Blunder.

In this space, I have nothing.

No home, no stone; 

everything is hollow.

Emptier than I've ever been, 

I waver between wanting life

And wanting to just end it.

How much longer can I stand this,

longing to burst out of this planet.

They say no man is an island,

then why have I been abandoned?

Life and its luxuries have left me 

stranded, and I struggle to understand it.

Wasted away on simpler days, 

I knew I should've saved 

happiness for days it rained,

instead I feel depraved.

Now I am but a spectator here,

a mere spectre; a speck of disaster.

A carcinogen soaked stain 

that is impossible to erase,

And as I pray for my fate to change,

I trace my footsteps back to a place 

devoid of pain. 

I am worthy of love,

i deserve to smell success,

i pnd regain the composure that helped me through storms that raged, but still I rise.

I am brave, I am resilient.  

I will make it through the thunder,

and rejoice for one more day,

without a single blunder.

Life, It Goes On, Anyway.

Allow yourself to exist, freely,

for you are tiny particles of stars.
Let your love light the way,
when the world is cold and dark.

Because life, it goes on, anyway,
so go ahead and make your mark.

Wander through your wonder,
whether they are near or far.
You could even see the planets,
if that is the dream inside your heart.

Because life, it goes on, anyway,
so go ahead and make your mark..

Paint vibrantly upon your canvas,
you're already a work of art.
Dance like nobody's watching,
sing every song out real loud,
Maybe you'll master the piano,
or learn how to play guitar.

Because life, it goes on, anyway,
so go ahead and make your mark.

Muse.

Make me your flamenco dancer under the fiery Spanish sun,

hold me, in your arms, like a classical guitar,
caress my body like its strings, let the music serenade the stars.
But if I have to ask for romance, then it loses its appeal.
Acts of love must come from the heart, otherwise
they are conditions of some courtesan's contract.
Paint me, making me your muse, like some pearl earring wearing girl,
write me into epic love stories, like I am your very own Mumtaz Mahal, Juliet or Isolde.
And if I have to pry petals from your heart, like squeezing water from a stone,
I would rather be at the theatre than suffer through your acts.
Affection must be effortless, not chapters in some cheaply written script.
If I must make pleas for love, I might as well learn to celebrate myself instead,
to ask for appreciating words from some mister sets women's rights back,
so take your drug shop novel love back to the store,
for I am a woman who demands to be adored.

Fleet Street.

In London-town of yore but

yet, even to this very day,
slovenly bovine herd
together on conveyor belts.
Chewing cud, eschewing
mud, unconsciously mooving
to have their carotids cut.
Alas, indignant adults,
aren’t we, too, on a slow
march to our own deaths?
Like vermin labyrinthine
lab rats trapped in some
spider’s web—we’re all
ultimately pawns in some
twisted game of Chess.

Obliterated.

 Shadowed by the shame that shackles us,

in a cage of congealed criminal intent.
The pressure to perform provokes a
particular pain, that is unlike any ache I’ve ever felt.

Whether conceived out of familial duty,
or some sort of filial responsibility,
the feeling that washes over me
feels more like a flood designed
to drown us both.

I yearn for the yesterdays when
my behaviour was genuinely inspired!
Instead of this urgency to act
as a result of our affiliation.

Those days of yore before my dreams
were darkened by deeds overdue.
This obligation is a prison—
an unkind incarceration that
obliterates us from the inside-out.

It erodes our alliance through its
unspoken violence; a silence
that reverberates as deafeningly
as a crescendo of violins.

Obligation is the antithesis
to acting out of adoration;
it is the thief who robbed us,
blindly, of the relationship
that we rightfully deserved.

Cough Syrup.

You cut me open with contempt

always as quiet as a coffin;
a chemistry so callous that
we left ourselves orphaned.

And we just grinned,
and we ignored it;
stole serenity straight from
the sordid sleeve of our own
promised land of peace.
,
I would give freely;
unconditional love like a fountain,
and you would take it all, so easily,
hoarding my hospitality so you
could build your own mountain.

Take it all, bleed me dry,
i refuse to watch you fall,
Take it all, see me try—
yet, you still left me to die.

This distinction between
us star-crossed lovers,
should've made me want
to run & hide, but instead
i ran to you, to dry the
crocodile tears you cried.

Black Tourmaline.

Raging raven rebellion rani, raspy & reclusive.
Parades peppered praise inside poltergeist pockets.
Ebony so effervescent, it could've been onyx.
Opal, obsidian—an obsessive evening of anguish.
Colliding as I crash on repeat, reckless.
At the very intersect of valour & arrogance exists an abyss,
a blackhole of laboured breath that blankets us like breakfast.
Grief is a graveyard of gifts, organized in rows that remind us of impermanence.
Tied to trauma tinted by teflon terrorism—I will always be your hostage..

Ownership.

Resolutions run out when their effort
outweighs the return on our investment.
For a life founded on the fulfillment of
micro-goals feels more to me like freedom.
As I continue learning, in this chaotic choir practice,
I aspire to always be improving;
evolving into the best version of me.
With integrity acting as the oil spill inside my soul,
I intend to act accountable for me.
Through ownership of the intricacies of my insanity,
I embark on an adventure that explores my energy.
With every instant observed through the lens of gratefulness,
I am here.
I am present.
And simplest yet,
I am.

Polar Plastic Girl.

Working weary palms into a lather,
wrung from havoc wreaked by her hummingbird mind.
A grenade of ghastly hues ground together
until deep jade and forest greens highlighted
each grain of her sandy gaze.

As steeped in symbolism as the burning nun,
society seemed deadset on seeing her become a saintly victim.
With a single violent stroke,
she shed the mask she'd worn that evening,
like a clown deprived of sleep.

A circus acrobat, perhaps, or tight-rope walker;
painted garishly in pancake makeup.
Whatever you desire her to be, she revolts;
repulsed by the men that seek to destroy her with control.

She is the spectator, but also the spectacle!
A sight for sore eyes,
as the paint spilled on her pallette
poured into the pain inside her pageant heart.

Erose.

At the junction of jilted lovers,
where animation intersects with
anxiety, antagazoned until I
explode into an overdose of ennui.

Mother Christmas.

For all the times your limbs howled from pain,
but all you did was smile through the stress.
Those nights when you would lie awake
as tears streamed from your eyes onto the soaking wet bed. 
None of it went unnoticed,
you are the best example of all that we cherish. 
There were days you made us meals from magic
without worrying us that each one might have been our last. 
The true spirit of compassion, giving glows within you,
which is why there's no one more deserving of joy this season. 
Mommy dearest, without you,
there would be nothing merry about Christmas;
you are our pride and joy, our shining star—
evidence of all that's brilliant.

Mufasa.

Assertiveness is no anomaly to me,
it remarkably reigns over my own internal beasts.
Still it somehow seems intent on sabotaging my inner-peace,
until my confidence depletes, and leads to self-degradation in the streets.

The truth seems to thrive on thrashing only me,
whilst simultaneously improving every snail or impala's self-esteem.
This destructive quality only endangers my own sanity,
so like the birds and bees, I must also set it free.

Unlike leopards, I can easily change my spots,
as my journey into healing relies on integrity, which can't be bought.
Unless I learn to celebrate myself, I will never find the happiness I've sought.
In order to save my kingdom, self-love is where I ought to start;
no more rumbles in my jungle—it's time I listened to my heart.

Erupt.

Like the serrated edge
of razor-sharp regret,
you pulled my infertile soul
away with uninspired breath.

You emaciated me, daily
with your asthmatic invites;
an omen in bright lights,
as sterile as dustmites.

And since your stain stripped away
the stars from our strawberry sky—
I rip each stitch out from my skin,
then douse myself in kerosene.

As I eradicate all evidence of your
infected obsession, I explode.
Infinite in my eternity—
I am a universe of self-love.

Aftermath.

Denial disparaged my destiny
that dreary February morn,
and an enternity of ache replaced
your departure that left me torn.

I became a fiery inferno of ire—
anger invaded my existence.
I cursed the gods for their decision;
as innocents suffered for my sadness.

I begged, and I pleaded;
promised everything and the moon,
all so I could have another moment
basking in the majesty of you.

Then, the darkness came—
and stole the light right out of my soul.
I collapsed into a corpse of my old self,
whilst making my slow descent to Hell.

Acceptance became my greatest lesson, 

as it taught me to count my blessings.
Although it cannot change that you have gone away,
I know i'll see your face again,
one sweet hereafter day.

Braille.

Red—the sweet embrace of summer sun-kissed skin,
orange is campfire heat against your hands whilst making smores. 
Yellow? The feeling of your stomach jumping into your chest. 
Green: the spirit of nature, pure as pine needles, or eucalyptus healing.
Blue is berated for tears that sting your eyes then stream sadly down your cheeks. 
Indigo is the way winter nips our fingers
and magically transforms every breath we take to smoke. 
Violet is the feeling of victory, but also the same hue as humble. 
Then black is the beautiful serenity of the solitude we seek, 
it is the comfort of the dark, the colour of rest, and the mystery of night.
White is...frankincense in chapels, or aromatic sage.  
It is something sacred, that can even soothe the most unsettling of our thoughts.
Even without our eyesight, this world's vibrant colours can still be felt by our hearts.
With our remaining, heightened senses as our paintbrush,
life becomes the canvas of our souls.

Agápe

No eucalyptus leaf or salve could save her,
aloe was even unable to alleviate the ache.
Radiation scarred railway crossing ribs,
a maze of malignant monstrosities.

Stage three symptoms of a sinking soul,
hospice workers heard heartbroken woes. 

With each breakthrough's failure, her future faded further;

a flower wilted from one final forsaken Summer.

A broken bass, steadied then sedated,
perforated pulse that beat then fell flat.
Sighs were heaved and wrists were wrung from grief.

Suddenly a silent hum sprang from her center,

a symphony that left science in a stupor.

Medical marvel granted a second chance from her creator;
equipped with a clean bill of health erased by Heavenly saviour.