Children are afraid of darkness Because reality doesn't knock their feet, Where I am startled from myself, From the past 16 years, Every breathe that went across my alveoli Surrenended it's existence when cells tried to drown them.
When puberty hammered my body, I realised it's ugly to be a human, It's uglier to be here , it's ugliest to be me, It is. My giggles sounded like a tempo of Wadaiko, Cruel, tough, unpleasant. My laughs like manic pencil scratches, Sharp, hitting, vulgar. My voice trembled like a string of violin, Tragic, tereffic, corpsy. And the hooks of destiny, Pimpled my life with exaggerated sebum. Yuk, isn't it?
I remember Oscar Wilde once said, "I need the dead lovers, to listen up laughter" I rectify: "I need a dead wolf, to listen up laughter" Because lovers need to be genuine, And ingenuity here is an erased word.
This now, there's one second, Where I am at dilemma at edge of recovery or to relapse, And a blade between my thumb and index finger, I wished somebody could come to me and hold me along, Stop me to commit this, and condemn my decision to give up, But this didn't occurred. I was short, my hands didn't cop to wrap my own arms around me.
My dwarfness wasn't because of It's dominance in alleles of inheritance from my parents, But because of kaleidoscope of responsibilities Dressing on my shoulders which inhibit my GH.
I lifted the first page of my old diary today, Found the a diary entry of my 12th birthday With slipped black ink :- "My lord, lemme turn strong soon, So that I can take my this broken soul Against my strong chest and stroke back my fingers at head, To cry until my eyelashes turn nasty, And raw wounds inside my body gets threads" I shuddered my hair down, My omnipotence disguised as since, Still my feet shiver when I move towards peace, My tongue scribbles if I talk about love, My neural system stops if I get some good vibes.
A cutthroat world has brought Vulgarity with homo sapiens, Their spines have been removed so that, They can lay at their required positions And stab where they want. I am a vile here, people mark, But I ain't complaining being worthless, My scars have a tale to tell, Like the contrast of kids and lies.
[ Three, two, one ... And I will get lost within the unprepossessing darkness, My ceiling fan will hug me around, With a revolting necklace around my thyroid glands, And I will write on my forehead, /beauty happens to people, I was a terrible thing /. ]