meru_mukh

the ship had sailed long ago, now it's time to sink

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  • meru_mukh 6w

    Crossroads
    &
    Wrong Turns (?)


    Eleven and a half, or a solid five -
    silly me, I don't even know how long
    the heartache lasted this time.
    Not aware of how to repay the
    kindness, all I would say is that -
    when you chose to strike the stone
    the hardest in a while, do remind
    yourself to chug some chilled
    marmalade down the throat, 'cause,
    now, sugar-coated subtlety is the
    last thing that comes to my mind.

    A blatant indifference coupled with
    a new-age desperation, that, I wasn't
    the one to bring about; change is a
    process that doesn't surprise me
    tonight. But then, I need to know -
    where do we stand? Do you, now,
    not mean any of the warmth that
    your words had carried all this
    while? Or, will you just blow it
    all off, calling it a little game
    you played on no-man's-land?

    Was asked to leave and so I did.
    But oh! I forgot to ask back - was
    that the clo-sure afterall? Another
    rosy delusion is the last thing
    I need now, in my life;
    so, if I'm to be left hanging,
    it'd be better off a cliff,
    or, from a breaking beehive.

    ©Merusri Mukherjee

  • meru_mukh 11w

    once in a chit-chat

    Not one to dwell in the grey, forever
    is a myth to me. For, even the blues are transient, leaving me torpefied every half
    past five: as dead as a doornail on some
    days, or a cheap rendition of a Halloween horror brought to life. To those who think
    numb is the trick to play, meet me on the
    curb alfresco; you're free to trade my soul
    for two less heartbreaks tonight. And the
    next time you see a recluse on the clifftop,
    roll a blunt and take the spot beside,
    'cause solitude just gets a lot less
    charming after a while.

    The television set blabbers all day long,
    about the heretics in flames and no women
    in thongs. Streets chok-a-block with them eyeballs rolling on the ground, for, failing
    to see a sin that wasn't skin-to-skin, is
    what makes the law proud. On most days, outnumbered; this world works by the modus operandi on a puppet show, is what you can conclude. I see no republic here; just a
    misnomer for the democracy that went
    off-track on a field-day, enroute to truce.

    Sobriety is a goddamn scam. We're all
    drunk. On the pains and pleasures of life.
    On poetry. On the curves of the faces and bodies we so claim to love on a sultry
    winter's eve; sip by sip, we're getting
    wasted. Now, don't you fall for the guy
    downtown. It'll wreck your heart like he wrecked one's home and you'll all but embody a rigid chest knot on a clumsy afternoon;
    a grief equivalent, beyond a doubt, but
    not enough to have them swoon.

    They're all the same, though. We are all
    the same. Running in circles, ruining
    in circles. Oh, turn off the gas burner;
    it's nine already! Dinner should be served.
    This migraine is gonna kill me fine,
    even if I can't grab the knife tonight;
    anodynes to no rescue.

    ©Merusri Mukherjee

  • meru_mukh 17w

    Moral(s), N/A

    To know that dead is the only way one
    would want me is falsely reassuring
    tonight, for, I know since almost an
    eighteen now that I was never needed in
    your pretty heck of a life. The poor you
    talking of lies doesn't quite sit right;
    when you already had another one,
    to tend to your wounds and glorify
    your pains, why would you sing to me
    the lines that were not even written
    for me, in the first place?

    It's funny how I once thought that
    we belonged to each other's acute
    solitude, but then, you were never
    as much lonely as you so wilfully
    claimed, or as much as I never did.
    So tell me, maybe? Tell me what I
    mean(t) to you, tell me whether you
    mean(t) it, tell me tonight. The past
    is not something I dwell in, unlike
    one may think, so I need to know
    whether home is what awaits me
    at the end of this rebuttal-road.

    Opening up isn't my cup of tea,
    but I was ready to take a sip anyway.
    For, a slight tongue burn is far better
    than one which leaves you cold and
    impassive, as a whole. But how do I hold
    a hand that's clasping another? How to
    fit in a shoe that isn't my size?
    I shouldn't. And just to make it clear,
    the catapult was lying near both of us,
    and it was you who took a shot.

    I didn't.

    ©Merusri Mukherjee

  • meru_mukh 21w

    All hail the plight of the night,
    a lil' pain and a taming frostbite.
    ~merumukh

    Thank you @writersnetwork and @mirakee .

    Read More

    It's my December

    Eleventh month is taking a toll already.
    It's time now, to puke up the emptiness
    that I've been gestating; although I
    know had I drank a little to each of
    my unreported events of misery, that
    sad, little devil would've been out
    and about in its most morphed form;
    but nevermind. Just a few more cold,
    lonely nights it is, to yet another
    saint in disguise, some peachy lights,
    leech-y faces, bells crashing on
    grounds; can I survive though?
    'Cause last I heard the jingle,
    the chorus was missing.

    The world is a big fat lie, I'm telling
    ya. Bigger than the last kid who was
    body-shamed on a merry Friday night.
    I know 'cause I've felt too much too soon,
    so much so that my mere existence is
    nothing but a bleeding conundrum now;
    I don't deserve this though. So, if I
    ever knock you out with the rusty stone
    I hide, behind my breast-pocket, name it
    aplasia, for it's a hell lot better than
    their hearts; so mercurial,
    if you got no lick of sense,
    you can almost taste the metal.

    Harrowing phasal discrepancies
    between what I dreamt of and what I woke
    up to will kill the last of my left in me,
    I promise. But who will paint a pretty
    picture of my death? Shh! Don't tell me
    the name, I might stab him too. And
    that would be my final goodbye, with
    twitchy red palms; a soul bereft of life
    leaving another so.

    Was holding onto the wrong one all
    along, oh buoy! Look how my ship has
    sunk! I still prey. No, pray. (Huh,
    the irony!) One can almost hear me
    saying, "What this night has brought
    along, the dawn must taketh from me,
    for, its just a dark time and a hue-man's
    hunch and an hour away from a cup of tea."

    ©Merusri Mukherjee

  • meru_mukh 34w

    Olden days are (?) golden days. Also, excuse the cringe, if you may.

    @void Here you go. :)

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    To The One Who Told Me
    I Was Everything


    The sky cracks a third time, now.
    They say it'll rain love and peace,
    and what not.
    Tell me, will it rain
    a little of me and you, too?
    Will it sing a thunder tale of
    the breaths I wasted, praying for you
    to recall my name once every night,
    while you sat smirking with a needle,
    some thread and some fiegned affection,
    under the shared moonlight?

    You tore my heart apart even before
    I could know I possessed one.
    You left me even before I could tell you
    how much I wanted 'us' to stay;
    why the game when I never intended to play?
    Why the chase when I was already falling prey?
    Was melting in your clutches; the clutches,
    which now feel no less than a
    loosened noose 'round my aching throat;
    thanks to the spillshow of filthy lies
    from thy bifurcated soul,
    minus the much awaited goodbye note.

    Today, my existence is left mosaicked
    with broken shards of my heart,
    soaked in a bit of red,
    a bit of blue,
    and a lot more of the love
    that I could've had for you.
    I envy how anxiety still finds
    a way to me every damn time.
    Will you ever do?

    ©Merusri Mukherjee

  • meru_mukh 35w

    Hotchpotch served stale. Good day.

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    This ain't new. My silence, your peace, her demure, his lease. This. Ain't. New. Or is it? Who cares anyway, haha. Oh, you do? Since when? Rather, why? Look at the irony, scrunch your nosy nose, raise a question or two, even a glass of some cheap alcohol, if you want, and then take your leave. It sounds more real that way, trust me. Yeah yeah, I can see you shaking your head. Don't. Don't lie to yourself. Or maybe do? Who cares anyway, haha.

    Four fan blades, few cigarette puffs, a broken jaw, blood on the lower lip, and a sober, sober sleep (let's hope), that's how some spend nights. How about you? Oh no, don't tell. Wait a minute, I know. You die. You die everytime the clouds cross over the moon's plight. You die everytime you want to live a little more each night. You die. Yes, you're a living corpse. Minus the eulogies that they don't yet blabber. Minus the spouse or family or friends (it's okay to assume you have loved ones, I don't know if they love you though, sorry) who don't yet welp and stammer. Not that they would if you actually die, right? (Who cares anyway, isn't it?)

    Bring some ice, it's autumn again, your fall, her fall, his fall, but not mine (my falls don't need no autumn, haha). Bless the devil under your skin, for it burns you up warm and bright. The flames tell tales. Of the fake glory, the stinking remorses and some broken nails (or chewed up maybe, I wouldn't know, sorry). That sip of my-taste-buds-are-temporarily-dead kinda hot coffee is all you need right now. Have a cup, I'm paying. No no, this isn't a date. Let's do that some other time, on the other side. I won't be much late I promise, for there is where I reside.

    ©Merusri Mukherjee

  • meru_mukh 36w

    Absolute random nonsense, lmao.

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    Let us imagine you are a dying epiphany on the cusp of degeneration. Will you spare a minute or two waiting for a throng of like-minded people to nod twice at your presence? Or would you rather leave them worked up, with repeated trials of proving you wrong and cussing their strong sense of judgement, which, by the way, they never had? You'll choose the latter. Even the eighty year old man, in the house next door, would agree. Sadistic satisfaction is forever an oath, that none not takes and turns a blind eye to. (Haha, gotcha! I know that I know enough.)

    A rainy day, only if you like a wet and mossy, oh-so musky ambience though, can bring out the simplicity in you for readily losing yourself to some sort of temporary, I-know-it-is-gonna-dry-up contentment, which can bring you back not an ounce of something of substantial prominence. They say you can't have a rainbow without a little rain. I say, paint one. Choose them colours as you wish. Black, white, gold, lilac. It doesn't even matter, as long as it doesn't reciprocate with the adulterated shades of murk lurking under the resumé of your existential crisis, that you're, undoubtedly, trying to find an easy escape from. Easy, why? Oh, it's slippery afterall; it's raining, right? You wouldn't want to tumble down the severity of what, if you fall, you'll call a damned change of weather.

    Know that it's pretty common to find people saying that there's no thing called a happening monotony or a weighing parenthesis. Even you turn into one of those supposedly rational idiots, when you feel like letting off some steam, at one of your personalized, moments of inconvenience. But clarify, you will not. What if the clarification brings out the fact that you are a fool who takes one cube of sugar with tea and none with your black coffee, not because you've diabetes, but because the latter lets out more caffeine? Nah, it's too risky. (And more than that, what a waste of time!)

    Meh, it's all a waste of time. A time that you would rather spend pointing out the culinary flaws at dinner, consequently picking your teeth and half smiling to make it sound more of an impromptu joke, rather than the obvious criticism. The salt was less, or are you just being too sweet with us? Lame, right? (I know!) But that is all that you can spare, at the moment, to cover the tracks of your judgemental dining mannerisms. Oh yes, just dining mannerisms. Otherwise, who judges? No one should, it's a democratic world afterall. One should choose to not judge. (Obviously, come on.)

    One walk down the wrong road can land you in front of someone whom you haven't gotten the chance of greeting in the last decade of decadence. Two espresso cups, a shared receipt, a more hesitant sharing of contact numbers. That is how that meeting ends. You would rather do that be-at-eight-sharp thing in office even after you worked till late night the previous day, rather than enjoy, (yes, enjoy, haha) the company of a character or two, who will occupy that part of your brain which turns up your inculcated awkwardness to maximum. Oh yes! In addition to that, you forgot your processed package of politeness, rotting under that office desk, crumpled with the hesitant (this is the most hesitant action of yours among those mentioned here till now, haha) letter of resignation.

    Go sign it. (Ah! You don't have it right now. I'll bring it to you, don't worry.) Hurry though, before another blank face comes your way and turns your face white. Don't forget to rub it on the rainbow but, as I asked above. Now, hurry. Don't run! It's slippery. It's raining, remember?

    ©Merusri Mukherjee

  • meru_mukh 37w

    Ik it's lame, but I ranted after a long, long time.

    #night__rants

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    Even the blackest hours of night are tamed by the fervent gloom I grow within.

    ©Merusri Mukherjee

  • meru_mukh 37w

    I don't resonate with my words anymore. It's okay if you don't, either. Good day.

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    dialectic on deathbed

    Make way, for, here comes the dark hour,
    lulling my sanity, rock-a-bye style. Watch
    me gawking at the cobwebbed white of
    a ceiling; while the red from my wrist
    wound spills mayhem on your distorted
    idea of grading contentment with the
    width of a smile. Periodic hallucinations,
    so long disregarded, pave my roadway
    to hell; the hellhound barking at the stale
    breadcrumbs I scatter, in anticipation
    of a hastened homecoming on your
    doomsday.

    The reverberating memories serve no
    less than an accidental interlude to my
    pitchy paranoia, oh-so precisely prog-
    rammed to wreck havoc at nightfall; with
    stashes of bottled-up grief lying under
    the very bed where your devil resides,
    'cause mine you can find, only with a drill
    machine, hollowing my never-hollow,
    ever-shallow mind. Forgive and forget
    is what you preach, but all I play by is
    a lovelorn's amnesia, on rewind.

    The night-black is just a monochrome
    etching of pain, the kind I often let loose
    every twenty-fourth hour, dilly-dallying
    into a world of despair. Under the stark
    moonlight, you can find me chewing
    onto self-prescribed dosages of solitude;
    while the bedbugs drawing blood from
    my anaemic bones declare me
    emptiness personified.

    ©Merusri Mukherjee

  • meru_mukh 44w

    Not really here, just had to write. Good day, people.

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    a jovial June, juxtaposed

    Lilies wither away into a blatant
    existential crisis at the dilating cracks
    of the oval tombstone you built, one
    fine Monday morning. Now dilapidated,
    but standing erect; unlike them mortals,
    hanging their heads in utter shame. The
    very ones, of whom, it is a pseudo-
    souvenir. Dead roses, crushed petals,
    blackened blood and gore; all a wordless
    memoir you spewed, in the name of the
    morbidly Mordrake-d.

    Winter citylights haloed in a stinky mist
    of insobriety; liquor glasses clinking
    to belated celebrations of their forfeited
    sanity, but the neighbours can only
    quench their thirsts by throwing some
    shade at the poor kid next door, snorting
    poison ivy into the dead of the night.
    One can bet, they skilfully overlooked the
    glistening spit imprints, still fresh, from
    the summer he chewed out some major
    self-loathing balladry on the magenta
    marble floor.

    Capsulated hypersomnia, on repeated
    recommendation, makes your head spin
    like a chronic merry-go-round; but sleep
    zeroes in on your bloodshot eyes only
    when you take some gagging bites off
    the cryptic clones of melancholia that
    the clumsy hour of dawn shoves your
    way, almost like a 1960's xerox machine,
    gone awry.

    The next time you feel some starved
    devil nibbling at your rotting flesh,
    humming pretty pledges of a forever,
    you must know that you've met hell in
    its sweetest form. So run to the cliff
    edge, pronto; jump to a thrilling death,
    for, living a life that reeks of obvious
    deceit, isn't worth two cents.

    ©Merusri Mukherjee