broken_figments_of_imagination

And then Satan said, "Here, have feelings."

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  • broken_figments_of_imagination 21w

    A wraith stares at me from the mirror.
    Withered, like the last vestiges of tears on Thalia's divine face.
    The flab under its skin reminiscent of the unburnt carbs,
    Reminds me of the times it had gorged on a full English breakfast of lies.
    I had been a glutton for your love,
    the stretch marks are proof enough,
    yet the clarity with which you now count my ribs tell a different story.

    Eyes are the windows to the soul, they say,
    And my love for glass panes on french frames had been enough to tempt me to your sapphire orbs.
    It had shown me the sky.
    A soft blue, with the barest hint of cotton candy pink,
    I sigh at the clouds now.
    Five feet four isn't high enough to jump.
    Perhaps I should've stood at the edge of the cliff you call your 'pride',
    or looked into a moss covered lake instead,
    It had drowned Ophelia, after all.

    Kneeling on the church floor,
    Red clouds my vision as I stare into Madonna's smoldering gaze.
    With smooth silkened skin and ruby red lips,
    Raphael should've named her 'the temptress'.
    Yet, both you and I know how fickle names are.
    For you, now bear his.

    The reflection wavers a bit,
    Distorting at the corner of my eye as it loses focus,
    Sins should tempt me,
    but the greed with which he takes your form in, revulses me even more.
    I swallow pills with a greater greed now.
    The sloth in you had left the door to the medical cabinet open.
    Hot white anger burns the inside of my throat,
    Like acid running through my veins,
    Broken bits of glasses from the mirror now dig into the flesh covered in many a scarred tissues.
    Sins had always been the deadliest.
    And loving you, had been my greatest sin.

    God (or was it a genie?),
    had granted me three wishes.
    I remember praying for us to last for an eternity that day.
    for you to love me back, even for a little while.
    The third wish, however, had gone in me snagging the role of Aclibiades,
    the moment the list hung by the high school drama club had your name calligraphed besides Socrates'.
    Yet, splintered faith only brings you so much.
    For, your world had always revolved around Xanthippe.

    And a century after the last breath left my lungs,
    after the rivulets of red running down from the blood moons on my thighs had frozen and dried,
    (like the water of the little fountain beside which we had first confessed our love,
    I envy the stars,
    and those little paper rings that our third grade teacher had spied us slipping onto each other's fingers,
    they lasted longer than 'us'.)
    my withered wraith still lingers on the hallowed ground beneath which you rest,
    your headstone bearing initials of a name not mine, but of that of a stranger,
    it screams,
    howling with the wolves and the wind,
    how my Socrates chose hemlock over me.


    - tales of withered wraiths
    ©broken_figments_of_imagination

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    and then, my socrates chose hemlock over me.
    ©broken_figments_of_imagination

  • broken_figments_of_imagination 26w

    RED




    Honeymoons had always been flowers and chocolate-dipped strawberries,
    And theirs, had absolutely no reason to be different.
    So, it was during the darkest hours at Bali, that they had christened their bed.
    Silken sheets twisting,
    The sheen of blood, sweat and semen making it glisten even brighter,
    Dewdrops on the roses, and tears, that hadn't dried yet, adding to the show,
    One-sided arousal smelling thick in the air conditioned room,
    Thorns digging into her back,
    She had bled that night,
    Vermillion (or was that scarlet?) rolling down her thighs,
    They called it duty.
    He called it passion.
    And she?
    'Love', her mind would weakly supply.
    Hoping against hope that her pinocchio's nose wouldn't grow longer,
    (It got in the way of kissing)
    She believed in the laws of manifestation, perhaps?
    Yet, her words, or better, her wish, did indeed come true.
    Although, whether it was a shooting star, or lady luck dropping by, still remains up for debate.
    For the colour, and orgasm, in whose afterglow she would bask on nights like this always took on a particular shade.
    The shade of red.
    The shade of lust.
    The shade of desire.
    The shade of "love".


    ©broken_figments_of_imagination

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    The red staining her cheeks
    did little to calm the beast within,
    So every night,
    he'd smear them with haemoglobin,
    just a shade darker.

  • broken_figments_of_imagination 30w

    Men, and their car zoom by me.
    With electricity bills,
    Speeding tickets,
    And the hold of an occasional lover
    Clutched in their hands.
    Cats, and scrawny lil orphaned kids scavenging thru dumpsters,
    The city chokes,
    Gasping,
    as the smoke hides the stars that always made me think of you,
    I sigh.
    Atleast we are under the same sky.

    ©broken_figments_of_imagination

    #randoms


    (Picture credits : me:) )

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    ©broken_figments_of_imagination

  • broken_figments_of_imagination 35w

    WARNING ⚠️ : Controversial content, includes graphic scenes, mentions of rape and abuse, and lgbtq community. Don't like, don't read. (And as always, constructive criticism is welcomed)


    Nd I know I'm late since it's 4th April already while the poem revolves around the first of April (April Fool's Day, duh!), So yeah, sorry ��. Please bear with me.

    P. S. : The title of the poem 'takane no hana' is a Japanese term which roughly translates to 'fower on a high peak', or rather unattainability, to sum it up.

    Enjoy. Nd reviews too, please.

    :::::::::::::::::��POEM��::::::::::::::::::::

    TAKANE NO HANA



    I remember the hitch in her voice,
    As she would whisper lowly into my ears.
    Feeling the blood rush through my veins,
    From the right ventricle to alveolus,
    Bronchioles to left atrium,
    Aortic semilunar valves opening with a bang,
    And out of the aorta it would go,
    In sync with her hands,
    lower....lower....lower....lower....
    Down the gates of hell, where the sun doesn't shine.
    I kid you not when I say that I remember the hitch in her voice,
    For the air hitting my tympanum, still tingles.
    Feathery touches, butterfly kisses,
    Trying to stop it from going 'too far',
    Neck against neck,
    Chest against chest,
    Limbs entangled in a sweaty mess,
    Shuddering gasps of breath that were misinterpreted as pleasure,
    Hugs still make me break into a cold sweat.
    Her arms around my shoulder,
    tugging at the strands of my hair,
    Manicured nails leaving red crescent scars,
    She was born on the night of a blood moon.
    No, it's not paranoia speaking,
    But her touches still ghost my skin.
    For the purple bruises where her fingers had dug in,
    Still won't wash away, even a decade later.
    Her soft moans filling the room,
    Followed by screams leaving my lips,
    As another nightmare breaks.
    'Boys don't get raped', I remind myself.
    Green creeps into the black,
    Fast-forward time,
    The soft feminine arms around my waist,
    Now replaced by large calloused ones.
    Concerned brown pools staring into my own,
    I assure him 'it's fine'.
    Breathing in the April air,
    I bask in the sun's gaze, and his,
    One, two, three... I count,
    There are twenty, sorry, twenty one butterflies in the garden.
    Yet the ones in my stomach,
    Outnumber them by a far stretch.
    The wind whisks away the small beads of perspiration,
    Much like he did to my heart a few summers back,
    When I still wasn't so broken, so.... tainted.
    Google says, crushes last only for four months.
    But it's already been four years,
    Since I first wished that we were more than best friends.
    Broken out of my trance,
    I see him coming towards me,
    Glaring at the other guys from soccer to lower their voices,
    When I flinch at their loud tone.
    (Crowds, noises - endless arguments with loudspeakers on,
    Her ornate glass vase shattering against the wall,
    They still make me take a step back.)
    He drags me downtown,
    Ignoring my protests of appointments to keep,
    My hand in his,
    (I relish the hold, guiltily)
    Until we reach a cafe,
    A quaint little inn-shaped building at the corner of the street.
    The sun is soft,
    It's curious rays peers through the glass panes,
    Caressing the bowl of fortune cookies.
    Steam rising from the cups of coffee that the waitress left on the table, are now ignored,
    as he bends over the table.
    His lips brushing against mine.
    A whispered 'I love you'.
    Residue of his minty breath still fanning my ear,
    Hope rising in my chest, heart speeding up-
    He sits back with a satisfied smile.
    -and then it plummets,
    Just like Icarus.
    Down...down... down... down...
    I can hear her mocking laughter ringing through the walls of my mind, again.
    For the next words that leave his lips,
    Followed by the slow burn in my chest,
    Has me wishing that I burnt to death,
    The night she had set the house on fire.
    "Happy April Fool's Day, dumbass," he grins cheekily.
    An albatross flies by.
    The latte art still floating undisturbed on the forgotten hot caffeine,
    A Happy April's Fool Day, indeed.

    - ©broken_figments_of_imagination

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  • broken_figments_of_imagination 39w

    DOWN THE ROAD

    Somewhere down the road
    When we'd run into each other accidentally
    I'd still greet you with a smile.
    And you and me,
    We'll go on a trip.
    Down the memory lane,
    Finding pieces here and there
    Of fragmented little dreams.
    And perhaps
    we'll stumble across two kids,
    A younger version, but the exact replica of us,
    Riding boats on the stagnant waters of time,
    Flying paper planes.
    Maybe they'll look up at us
    Wave their hands and grin.
    'A new game' , they'll think smiling.
    A smile that we lost on the way.
    And we'll greet them too,
    With equal vigour and enthusiasm.
    Before envy creeps in.
    For they have something that we don't. Innocence.
    The same childlike innocence that fate has stripped us off.
    Then, perhaps, a strong gale of wind will push us.
    Bringing us back to the crossroads,
    That we happened to meet upon, once again.
    You'll continue down your way,
    And I'll trace mine.
    Promising to meet again,
    After exchanging phone numbers.
    The phone numbers that'll stare at us, unblinkingly, from the slim rectangular mobile screen.
    Untouched, even after a year of waiting.
    Those ten digits that'll never be more than a fleeting thought in our mind,
    The same number whose caller tune will never ever play in our ears.
    Taken care of, by dismissively chucking it inside the phone's recycle bin.
    Where it'll lay for an eternity, gathering virtual cobwebs and dust.

    - broken_figments_of_imagination

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    ©broken_figments_of_imagination

  • broken_figments_of_imagination 47w

    My breath came out in puffs of white.
    Trying to warm myself from the flame of the lighter,
    Tuning out the loud knocks on the door,
    This was the third time the landlady had come asking for money.
    Fairy lights decorating the neighborhood on Christmas eves like this,
    Contrasted highly with the darkness of my room.
    And another lungful of smoke later,
    I stuffed the half burnt cigarette back into my pocket.
    It was the only thing I could afford.

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    Christmas smoke

    Half for me, and a half for u,
    Nostalgia creeps in at the edge of the parapet.
    Taking turns to have a go at the smoky stick,
    The initials of ur name inked at your end of the share being the only proof of your existence.
    And even after a decade later,
    Half burnt cigarettes lay untouched in my worn out pockets of my corduroy,
    Before a breeze blows the dying embers out.

    ©broken_figments_of_imagination

  • broken_figments_of_imagination 59w

    Hey ppl!!!
    How r u guys? So yaa, am finally back.
    Posting one of my works (I didn't stop writing, ya know)
    But a small warning⚠️!!!!
    This is full of controversial stuff, and I did a small take on Christian beliefs (no offence to any of the Christians out there)..so if u don't feel comfortable reading it, u r much welcome to back off

    (Guys, a small request..I haven't been here for months...so I dont know the current usernames of ppl who have changed their previous ones...please do tag them if u know theirs)

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    DECODING THE LOGOS

    I had sketched a man one day
    Or doodled, as some may put it
    Putting all my heart into the work,
    It was a shame that the corner of the ruled pages of my English notebook didn't do him justice,
    Alteast, not like the work 9f mosaic on the church walls did...
    And sitting at the back of my art classroom,
    I drew him once again.
    Having just started detailing the cross on which they crucified him,
    I looked up startled to find the art teacher, Ms Marie peering into my canvas.
    She was a stout lady.
    Her name and French bun, being the only thing French about her.
    With a soft click of her heels, and a disappointed 'tsk',
    She picked the pencil up from my desk,
    And modified the image, 'corrected it' in her opinion,
    The silver cross hanging from around her neck,
    Seemingly winking at me in the light.
    And after a few smudges, and few shades here and there,
    By the time she set my canvas down,
    The man in the picture, suddenly didn't seem as frail as before,
    His ribs were no longer visible.
    Comparing it with the printed picture of the Christ beside the window,
    I realized that his shoulder blades looked less prominent, there too
    Wasn't he starved before he died?
    Then there was that statue of his,
    In front of the principal's room,
    Carved in porcelain,
    A marvelous piece of work it was, I must say.
    And how befitting at that!
    For with those rusty nails digging into him,
    Pinning him to the wooden cross,
    He must've been borderline anaemic.
    Oh! And that cross...
    I wonder, was it made of Sandalwood?
    It did smell like death though...
    They called him Jesus
    Some even went as far as calling him a Messiah,
    But to me,
    He was nothing more than a misunderstood situational pariah,
    And when everybody was busy pointing at and whispering about the crown of thorns as he walked up to the hills,
    I wish that they'd notice those hyacinths and touch-me-nots that he'd pin to his hair to keep his locks in place everyday, too
    As I finished the portrait
    I saw him wave at me
    Decked in his favourite crimson robes,
    Or were they a pristine white,
    Stained with a coppery red?
    Waving back, I asked him about some doubts I had in the Bible....
    He cleared them up,
    But not before letting me me know that how 'well' the people who didn't 'know' him, could relay his preachings word to word,
    How they made him the Logos.
    He waved once again,
    This time a goodbye,
    Promising to talk later,
    Explaining that he had an appointment with the psychologist his dad had set him up with,
    He was suffering from Post-Traumatic-Stress-Disorder, you see.
    And I had been grinning that entire evening
    I had just talked to God's son, the saviour!
    Nevermind the fact that it was just another portrait I finished drawing.
    Oh! Wait, did I mention 'saviour'?
    What an irony it was....
    For the man whom the world forgot forgot as to how he was, as to 'who' he was,
    Remembering him as Jesus, not Joshua,
    For the man who had apparently saved the whole world,
    Couldn't save himself.
    And on that twilight streaked evening,
    Just like that fateful day,
    Some two thousand years ago,
    I framed him,
    And hoisted him up on the wooden panel,
    Hammered a few nails in here and there,
    After all,
    History had a bad habit of repeating itself, didn't it?

    by @broken_figments_of_imagination

  • broken_figments_of_imagination 66w

    Hearts going renegade,
    Jupiter’s in retrograde
    I took a dose of apathy to fix this pain.
    Cupid didn’t care,
    No, there wasn’t any love in the air.
    Me? A star crossed lover,
    Whose destiny, even the stars didn’t bother to write.
    Last Friday he borrowed my heart,
    Tore it out of my chest slowly, so that it didn’t hurt,
    Explaining that he had given his to somebody else,
    Therefore he needed one.
    I told him that he needn’t pay interest,
    Had been so busy scrolling through pinterest,
    That I didn’t realize that the God of love and heartbreak was standing right in front of me.
    He returned it back almost a month later,
    It was Christmas, and so he gave me his old navy blue sweater,
    Along with a cute little note,
    Telling me that perhaps I would now learn to warm up to people a little bit more.
    And by the time realization dawned on me,
    He had been already engaged to his fiancée,
    With bits and pieces of my shipwrecked love still floating on the sea.
    That’s when I noticed that the haze of apathy had worn off,
    So I took another fix of synthetic emotions,
    Hoping that this time the drug-induced haze would be as resilient as a Triceratops,
    And as I fall on the cushion of clouds,
    My vision starts blurring,
    Darkening at the corners,
    I didn’t faint…no...
    Just fell asleep…
    An eternal one,
    And although the stars were against me,
    I couldn’t help but wish on a shooting star for one last time,
    That in next life…
    My heroes won’t be from Marvel comics,
    Coming in capes and tight fitting costumes,
    And that I won’t meet a certain winged god, with locks a beautiful shade of golden…
    That I won’t fall in love with the Cupid ever again…

  • broken_figments_of_imagination 67w

    I dont hate you darling. But that doesn't mean that i love you either. Its just that I've spent so much time hating myself, that hating others just didn't fit into my schedule.

  • broken_figments_of_imagination 67w

    One Universe
    Eight Planets
    One hundred and ninety-five countries
    Two thousand and ninety-five islands
    Seven seas
    And I've had the privilege of meeting you.


    #MessedUpConfessions

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    CONFESSION ON A CONFETTI

    //"What do you call a person who's fallen madly in love?"
    A free-faller?
    "because he has fallen-"
    Perhaps a lunatic?
    Insane?
    "Because he's fallen madly in-"
    Or is it a lover?
    "Because he's fallen madly. In love."//


    If you've got eyes
    Look up
    If you've got ears
    Hear me out.
    I’m at the top of the Eiffel Tower
    Standing in the middle of the city of love: Ville de L’amour
    And I’m not afraid to shout:

    Hey girl!
    You, the one with eyes a tantalizing shade of honey-suckle juice.
    Yes you, the one who managed to steal my non-existent heart.
    There’s a shackle of felony clasped on your wrists.
    You must be wondering why…allow me to enlighten you.
    As hopeless as situation was, I ended up pressing charges on ya for theft.
    Now they’ve sentenced you to an eternal imprisonment in my heart.
    Haven’t you caused enough damage, stealing my heart?
    It’s high time I repay the debt.

    Darlin’
    If your love’s a drug,
    I’m proudly an addict.
    When God gave me you,
    It was as if the dealer brought me mah favourite stash,
    For this high I’m feeling right now….It’s euphoric.
    Not even a minute’s passed,
    And I’m already in need of a fix.
    People, I’m still standing at top of the Eiffel tower spreading my arms wide,
    And for the ones who’ve still not figured it out….
    I’M OFFICIALLY WHIPPED.

    @broken_figments_of_imagination