Rouge and Minnesota, or the retaliatory attack that killed five Law Enforcement Officers earlier today, in Dallas---it is undeniable that the ugliness on this planet has reached a fever pitch.

I am tired, hurt, devastated, angry, and deeply saddened, but mostly I am ready for change.  It is especially difficult to remain positive whilst simultaneously feeling helpless.  As a humanist, it is impossible to abstain from feeling vicarious pain;  it is even more challenging to stop myself from feeling emotionally, physically, and spiritually drained from the frequently debilitating empathy. 

It has always been my desire to leave the world a better place than it was when I found it.  It feels selfish of me to continue pretending that my own life is somehow more significant because of my blessings.  Although, the gates of oppression can only be unlocked by education and information, I cannot convince myself, in good conscience, that I am making a difference.  It is not merely enough to spread awareness; I need to feel like I am doing everything in my power to assist the less fortunate.  It is said that charity starts in the home, so that will be the beginning of my journey, and then from there I hope to spread love across the globe.

Grief is pointless unless it acts as a catalyst to help rewrite some of the saddest stories.  I refuse to be on the wrong side of history or these wars being fought against the innocent.  There is no better time than now for me to evolve from feeling helpless into being a helper. 

Landslide.

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 sea. 

This landslide was bound to happen,

since we noticed everything

but the cracks right underneath our feet. 

Fighting from late night into the early morning,

unable to admit defeat. 

Perhaps we weren’t meant to meet,

maybe life would be simpler

had our paths never crossed. 

All I know is that the landslide brought us down. 

We came crashing to the ground,

like lightning and thunder engaged in a fight.   

The comforts we worked hard to acquire,
went up in flames then sailed out of sight.

 

Hole.

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.

wrigley field

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 ever have to
suffer through abuse in order for its own
metamorphosis to occur.