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  • loner 113w

    if any mistakes then please point out.

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    wormholes and lies

    the darkness in here
    at least blinds me
    from seeing all the lies
    i'm surrounded with
    and neither can I see
    the bugs crawling under my skin
    (what you can't see
    doesn't exist, right?)
    i close my eyes
    to be met with a
    familiar darkness
    (the hole is too foreign)
    and abstract art of
    featureless faces
    scream inside.
    the screams turn into
    loud musical bangs;
    my migrane peaks
    and I grab the cushioned seat,
    crash it into your
    worth eight lakhs piano,
    the keys flying everywhere
    and joining the spiral of your lies.
    (and I'm still caught in the eye).

    breaking into a cold sweat
    I wake up to a dark room,
    (painted the walls black,
    half are still blue
    from when you left)
    and shaking, I make my way
    to the balcony,
    slide open the doors
    and pick up each pot
    and hurl them
    down on the street.
    downstairs, I gingerly pick up
    the vinlys you bought us,
    played each one
    and danced with your ghost.
    twirled around the room alone
    and cried and screamed;
    later I sat beside the heap of
    broken cd pieces,
    giving myself tattoos
    and singing along
    the silence you left behind.


  • loner 115w

    he stood there, one among many
    as smoke rose from the burning body,
    his mouth watering
    from the smell of burning flesh.

    the man looked around,
    everyone had their eyes closed
    and were in deep mourning.
    but he knew,
    they were greedy and hungry too,
    they all were.
    how can they not be?
    of course they are,
    that's what a human is.

    he walked towards the quiet lake
    and saw himself staring back,
    handsome indeed,
    no wonder all those poems they write
    are about him.

    he spit in the water,
    on his face
    and went back,
    stood with his head down;
    trying to call upon himself
    the aura of fake mourning,
    his mouth still watering.


  • loner 115w

    I feel heavy all through,
    sitting by the window
    I stare at the bleak sky
    and not feel my insides.

    you're a distant memory
    and I see your face in the clouds,
    it'd have been better if you had died
    for then I could really pretend
    that you're a part of the sky.

    the first few days
    people knocked on my door
    for hours on end,
    I didn't budge though
    and soon the knocks
    turned into quiet, starved
    squeaks of the rat.
    he nibbles on my feet
    and I'm glad I'm of some use
    (you said I'm useless).
    well see, I'm feeding someone
    even if I couldn't feed you.

    I think I'll die sitting here,
    watching your face in the clouds;
    the storms remind me of when
    you'd get angry and break my favourite crockery,
    and the sunny days of when you'd
    wake me up with a kiss on the head
    and warm tea.
    (I'm not lonely though.
    you left me these clouds
    and a bleak world.
    yeah I'm at peace).


  • loner 115w

    this dog sadness is gnawing at me again.

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    do you ever hurt ten times more than the usual because you've keeping it all inside? And then all through the hurting you have this sudden urge to disappear off the face of this earth and never come back because it all hurts so much? it's like one those moments when you re-realise things that are fucking sad, you already know them but that moment when you realise them again is when you feel them again and it just hurts because shit, you let yourself go wrong again even after knowing how this world works. and honestly, it's so easy to wipe away every trace of your existence and never be found but the problem is, everywhere you go, you meet the same people with different faces and so you'd rather hold your breath for the moment and dunk your head underwater and feel yourself lose your grip on reality. and actually, it helps, it's almost like how you feel light after crying. I have no idea where this is going but I do know this would be on my regret list. but as usual, I'm hoping against hope. I'm fine though.

  • loner 118w

    he walks down the empty street
    with a small ukulele on his back
    eyes down on the concrete
    watching his own feet
    drag him forward.
    you'd think, poor boy,
    his love left him at the best,
    what else can hurt a boy so young
    and he probably sings songs
    in her memory at nights
    sitting on his window sill,
    smoking some cigarettes,
    burning his lungs like his heart.

    the boy stumbles and a diary falls
    out of his jacket and now you'd think,
    oh, he must even write poetry,
    his lover the muse.
    he bends down to pick up the diary,
    and something shiny and pointy
    pokes out of his denims.
    looking at this you'd think,
    my poor little boy
    on his way to kill himself,
    I must stop him
    and so rush forward
    down the stairs, out the front door,
    with a Bible in your hand.

    stop my dear little boy,
    worry not for God loves us all,
    throw away that knife and here,
    take this.
    you don't know what hit you,
    but something did
    and the last you remember
    is a crucifix in his right hand
    and the knife in the left,
    slashing across your throat.

    the open bible pages
    now dripping red.


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  • loner 121w

    i think the end has arrived,
    I can write when everything is
    alive and hurting,
    you're not just sitting on your bed
    engulfed in the same old sadness
    about which you've written
    a 100 times,
    the walls are so full to
    add more scribbles
    and all the religious entities
    have left your side,
    your heart rests in a heap of
    broken, rotten pieces,
    you don't feel human anymore,
    and no, you don't feel unearthly either.
    you just feel like you don't exist,
    you're just a skeleton with flesh,
    breathing, eating, sleeping,
    you don't cry, you don't laugh.

    it's almost like you've reached
    the other side,
    the side beyond the void,
    you try to go back,
    try to make yourself feel something
    but you don't
    even as your hand moves
    back and forth
    or even when
    the blood drips down your chest.
    you don't feel a thing
    when you shave off your head
    neither when you break a toenail.

    you've turned into a
    dirty, used, worn out rag
    and the only thing
    that you can do with yourself
    is to do yourself away.


  • loner 124w

    summer of '69

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    timeless (2)

    we don't have any pictures together
    because you were always too shy,
    you didn't even look me in the eyes
    when you first held my hand
    but I had stared at you,
    watched your face turn
    different shades of red
    and my cheeks matching.
    I laughed softly and you turned
    even a darker shade.
    We had walked on then,
    hands swaying.

    The night was as young as us
    and you had suggested we go to the
    local fair and circus
    which was in town for the week
    and I had readily agreed.
    There we came upon a photo booth
    and it took all my strength to drag you inside.
    I couldn't let us miss this chance,
    the chance of getting those cliché,
    retro style polaroids, me sharing the frame
    with you.
    No I couldn't.

    And so we got 2 photos,
    one for you
    one for me.
    the photos were in succession;
    you were looking at me in the first one
    while I looked at the camera.
    when I looked at your red face
    while you had diverted your eyes
    to the lens.
    and I still vividly remember
    the feeling of your eyes on me.
    I felt safe, and loved.
    most importantly loved.

    you couldn't face your insecurities
    anymore, even with me holding your hand
    supporting you at every second.
    and so you left,
    this home we made,
    you left that,
    without looking back,
    not even once did you turn around
    to see the tears rolling down my face.
    I found out you took the polaroids with you
    and I've gone timeless ever since,
    stuck in that home
    playing the old records we bought together,
    painting grey pictures on white canvases,
    writing letters to you
    sealed with wax made out of
    my melted love.
    maybe if you had let the pictures stay behind,
    I would have been ephemeral.


  • loner 124w

    timeless (1)

    among all other unnoticed
    and unsaid things
    you left me behind,
    and I sit here, on the ground,
    with a heap of
    all the words I wanted
    to say to
    but I didn't,
    not to you at least.

    my walls know about you
    and so does my dog,
    the neighbours have an idea as well
    (the grandma offered me cake,
    what could have I done
    if not say sweet things
    about the sweetest person
    with sugar on my tongue).
    the local park bench no 45,
    repeats your name along with me,
    over and over
    while the trees and the birds,
    the squirrels and the joggers

    I'm not supposed to write
    romantic things, no,
    I've turned into an asexual being,
    forced myself in this polythene bag,
    I was suffocated but not more than
    the suffocation loving you made me go through.
    but the world is round,
    And I go around in circles,
    chasing you, loving you,
    hating you, forgiving you.
    but never forgetting.
    oh how I wish
    I had your talent to forget.
    I'm a forget-me-not
    but you went for the roses.
    And I still pray the thorns don't hurt you.


  • loner 127w

    basic timepass so nvm

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    flipping through pages,
    eyes drooping,
    I see your smile flash in my retinas
    and suddenly I wish I had cancer,
    better to die slowly
    than live with flashbacks
    that electrocute my heart.

    I feel disabled when
    someone takes your name,
    regretting why I even told anyone
    and as I regret
    I keep telling more.
    our anecdotes spill from my lips
    like the moon spills
    soft pure light
    on darkness,
    glorifying it.

    I wonder if I did anything wrong,
    I wonder if it'll ever be right,
    if I'll ever be right.
    Better to die slowly out of cancer
    than out of the feeling of being
    too wrong for someone.

    It's true that humans
    survive purely on hope
    but too much hope
    always turns out to be
    worse than rat poison,
    and even I, a suicidal being,
    wouldn't prefer to die like
    gatsby did.
    I'll rather,
    my cigarettes do the job.


  • loner 128w

    1. kinda dumb
    2. why tf am I writing romantic stuff
    3. *look at the empty vessel writing about love* I'm still a gangster with a gun so you all better stay scared hmph

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    if love was a person
    he'd be 5'9"
    and very sweet;
    lost in his daydreams
    he'd hold my hand
    lightly, as if a feather,
    without knowing what's he doing,
    he'd swing our locked hands,
    forward, backward
    forward, backward,
    while whistling softly,
    still lost in his Dreamworld,
    a small smile playing at his lips.

    then he'd suddenly look at me
    looking at him
    and give me a questioning stare,
    but without any questions
    will break into a huge smile,
    and pull me towards him
    and engulf me in the
    warmest hug ever,
    while my hands stumble around
    the guitar case hanging on his back
    trying to find a grip.

    "a huge monkey hugging a rabbit",
    I say out loud
    and you laugh
    and I feel the laugh reverberating
    through your chest under my palms
    which I've brought forward now
    to push you away
    while you still cling on
    pulling even harder,
    almost crushing me with your love,
    you being the epitome of love yourself.
    youthly, going with the wind
    while humming exotic dreams,
    you're keats and you're john green,
    all in one.