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  • grotesque 2w

    Depression: 3.9

    Flying over a rice field, I realised
    I have been living in a dungeon.
    A dungeon that has several windows with
    Walls outside. I can open each one of them
    Only to see walls looking back at me;
    Grinning & reminding me of my
    Failure! A life that has no meaning
    Suddenly becomes meaningful when
    You are about to end it. A knife, a half burnt
    Cigarette, your clothes, you and your
    Shadow; are the stuffs that can trigger!
    Every time I walk in, I bump my head into
    Those walls outside my windows.
    Now that I am flying over a rice field, I can
    Finally smell freedom. I can finally let it be,
    Let my thoughts be like they were since
    Their inception. I can finally commemorate
    A new beginning with mere changes.

    But, I can't feel my body anymore. It's
    Freezing and choking me to something darker.
    I can sense danger in the coming minutes.
    I can foresee that I would no longer be
    Here physically to witness the freedom practically.
    But my soul would wander in these fields.
    I can make amends to my desire a little bit.
    A physical body is going to retire now.
    A soul-body is going to take charge and
    I am going to fly away ferociously.
    As I am going to enter into last breath of my
    Life, I am going to engulf my pain & turn it
    Into a butterfly so that it can blossom further.
    The room has been a good friend to me.
    I must not delay a certain success.
    I must not be a failure in failing a life.
    I, the grotesque human, sighs.


  • grotesque 3w


    There will be one day when you will left alone with your rotten flesh & sweet blood. Thoughts would run haywire! You would want to escape the juggling reality you are residing in but unfortunately, you would not be able to because you would require certain amount of genuinely zeal to do that. You might fool yourself that you have people in your life but all you would have is despair constructed by you. You would follow your path like a maniac and eat every bit of your brain to be someone who wholeheartedly do not want to be, of the least.
    You would float in the middle of some superficial get togethers but you wouldn't find your own deadly words. You would be lost in some lane wanting to be found by someone but no one would, because everyone would have their own myth to burst.
    An evening with a note in your hand, you would want to sing something melancholy to soothe your soul but your voice would be freezed. That night or any night following a hectic day, would weep along with you because my dear friend, you would always be counting your breaths. You would be desperately wanting to gulp in all the sorrows that would lie like a lonely night in your lap. You want to caress your poetry but you might find none.
    You would see yourself in the mirror and wonder why are you still so young? Why aren't you dead and retired? Why haven't you faded? The answer would be in the air as it would transport your smell to another place. The soft wind of the winter would bestow them on your feet & you will sulk in them forever.
    There will be one day when you would not be gone. You would just arrive with some certainty that you could actually belong here like a kind human being. Yet, that day is in the oblivion. That day is never to come, at least in your births and re-births!
    You would eventually die out of nothingness.

  • grotesque 5w


    The eighteenth. If you sum one and eight
    It comes to nine. The number nine is
    The best and one of my favourite after
    Seven and four. Because the nine, is
    Brilliant mathematics.
    I was in cloud nine when you first said you love
    Me and was devastated when you last
    Contacted me on the eighteenth; a multiple
    Of nine. The number nine has some
    Significance because it resembles
    My success and failure in love. The
    Number eighteen is almost invisible
    In my life because it is the multiple of
    Nine yet it doesn't bring any joy.
    As if I am hanging from a branch of a tree;
    Just waiting for the nine and eighteens
    To swallow me & perish my confidence.
    The eighteenth is one of a survival
    Day for me as well because I got to know
    That I actually can breathe without you. I can love
    In other ways too. I can love the outline of
    Your existence and still not be dead by the
    Presiding evening. I can learn and relearn the
    Newest books. I can smell a different
    World out there which are not entangled
    With the nines and eighteens. Yet, the
    Numbers are engulfing me somehow!
    It found out that I found out a more realistic
    Approach to my love and it stated me
    To be sober. So, I am into the eighteen again.
    Stepping into the trap of it; knowing it is
    An obsession of that of a reader for
    Old books. I am going all in. If I dwell in
    Here, I know I'd find another Universe.
    Because I'd be following your guidelines.
    If you love my soul, come find me
    In some eighteen. It will be darker,
    More deeper and hungrier!
    It is the eighteenth of all.
    Nine multiplied by two is brutal.


  • grotesque 6w

    Depression: 3.8

    Hold my body; hold on to my mind.
    A sick one; a broken one.
    A tough and rough one.
    A 'loved once' one.
    A human one; a night one!
    Hold on to me as long as I
    Do not slip away. I have been
    Brutal with myself enough now, to
    Change anything that's changeable.
    An evening to a morning; I sob
    And I rob my own self with
    Prior anxieties. Hold me not so close
    Because I might feed your brain off.
    Because I might love you harder while
    Killing your passion; because I might
    Miss the last train for eternity!
    After that who knows what will happen!
    You and me will surrender ourselves
    To an overwhelmingly alluring future,
    Where whatever happens will forever
    Remain unknown, surreal and camouflaged!
    Hold my mind for now. It has secrets to
    Reveal. Would you be listening me
    Tonight as I die young, once again?


  • grotesque 6w

    A fairytale of impossibilities.


  • grotesque 6w

    Depression: 3.7

    People just don't talk as if
    It's a vital part of life. We all
    Talk because we need to vent
    Out. A mosquito sitting on
    Us, drinking our blood
    Buzzes on our ears before
    Doing the deed. People create that
    Same buzz! It's superficial; it's
    Wary. It's undeniably corrupt!

    When it is important we all
    Take refuge to well ornamented
    Words to express our gratitude.
    What about the other times where
    A solemn act could be defined
    By intimate sentences! Why can't
    We choose to fall in love with
    Words before taking them to bed?

    People lick their tongue as if
    They bit some of it. I, somehow,
    Know how to talk cautiously.
    Often termed as weird, they
    Make fun of my capability
    To destroy or create a strong castle
    With my words. They do not
    Understand how much I live
    In them. Hence, I stammer.

    I can go on and on for hours
    Not knowing how to put a stop
    To my desires. Yet, people
    Would only choose some
    Nasty 'talks' over meaningful
    Conversations just to be somehow
    Aware in their petty shallowness!

    After a pretentious day
    When I lie down to think how
    A human being can ignore
    Something so fundamental,
    All I come up with is, few poetry
    With some twisted words.
    People can easily switch colours;
    From purple to gray within minutes.
    All I care about is how to
    Choose my own colour so
    That I can paint my words
    To fly freely in lover's land.

  • grotesque 9w

    I shall have a night of my own.
    To think that love may
    Take a part of me to
    A certain village;
    Where it is old enough to
    Survive. I want a validated
    Love from the sky!

    I want to be flying around
    Dancing to the tune of
    Old winds, blowing through
    Our feelings some day.
    Words that mean something
    Should unite under a big tree
    And whisper each other to fall in love!

    I want to paint the land
    With my tears as it would
    Seep into the core of earth and melt
    The hatred. I shall have a night that
    Comes after a happy day.
    My night shall bear my
    Silhouette of despair as well.
    I want it to be blue. Serenely blue!

    Tomorrow when it will be gone
    I will just remember the time span
    As my own insecurity. My base might be
    Wiped away too with it. Perhaps, a good soul
    Should not stop. It must carry on
    To love and leave upon the love finally
    Chokes! I will wonder always, what is it
    About my blue night that made me
    Stay, for once! I know I would not
    Be getting any answer. That's the beauty of
    Nights. They don't talk.


  • grotesque 9w

    Depression: 3.6

    A set of repetitive rules; routine.
    I beg your pardon. I am a human being;
    Disciplined, excited, loved and cared about.
    A set of rules put my mind to rest albeit
    Of everything that is out there
    Right in front of my eyes.
    Can I see? No. I can't. Because I have
    Been in a forever race of getting better.
    From who? I don't know! But I am sort
    Of an artist. Well, that is funny because
    Everything I do screams rules.
    Does art go by rules?
    Morning, night, evening, afternoon everything
    Is so set that I vomit optimistic spectrum.
    It's so bright that I can't see anymore.
    And if I cannot see, I cannot feel. I cannot feel
    So I can sleep. Dangerously set but it's
    Kinda helping me by putting out
    My ignition. A block is not a block anymore.
    I get to do other works. For example- I talk.
    I talk to let people know I am butchered
    In the past by some anxiety. I don't have it
    Or perhaps I can't feel it anymore.
    Is being morbid so bad? Aren't there anyone
    Who would want to see the tenacity
    Of our dampened mind? Or is it just
    My illusion to an escape? When I am
    Alone fully, I tend to feel certain things yet
    I can't see properly what needs to be
    Felt. I just hum a music and keep
    It aside so that my friends and family
    Can feed off me. I love them. They
    Love me too. What a thing to be loved
    By people! Isn't it disgusting at the end?
    Because my mind somehow tells me
    That nobody loves me actually. They
    Want me; they need me. I am fine by
    The morning because the set of rules are
    Pounding in my head like an alarm.
    I mustn't get distracted. I mustn't derail.
    I, the grotesque human, mustn't choose to
    Give up. Because a life of rotten flesh
    Is all I have to offer to the hungriest souls.
    I have my schedule ready for it. Good day.

  • grotesque 12w

    Depression: 3:5

    Some people have an outstanding facade.
    They paint it with great courage.
    They think it is best to follow, what
    Has always been followed over decades.

    I would have been happier if only I could
    Read and write on a Sunday afternoon.
    But I am unable to. Why? Because I don't
    Have a facade which could save me
    From being raw and grotesque. Damn!

    I could have been happier if I knew how to
    Sleep without any worries. But can I? Is it my
    Core? No! I'm absolutely devastated by
    My own silhouette. I dance away those
    Cracks in the wall assuming them to be
    My worries; a gateway to somewhere elusive
    Is all I ever wanted. I didn't know I'd fail.

    Some people can talk water. I can feel water. The
    Differences to these words are just perseverance!
    If you see through the facade, you learn.
    Some people live with the wall they have
    Put up. I live through the niches of anxiousness
    That eats my existence slowly. Unable to
    Comprehend anything further, I dive in
    Only to find myself into a loop of what people
    Call a massive sadness. Some people call
    Them morbidity. I call them my World of
    Madness; where I paint & get painted.

    If I were a bird, I would just observe the other
    World with my vision; flying above them
    Would make me happier. But I am not a bird
    And this is not a fantasy. I am a mere human.
    If I could sit at the corner of my bed and watch
    My bedsheet for hours, I think it's more than
    Enough for a lifetime like this to get to know me,
    While I slowly decay into an abysmal. I sigh!


  • grotesque 14w

    Depression: 3.4

    There are lots of food in here.
    It's a feast of so many items
    That I am feeling suffocated
    With the thought of something
    Delicious going down my throat!
    As if an empty heart would
    Know what is the actual
    Feeling of being happy
    In things like eating.
    If you are a prisoner of
    Your own restrictions, you
    Really don't enjoy eating. You
    Only know that it is needed
    In your body; a system. As a child
    I would never focus on biology.
    Now I would just focus on
    How to eat things to survive!
    Food that makes other happy
    Does not make me feel anything
    Except that I am lucky that I am
    Getting something to eat; to survive.
    Emptiness cannot go away
    Even if you truely want it to.
    Because when you start
    Loving the emptiness, you actually
    Get to know yourself better and
    That, my friend, makes you cling to it.
    I can smell the spices of the food
    Mixed with many efforts to please someone.
    But, I am not pleased at all with
    So many commodity in front of me.
    Because I don't feel hungry anymore.
    I eat. I sleep. I wake up to eat again.
    I sleep to wake up again and that has
    Been a life for me for so many years. Bit
    of Ups and downs too. Now I can surely say
    When death would come to me, I'd just take it
    In as a routine as well. I'd close my eyes
    And die. No extra. Nothing special.
    For now, these lovely delicious items
    Make me feel miserable. I am certainly
    Going to eat them away to oblivion.