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  • nitrousoxide 5d

    In a whimsical age of journey,
    or a battle
    of suffering and survival,
    I did not know
    if I ever learnt anything,
    because rubbing the rust
    off my brain,
    doesn't really remind me of
    Nineteen years of,
    fake euphoria,
    or fake warmth,
    and all I have become
    a disabled rebel,
    fighting against
    perception and expectations,
    and leading to almost nothing.
    And all I ever thought that eccentricity was
    but an embellishment,
    which needs to be washed
    and drained out,
    but leading closer to my death,
    I understand it's not.
    But I can't figure out what it exactly is.
    And by "it" I mean everything around and inside me.

    And here again,
    in loop of thoughts,
    my forehead, it hurts.
    But what hurts more,
    is a nostalgia,
    of days and months,
    where I denied the warmth of my blanket,
    because my feet
    liked their fingers,
    crawled inside each other.
    Sometimes, it's good to feel the wrath,
    of the cold but,
    I remember my toes,
    to be too numb,
    to be able to feel anything.
    Anyway, do you know
    what hurts the most?
    I am dying,
    but I have been dying since last two years,
    my mind has degraded like a corpse,
    and I can see scavengers approaching me.
    But I am not afraid.
    I thought things changed.
    But it's exactly what it was,
    a year or month ago,
    and no warmth could ever change it.

    So, what if my words,
    these phrases and my thoughts,
    have a mention of you,
    which seems more like a mark
    or a scar, a blemish,
    I wish to get rid of-
    but instead, I adore them?
    I still find it easier,
    to say how things have changed,
    and it doesn't matter now;
    But the secret chaos knows its way,
    to secretly haunt me,
    and I dwell in toxicity of liking it,
    rather than finding ways,
    to run away whenever I can,
    or I could, whenever I had the chance?
    I guess, I lost the chance,
    thinking I wouldn't lose you,
    but usually,
    things which we are too sure of,
    are the most fragile ones.

    You haunt me every night,
    as I take a puff of our favourite cigarette,
    while lying feebly,
    on the bed,
    tossing and losing hope in sleep,
    to stare at the broken night lamp,
    and then at the mirror,
    near the bathroom door,
    which still has,
    the translucent mark of bull's eye,
    drawn your favourite red lipstick.
    I no longer remember,
    why you drew it,
    and I wish to forget,
    who drew it.

    Do you remember that,
    I was never able to smoke,
    one whole cigarette?
    I could do it now.
    But some nights,
    the cigarette burns calmly on its pace,
    the smoke fills the room,
    till I choke and get up,
    to open the window.
    Yes, smoke is an imagery,
    I can't explicitly tell of what,
    but it has got something,
    to do with you,
    and things you gave me.

    I have been losing clear vision,
    and memory,
    but that decade I spent with you,
    lives in me,
    like I lived as a foetus,
    in my mother's womb,
    devoid of the knowledge
    of this cursed world,
    and how foolishly,
    I wished to go back,
    to suffer again,
    but I swear,
    that darkness inside was way better,
    than the one,
    I currently survive in.


    This does has a reference of apocalypse by CAS.

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    "So, if you are too tired to speak, just sit next to me, because, I, too, am fluent in silence. "-Anonymous

    "The silences have hurt me enough, and your voice hurts me equally, while caressing me with peace, I won't sit next to you for I can't bear another apocalypse." -Nitrousoxide

  • nitrousoxide 1w

    Is it funny that,
    you are afraid of a feeling,
    recognised with just four letters,
    but each letter
    makes you feel as if
    you were to revolve around the sun,
    being the farthest planet,
    of the solar system;
    but despite the fear,
    you end up bathing,
    and basking in the divinity
    of that feeling?
    and now you are so passionately into it,
    that you feel
    you can never be out of it?
    It is beautifully absurd.
    It is how it is,
    to be with you,
    even without you.

    It's a tough task,
    to define what i feel for you,
    tougher task, to define you.
    and I know,
    how I have escaped the tough reality,
    and chosen an easy thing,
    to silently roam around
    with a heavy heart,
    pounding with a four lettered emotions,
    instead of getting out of it,
    making my heart hollow.
    and for once,
    I do not feel the weight,
    and for once,
    I do not feel the wetness on my cheeks,
    a sharp pain in my chest,
    when my mind makes me aware,
    of the grim reality,
    which is darker and sadder than,
    my reasons of numbness;
    the reality that you will be out of it,
    it bothered once,
    but now I feel,
    I don't need the water
    from your glass,
    which you told me to be broken;
    because my glass is already overflowing,
    even though it has been broken enough,
    to be not filled in the first place.

    Read More

    I forgot how to write

  • nitrousoxide 23w

    Wandering in dark alleys,
    in freezing cold winters,
    it's always easy to escape
    of that lone tear, yearning hard,
    to flow down my rough cheeks.
    The clacking sound of my boots
    adds to that melancholy melody,
    that helped me make it out,
    through the crowd of forlorn people.
    I do not know,
    the accuracy of someone's feelings
    because the sun doesn't bring happiness
    to all of us;
    like for me,
    it just strains my eyes,
    making it hard for me
    to come out of my comfortable bed
    which I know has cuffed the freedom of my recovery,
    from the fear of things,
    I pretend to be unaware of.

    The warmth that I had found,
    after being handcuffed to the laziness in me,
    is transient,
    and would take me to the grave
    where neither you would visit me with chrysanthemums
    nor there would be a dandelion plantation,
    and I do not like to cling onto the hope,
    of having a visitor.

    The essence of an embrace,
    or the warmth I once found in someone's word
    might have been lost or faded,
    the way colors of rainbow
    fade in the sky where they appear
    like the way
    we live here to die in the end?
    I sit under the sky,
    until the invisible stars in the daylight
    finally, become distinct in the dark;
    finding that warmth
    in the sun rays which strain my eyes
    or beneath the torn blanket of stars,
    but then I am habituated,
    of returning empty handed,
    giving myself to the shackles of my bed.

    I question myself, looking in the mirror,
    and I ask the same questions,
    I used to answer with a silent smile
    on the outside with the will to disappear,
    running in my arteries.
    How many weekends,
    have you sat cross-legged,
    taking the support of a white wall
    seeing yourself in the mirror;
    highly caffeinated, introspecting yourself,
    questioning your worth and your existence?
    The mere thought of losing out
    and not being able
    to achieve my daily goals
    makes me lose my breathe,
    and here I begin to cry and make an excuse,
    how I had no one by my side,
    pushing me to work on myself,
    and giving me a hand
    to pull me out of the pit,
    which I have started considering my house!

    How I kept waiting,
    sitting by the window
    for someone to help me out
    of that loneliness
    but what if it's just the wind that caressed me
    and the sun rays that embraced me?
    I know the wait will not be worth it,
    the wind must have whispered,
    and the sun must have screamed
    that it's just me who could help me out
    of that hole, I miserably fell into.
    Even after several non-vocalised battles,
    between the hemispheres of my brain,
    I still feel a lacuna of thoughts inside me.
    A loneliness that makes me,
    scratch my hands and hair;
    offering me a desire to vanish,
    disappear and fade away.
    and everyday when I walk a step closer,
    to the fulfillment of an unfulfilled desire,
    I get far away from myself,
    and from the infinite abyss,
    which I no longer belong to.
    So, I am finding directions,
    of a place where it all ends
    with an added uncertainty that
    does that place exist?

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    I'm on a road that never ends
    Don't know opposite of sin
    Some people say I think too much
    I don't think they think enough
    -Danny Brown (Rolling Stone)

  • nitrousoxide 23w

    Two blocks from my apartment,
    there's a one room flat,
    housing one woman and different men,
    every night;
    her mornings seem
    quite pale and lonely.
    And when I walk past her threshold,
    towards the coffee shop,
    she would often wave at me
    to which I would pass a pressed lip smile,
    to show I care when I don't.
    I see a pile of newspapers by the door,
    and mails tugged in the mailbox,
    she doesn't care
    about the wrong in the world, anymore,
    may be because her world
    has been shattered long ago,
    or the world shredded her in pieces,
    which she is being sewing every noon,
    under the lamp in the broad daylight.

    My nearest neighbour calls her a whore,
    but I find her jealous
    of not being able
    to lay side by side,
    a new but beautiful man,
    every night,
    making him moan
    and mourn for her.
    Instead, she has a man,
    who isn't sober
    even when he is off alcohol,
    and when he is into it,
    he is no less than a beast.
    Rich man desires love and firey passion,
    while his wife yearns
    for attention and love,
    he gave her
    when she demanded money and some privacy,
    while providing no support and care,
    when he had no money.
    And now, he has money but no time,
    hence a lot of space,
    enough to fill the distance between them,
    while making more gaps.

    And here, when I talk about the gaps,
    in a relationship, I'm not a part of,
    I am ignorant enough to my falling
    and failing sets of relations.
    I seem to be compassionate enough,
    or at least a fair observant,
    as any human
    would put for himself
    while defining the way
    he looks at the world.

    Portraying an explicit picture,
    of the woman two blocks away
    and how my neighbour feels
    about her presence,
    I tell you how I care,
    how the agony of this imperfect world,
    starves my mind with the righteousness,
    my grandparents have been watering me;
    and how my heart aches,
    well it doesn't,
    these eyes have habituated
    themselves to see and observe,
    while this mind has trained itself
    to not act upon
    everything and anything,
    my heart could cry for.

    I sit or lay around my house,
    not caring enough,
    about what my family has to say
    about them or me.
    But I do crawl,
    around the rest of the world,
    for the attention.
    I do want to get noticed
    but as the body part,
    you don't care about often
    but you do,
    I would want to be like your nails or hair,
    which you chop or care about,
    once a week or month,
    while letting them grow on you.
    I want to be like them,
    dead and even.
    So that, I would still move around the house,
    coming in and going out without notice,
    giggling at meaningless jokes,
    ignoring anyone else's emotions,
    making you feel listened
    while I would just be staring at the wall,
    behind you.


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    Conditional care

  • nitrousoxide 23w

    I have been moving
    around the city
    with an old acoustic guitar
    whose strings I pluck,
    everytime I stand by the pole
    telling people stories;
    how things could have been better
    but have become bitter.
    I avoid being gloomy,
    people like to find themselves
    in relatable dungeon with their fellows;
    it's an addiction stronger
    than any other moreish substance,
    it provides euphoria more than any drug,
    to be as sad, or as fucked up as someone else,
    sometimes, being happier that we are in a bigger problem
    than them.
    "We are in this together."
    Are we?

    Recently I have been telling them,
    about the big world issues,
    and these idiots,
    they are still happy
    that someone else is sadder than them?
    They tell me and I quote,
    "We should be grateful,
    we are not in their shoes",
    they pretend to be empathetic,
    but they are pathetic and selfish.
    I couldn't help but laugh,
    while rolling my eyes.
    Having done enough for the day,
    I stretch the strings quite hard
    and then pluck them softly,
    producing a high note
    to end the story with a perfect cadence.
    They clap and we start fading away,
    in the mundanity of our life,
    while treading downhill or uphill.

    I do not remember,
    the place I left my guitar at,
    because last time, I played at a bar;
    but I do not remember me either,
    or the thoughts and stories
    I tell the hypocrites who surround me,
    thinking I would be a good entertainer,
    with their cheap tapas and whiskey,
    in the rotten village bar.

    One shot down the throat,
    and I tell them
    about the grim monotony of their life,
    and how this alcohol is nothing
    but just a small fiddle with their biological system,
    which help them fantasize the rhapsody of staying in,
    longer than the previous time,
    moving in luxurious cars and printing money,
    and screwing a different hoe everyday,
    while drinking quality alcohol
    and shallowing pills;
    second shot,
    and they start cussing the government,
    because they indeed made their life tough,
    making things illegal,
    and them not having enough money to get out,
    after a big fuck up like the rich filthy men,
    drowning in henessey, they filled their jacuzzi with;
    third shot,
    and I talk about my failures and they relate,
    they laugh and say, "Man, we are one of a kind..."
    they proceed to talk about destiny,
    how it was destined to rub our ass off,
    against the porous stones
    and not getting enough,
    in return of those rashes;
    fourth shot,
    and I tell them about you,
    but a group around the corner fight with each other,
    because three of them made out
    with the fourth man's women,
    and the woman told everyone,
    how they were better than her better half,
    and there's a group of blooming alcoholics,
    trying to woo the bar dancer.

    The owner throws them out,
    and I tag alongwith them,
    because I am tired of tedium of my life;
    may be a little action,
    is what I want, but I remember you.
    Streetlights have not been in use recently,
    but I am habituated of walking alone,
    in the darkness.
    You told me,
    to move to the town with other people
    because you knew the town,
    it won't come to me.
    But then, how about your grave,
    that lies next our house
    with dead jasmines from October, 2018.
    It frightens me,
    that how could they not flow away
    with the rain and the wind
    but then I feel it is possible.
    Things we love are stitched to us,
    our heart and body.
    Like you loved those jasmines
    and they are attached to you,
    your grave but then I loved you too.

    You reside in the voids of my heart
    but the void seems to be growing
    and the inclination is in all possible directions,
    of my body,
    making me feel empty and confused,
    as if you are engulfing me.
    ‌The stories I tell to people ,
    have started evanescing out of my neurons.
    All that is homed is you,
    and tonight, I would try again,
    to reminisce you in some other man,
    in the red town, under cold blue lights
    and when his eyes would want more of me,
    I would shed a tear,
    like always, and proceed to tell him,
    about you while he would listen me,
    like he has listened the stories
    of hundred other women,
    about their one significant man,
    and he would smile and chuckle,
    because after all, he relates with pain
    if not of the heartbreak,
    then of the loneliness.


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    Draped in monotony
    What's my life gotten me?
    Hard to be glorious when two minds meet in the corner
    And a story is being told
    By me to you, take another hit, what else to do?
    - A song, I don't remember about at the moment

  • nitrousoxide 24w

    I walked,
    with my hands slit
    and blood oozing out,
    following my foot steps towards the hillside.
    They made a beautiful red curve.
    With the spinning head
    and stumbling body
    I sat by the rivulet,
    dipping my legs into it;
    comparing the coldness of the water
    and my heart;
    I observed the ripples,
    they resonated with my heart beat,
    starting with a sudden rise,
    showing a clear unwanted disturbance,
    damping towards the end,
    when they finally stopped;
    I saw the ripples dying, peacefully.

    I never really knew
    when I was into it!
    Was it when a mixture
    of three bodily liquids,
    soaked my school uniform
    under the eerie tree of the playground
    while they mocked me,
    before punching me after a long chase?
    Or when my head would spin
    on a still merry-go round?
    or my heart sank
    and then drowned in betrayal?
    I never really knew when was
    my heart slit and a red rillet
    flowed through it,
    on a white ground
    which deciphered feelings
    in some entities
    made of minuscule a/biotic things,
    which gave birth to my prose and poems
    and their characters.

    The characters,
    which I often, push off the cliff,
    and at times, I suffocate them
    by arranging their funeral,
    before they die;
    some are burnt, some are buried,
    and some are like those ripples,
    which were smothered so cunningly,
    on the surface of water,
    that one could barely guess a possibility,
    other than the course of nature.

    Recognising the danger I put myself in,
    I withhold a desire,
    to turn it around,
    but that desire seems
    to have piled up,
    like hundred other unfulfilled wishes;
    anyway, I'm content that
    after thirty homicides,
    the creeks have dried,
    making me believe,
    there's no peace,
    neither dead nor alive.


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    No peace neither dead nor alive

  • nitrousoxide 24w

    It's five in the morning,
    there are eyes which seem
    to wake up from darkness
    and there are eyes which
    never slept,
    while my eyes have been gazing
    the sky;
    there was a moon
    and now there's sun,
    I don't remember blinking,
    neither do I remember,
    the exact time
    when the sun was bright enough,
    that the presence of moon
    became a myth.

    I can see the birds
    diving above my head,
    leaves fluttering;
    my warm body ignoring
    the cool breeze which tries
    to embrace me,
    and summons me to blend
    my gloominess in its happiness,
    which I gracefully disgrace.
    The pages of my book flipping,
    in the rhythm of the wind,
    giving evidence of their existence;
    my upper and lower lips,
    press against each other,
    later forming a simple curve,
    as this brain, plays every mistake
    I ever made.

    The clouds as grey and tired as me,
    sailed towards west,
    bidding adieu to the rising sun
    in the east,
    I can see the placid river flowing
    but I can feel
    the tempest taking a toll over it;
    I wish to hear a cuckoo sing,
    but all I hear is the crackling crow,
    the bark of hungry stray dogs
    and the honks of the school buses,
    carrying children,
    as sleepy as the hope within me.
    And with every entity,
    I compare myself
    while inhaling smog,
    I feel my tears to be oblivious
    to them,
    and to the brine soaked pages
    of my book.

    Walking towards the parapet,
    the wind attempts to throw me,
    in a pool of happiness,
    but now the pool is
    as dead as that pigeon,
    which lays near the tap;
    may be the world would notice,
    a death more;
    and cause would be
    thirst for water in one case,
    and reasons to live in other.


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    A well-butchered style

  • nitrousoxide 24w

    I no longer remember the past,
    to which I compare my present with
    and go on to quote,
    "Nothing's same anymore."

    How does it feel to be accused
    by the same sky, you drew your ray of hope and inspiration from?
    The sky, which I look at everyday,
    in the hope of getting hopeful
    to a good day,
    where I could lay in my bed,
    because sleep was too much to ask for?

    I wouldn't say there's a regret,
    because there have been things,
    I had no control over,
    and there are things,
    which I'm unwillingly,
    letting myself lose the grip on,
    but you know,
    they don't let me
    make peace with myself,
    and I have constantly been running out
    of tears and pens.

    And every fine morning,
    I spit words and phrases,
    which upset people around me,
    making me feel, how badly
    I deserve to be away from them,
    but it's annoyingly painful,
    when they don't leave you
    but are adamant to change you,
    for your better.
    It just hurts.

    The books on my shelf,
    which should have had
    stains of graphite and lead,
    lie unread but crisp and salty.
    These books store within themselves,
    torn bit of pages,
    where I had portrayed
    how vulnerable I have become,
    but I still don't care;
    they hide within them,
    my constant urge to drown myself
    in the pool of definite mortality,
    the ultimate goal,
    because sometimes,
    the answers of mere existence of a piece,
    lies in its non-existence,
    because I'm tired
    of deriving satisfaction
    from the old days,
    I barely remember.

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    Nothing's same anymore

  • nitrousoxide 27w

    One day,
    you would knock my door,
    and wouldn't find me reminiscing you,
    in your relics,
    but finding your presence
    in other man's body.
    Relics of you,
    have never made sense
    to me.
    But then,
    I have them placed
    inside my cupboard,
    and I feel
    they went there and would never
    come back
    like you never came back.

    Seeing me wasted with someone else,
    would you doubt,
    our love for each other?
    These lips have more blood,
    than the lipstick marks
    on your shirts;
    and these hands are cuffed
    more tightly,
    than we have ever been,
    to each other.
    Would you still have a false faith,
    in us and our relationship,
    with a concrete bridge in between?

    I remember,
    how you portrayed lies,
    of you getting lost
    in the depth of my eyes,
    while making my lips bleed.
    Would you still manage
    to make me believe that
    you were not dreaming
    of depths and heights
    of another woman's body?

    Anyway, do you remember that
    every night which we spent,
    with each other,
    was actually,
    us trying to forget,
    what our past has reaped for us?
    and we ended up in
    need and lust,
    falsifying it
    as love and passion?

    And how the man,
    asleep beside me,
    on your preferable side of the bed,
    is no different from you?
    How he is
    just another man for me,
    as you were;
    helping me
    to get rid of
    the dark demons of my past,
    and how the history would repeat,
    and it's nothing
    but an infinity loop,
    with me standing no where,
    neither inside, nor outside it.
    By the way,
    good luck with new woman,
    pulling up in the Aventador.

    © nitrousoxide

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    Been throwing stones at concrete bunglow,
    while getting injured from my own blow.

  • nitrousoxide 29w

    As I bruise myself
    an inch deeper,
    the thread in the needle
    is hurt.
    It weeps for the needle
    as it traces and pierces
    the unholy me.
    I cry in need of an answer to
    a question, I have been asking,
    past five years,
    "How many bruises and piercings,
    until I will be set free?,
    How many?",
    even when I know,
    no one would answer.
    Thus, with a snap
    I flung them away.

    I jump and,
    sit cross legged-
    at the marble slab by the white sink,
    to see a bright red fluid
    oozing out forming a bright
    convex meniscus.
    My orbs shine a bit
    as I see my reflection on it.
    I never felt so beautiful!
    I gasp at the rate it flows out,
    and I sigh when
    it stops.
    The reflection grows in size,
    like the number of scars,
    on my body;
    but now its stagnant.
    I wonder about my elegance,
    in that reflection,
    all my contours well edged;
    the eyes, a deeper shade of red;
    the temple so smooth,
    unlike my usual lined ones,
    but now the image was cracking
    as the blood was drying!

    The bright red turned into,
    a dull pink of brown,
    and then turned into
    some paper like thing on which
    you can never etch!
    First it reminded me of
    your heart, where I had a beautiful,
    transient stay,
    then as it parted in crisps,
    I was remembered of mine.
    My beauty died a crisp death,
    and I slept leaning against the white wall
    as a tear rolled down,
    my not so red cheek.


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    Blood on the pale dermis