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  • thegreymetaphor 11w

    I did not break through.
    I could not break free.
    I surrendered.
    To make the chains stop hurting.

    I often falter
    infront of the mirror
    because it reflects my reality.
    And only in it's dreaded face
    do I acknowledge
    my incessant addiction
    to fantasies.
    I am but an escapist, I murmur,
    staring into the mirror.
    The mirror smirks.
    People have it worse, it says.
    Heavens know the weight
    on my shoulders
    is enough to make my back droop
    but the mirror tells me,
    even with blunders
    as indelible as a birthmark,
    I am just an insignificant speck
    fading away to infinity,
    and that ought to offer me
    a moment of a few
    unburdened breaths.
    The mirror asks me
    to stop romanticising the pain
    in hopes of healing
    because true healing begins
    when you stop craving it.
    When you come to terms
    with the fact that
    some scars are going to stay,
    and not as embellishments.
    Scars are all they'll ever be.
    There will be no beauty to them.
    Just ugliness. And terror.
    But less pain and maybe one day,
    enough strength
    to narrate their stories.
    The mirror is not wrong.
    Not at all.
    Then why do I feel like a hostage
    of it's arguments?

    Why do I take shelter within poems
    even when they're to no avail?
    For I am now, at the end of this one
    and the chains still won't stop grappling.


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    Maybe, true healing begins
    when you stop craving it.
    When you come to terms
    with the fact that
    some scars are going to stay,
    and not as embellishments.
    Scars are all they'll ever be.
    There will be no beauty to them.
    Just ugliness. And terror.
    But less pain and maybe one day,
    enough strength
    to narrate their stories.


  • thegreymetaphor 20w

    Perhaps, the only thought
    that elicits a smirk
    as I stare at the empty walls
    is the fact that
    even after everything
    you couldn't break my heart.
    I had already been
    walking the tightropes,
    more or less.
    Was ready to let go
    of the slippery parapet
    when you came along and
    caught onto my hand.
    Your pleading eyes
    were somehow
    more appealing than the dive
    behind me that was
    meant to be my escape.
    In that moment,
    as I was dangling by the only thread
    of your hand holding mine,
    there was a relief
    beginning to surge through me.
    There was a part of me
    so high on your touch
    that it wanted to keep breathing.
    Was I doubtful
    of my will to end it all?
    I do not know.
    But regardless of my denial,
    the choice between
    living for you and dying for myself
    had been made.
    And the calm that it came with
    was so utterly consuming
    that I didn't realise
    when you let go.
    It took me a while to register that
    the string had broken
    leaving me at the mercy of freefall
    and before I could question
    the sudden emptiness
    in my hands, it was benumbed.
    The impact of the fall
    braced me before I could fall apart.
    I hit the ground
    before you could break my heart.



    The line on the display is from the song Arcade by Duncan Laurence.

    If you can't already tell,
    this is toxic romanticism at it's best. ��

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    Loving you was a losing game.

  • thegreymetaphor 24w

    He never smiled.

    But, he laughed a lot.

    A laughter so contagious that if it were a drop of water, it could make a barren heart bloom into a bouquet of flowers. His eccentricity stood out. Not in a dark twisted way but rather, mysteriously. I could never have fathomed him to be a church goer for I can't remember a time when he wasn't engulfed by smoke rising from the cigarette dangling between his fingers or a time when there was no whiskey on his breath.

    I could have easily concluded he belonged to the likes of me who were forced into this weekly tradition had I not seen him alone. Always.

    He never stood in mercy or bowed in prayer. Just sat there, every Sunday morning, on the last bench during the service and stared ahead as if he was trying to dare Jesus into a trial by combat.

    The gossipers whispered about him. About his dark and seemingly damned soul. "That arrogant fella never opens that mouth unless he has to be downright ghastly. Why even insult the lord by coming here at all? Brings down the atmosphere of the entire room with that foul expression." But that's what they were. Gossips.

    For down at the Fusion bar, round the corner at the end of the church street, he was the life of the party. Always talking. Always merry. Always making people laugh. Always laughing.

    Remember how I had mentioned that he never smiled? Well, there was once a time when he surprised me. On a windy autumn night when I asked him about love.

    On that cramped porch, surrounded by empty bottles and rising smoke, I saw his blurry face look up at the dark sky, his lips curl up into a tiny, almost oblivious smile, just for a moment before blending into a smirk. A softness had flickered in his eyes before it was replaced by the intense hollowness I was more familiar with.

    And before another word could escape me, he took a long drag and turned all possible answers to my unuttered question, into smoke. And then, he never smiled again.

    They say he loved a nun who despised cigarettes. Hated them more than she hated his tattoos. More than alcohol. More than his impertinence. But, she loved him more than she hated cigarettes. They say, she loved him more than she loved God. And perhaps, God couldn't stomach that.

    But like I said, that's what they were. Gossips.



    I might as well just go back to sleep.

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    I will not ask you where you came from.
    I will not ask and neither should you.


  • thegreymetaphor 38w


    All the refrences are from the book 'To kill a mockingbird' by Harper Lee.

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    Dear Atticus Finch,

    Ever since I read you telling Scout that "most people are nice people when you finally see them", I've found myself living by it. Even when things got unbearably hard, I didn't let my belief stagger. Not by a lot, anyway.

    As someone who grew up with a very simplistic view of the world and precisely, of people, I get very unpleasantly surprised everytime I discover a kind of person I never thought could exist.
    In those times, your words prevent my faith from falling off the edge.

    And I think I've tried fairly enough too. I've tried walking in other people's skin when I found myself despising them. I didn't let my friends turn into enemies when we disagreed. I've tried staying true to my conscience despite failing often. And I've tried keeping my head high and my fists down.

    But somehow, it isn't enough, Atticus.

    Maybe, the problem is in the lens I view the world from. Perhaps, it's my eyes that are ugly for choosing the to see the worst and victimizing myself. How can I not see beauty in the world despite everyone constantly asking me to?

    But what do I possibly have to do to walk in the shoes of people who think being inhuman is just a human flaw?

    People play with lives, trample on hearts, ruin one's trust and seldom stop to care about it's price. They destroy out of sheer entitlement. They kill in the name of all sorts of things. Power. Patriotism. Righteousness. Even God. And the worst of all, they justify it looking straight into your eyes.
    Their eyes don't flinch, Atticus.

    And they kill the mockingbirds without a second thought.

    I envy you, you know? For staying true to your beliefs even after witnessing the injustice that happened with Tom and Arthur. Even after seeing the extent to which human ugliness can stoop.

    This world is not very different from the one you lived in. It's not black and white and maybe, like Scout says, there are only one kind of folks. Folks. And they can't be bundled into categories of less right and more wrong.

    But, with the way the light keeps burning out, what if it leaves completely before the world can even stop to breathe?


  • thegreymetaphor 40w


    Taylor Swift made this happen.

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    They tell me
    my poems are less poems and more stories.
    An idea that has a beginning
    an end
    and everything in between.
    Unlike poems,
    they don't carve my skin to shed light on the darkness inside.
    They don't fall apart as the poet does.
    But the completeness of a story is often scarier,
    did you know?
    It's beginning ascertains an end.
    And how many times
    have you held back a hello
    because you didn't want to risk another goodbye?


  • thegreymetaphor 40w

    I'm in my very early teens
    when a classmate walks up
    and looking at my black painted nails
    she says, "It's a bad women's trait."
    The elder brother she looks up to
    has told her that girls who
    wear black paint aren't virgins
    and so, my heart sinks.
    Not at the ridiculousness of it,
    not at the tragedy of my character
    being defined by a colour
    but at the possibility of people
    seeing me as "impure".
    I do not paint my nails black thereafter.

    I'm 15 now about to choose
    the stream I'd like to study further
    when an elder tells me
    there's no point in dreaming
    what's beyond your reach.
    I clench my fists
    and immediately bite my tongue
    so it wouldn't talk back.

    I'm 16 and my english teacher
    tells the class that she should not
    find the word "rape" in our
    answer scripts for it's too crude.
    So we write modesty outraged, instead.

    I'm 17 and I discover
    my lip shade is too loud and
    the depth of my neckline decides
    whether or not I'm "asking for it".
    I've worn my lipstick like
    written apologies ever since.

    I'm 18 when the person beside me
    slips his hand up my waist
    and I sit there holding my breath
    too stunned to react.
    I run towards father to complain
    but the aunts hold me back.
    "Boys will be boys", they say
    "would you ruin the family relation
    over something like that?"
    So I clench my fist, bite my tongue
    and zip it up, once again.

    Until I'm 19 and it repeats.
    Same audacity, same insolence
    with a different face.
    But I can't take it again so I turn
    to the world this time.
    I write poems to pour it all out.
    But along with the open arms
    come the raised eyebrows.
    "Not all men!" they scream.
    And I cower back not knowing
    when did I ever say all men.

    I slowly turn back as I watch
    the world quarrel amongst itself.
    When did the narrative
    become all about whom to blame
    and whom not to blame?
    Where did my trauma get lost?
    Why do I have to explain
    and beg for audience's discretion?
    Is the audience that naive?
    Or does it prefer living in denial?

    So I stop writing "those" kind of poems
    thinking I'll return when I have
    the right kind of poem.

    I'm past 20 now and I still
    do not know what
    the right kind of poem looks like.
    I do not know how unafraid
    I've come to be or how far I'm yet to go
    but I do know that
    I do not bite my tongue anymore.
    I might not throw fists but
    never again would I clench them
    just to swallow the poison.
    I would not explain being a feminist
    with the disclaimer "I do not hate men"
    everytime, just so you approve.
    I would not beg for what's right.

    My demands are not requests
    but they are willing to wait
    for you to understand that
    they're anything but unreasonable.
    For you to realise that
    there are millions like me and
    our defiance is not an act of aggression
    but a cry for consideration.
    And until that happens,
    I'll glide the lipstick on my lips
    like the pen I put my signature with.
    And I'll wear my nails black
    better than the distaste
    you wear on your face at the sight of it.



    It cannot get simpler than this.

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    That kind of poem.

    I do not know what
    the right kind of poem looks like.


  • thegreymetaphor 49w

    On the 7th session
    of our weekly appointments
    my therapist managed
    to make out a 9 letter word
    amongst the seemingly
    incoherent mess
    the meekness of my voice
    used to present her with.

    N I G H T M A R E

    Her desperation to help and
    frustration over the
    zero outcomes of past trials
    latched onto it like a
    starving kid on a piece of bread.
    Dissection of the problem
    right to its core was initiated.
    When the cause
    couldn't be identified,
    she worked her way to the
    next best thing at her disposal.
    The solutions.
    By the time we were done,
    I had with me,
    a list of mindfulness exercises,
    some colorful pills
    and a handbook of nightmares.
    As I perused through the index page
    of the thin, fancy book
    there were various headers
    typed elegantly in italics
    which were supposed to lead me
    to my answer.
    "How to spot the causes?"
    "What physical reactions might follow?"
    "How to reduce the nightmares?"
    "What to do if you can't reduce them?"
    And so on.
    I read till the end and then
    set the book aside utterly
    unsurprised at my disappointment.
    There was no answer.
    "What to do when you wake from one?"
    last header had stated.

    The manual didn't tell me
    what to do when you wake into one.
    They never do.



    Yeah well, hello.

    This thought was inspired from an excerpt of The Book Thief by Markus Zusak.

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    We're all lonely in our nightmares.

  • thegreymetaphor 50w

    Predators prey because they have to.
    People prey because they can.

    Dear winter,
    Looks like you've finally found a way to settle into my heart too.
    So tell me, how does it feel winning in the end?

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    A well-wisher tells me that I remind them of a desert rose. One that has been uprooted by a sandstorm but will soon, bloom again and then, be the reddest of them all. But that's the thing about desert roses. They belong to the desert. And what is a desert if not forsaken?

    Between the two summers and one winter that I spend with you, you shower me with your niceties and then take them away. Both courses of actions occuring when I least want them to. But the worst of it all is that I lose myself somewhere amidst it. I mean, look at me now. Wandering all over, throwing my emotions around like confetti without caring if they get judged or trampled.

    I've written you several letters, you know? Stating my truths. My realities that I never let you know of. And I've hidden them all away because they were ugly. And it's not like they would have made a difference anyway.

    But, I'm so sick of it now. Of being like you. So sick of pretending that life is some classic movie every angle of which is supposed to have a meaning or be beautiful. I'm so sick of finding peace in distractions. In versions of myself that aren't me. I hate that my fairytale is more yours and less mine. I'm so sick of you.

    I refuse to be nice and simply accept the cards I'm dealt. It's my life and I don't want to survive. I want to fucking live.

    On less fortunate days, when I have to remind myself to breathe, I find myself wishing that the day I stop aching completely, you hurt the most. Evil, right?
    But more than evil, it's funny. Funny coming from someone who knows her words and actions never mattered. So how will her existence now? But, I don't really care.
    Like I said, confetti.

    I'm done telling myself that you did what you did because you didn't know better. Because guess what? You did. People play with toys when they don't know better. Not with people. But hush, neither am I saying you did it cause you wanted to.
    You did it because you could. And it's really as simple as that.

    I tell people that they'll be okay, feeling like I'm saying it to myself. I tell you that I forgive you because I'm afraid that I never really will and then, get stuck in this quicksand forever with nothing but the wreckage you've left behind.

    You get what you want. Good for you. But, I too get what you want? Little unfair, don't you think?

    So before I depart here with yet another fragile but hopefully unbreakable promise to myself, I'm gonna leave you with a question that I want you to ponder over or even answer, if you're a little more daring.

    What does the win of losing something taste like?


  • thegreymetaphor 51w


    Stop building bridges
    for people who only keep
    burning them down.
    Stop bleeding for
    vampires with
    unquenchable thirst.
    Stop jumping off cliffs
    for those who would
    neither be your wings to fly
    nor catch you
    at the end of the fall.
    With all that magic,
    all that love within you,
    don't you dare walk
    through fire again
    just to thaw a frozen heart.
    You're a pheonix, darling.
    Risen from ashes
    over and over again.
    You contain an entire
    cosmos within you.
    So the next time you let
    the wolves howl at you,
    make sure they treat you
    like the fucking moon.



    The next time you reminisce my kiss,
    imagine it as a silver blade against your lips.

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    Stop bleeding for vampires with unquenchable thirst.


  • thegreymetaphor 52w

    My heartbreaks taught me
    that the times when
    I'd be at the offering end
    of pain will be the times that'll
    keep me up at certain 2:00 ams.
    They taught me that
    when fingers are pointed at you
    it's better to be silent
    than deeming someone's pain
    small and insignificant.
    They taught me that
    people aren't monsters but
    that won't keep them
    from driving satisfaction
    out of hurting you
    when they crave it.
    That the modern era
    has coined fancy excuses
    to hide behind and feel better
    about their wrongdoings.
    They've reduced love to
    definitions of chemistries
    and possibilities and whatnot.
    They taught me that
    anguish never turns you cold.
    And those who say it does
    are merely using it as a cover-up.

    My heartbreaks taught me
    that my heart will always be
    big enough to wish
    to heal all the pain that
    exists in this world
    but my hands will be
    too small to hold them all
    and so I'll have to
    make some choices.
    Make preferences and choose
    some over everyone else.
    And sometimes,
    the same choices will feel
    trapped and want to break free
    and it's okay to let them
    because it's not your fault.
    And even if it kills you,
    It's okay to let them go
    for they were never yours to keep.

    My heartbreaks taught me that
    I'm allowed to love people,
    to kiss them where it aches
    and live or die for them
    but I'm not allowed to save them.



    Some of it might come off as harsh or even unreasonable.

    No. I'm not sorry about it.

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    What my heartbreaks taught me?

    My heart will always be
    big enough
    to wish to heal all the pain that
    exists in this world
    but my hands will always be
    too small to hold them all.