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  • thegreymetaphor 4w


    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 6w


    Suggest me a song that might go with this thought?

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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 7w

    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 after that.

    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 who to blame
    and who 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.
    Is that the right kind of poem?

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    That kind of poem.

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


  • thegreymetaphor 15w

    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 16w

    "What do you call the unforgivable error?
    Overlooking the obvious."

    - Agatha Christie

    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 17w


    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 18w

    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 be
    too small to hold them all.


  • thegreymetaphor 19w

    On days reality carves
    new wounds on my skin
    or scratches the old ones
    to make them bleed,
    my courage may look like an
    injured deer wallowing
    in it's own tears.
    The nights when darkness
    is the only ally I find
    amidst the betraying sniffles,
    my brave may look like
    a helpless tigress tending to
    the bloodstained cusps
    of her uprooted claws.
    I may scream in agony
    or cry out in pain.
    I may sob for days and
    even beg for mercy.
    And I do that expecting
    no consolation because
    no one gets to decide
    the expanse of my torment
    and how I fix what's broken.

    The only question is,

    once you've seen me licking my wounds,
    would you still consider me a warrior?



    Would you?

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    Kiss me and you will see how important I am.

    - Sylvia Plath

  • thegreymetaphor 20w

    "Oh sugar
    You don't have to be so sweet
    I know who you're going to meet
    Don't say that I don't."

    - Tell me if you wanna go home ��

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    Stale wine

    My drooping eyelids
    flutter open
    as your footsteps
    tread the kitchen floor.
    I capture you
    in a kiss
    to wipe the crimson
    off your lips
    as the candle flickers
    a sorrowful moan.


  • thegreymetaphor 20w

    "Show me a hero and I'll write you a tragedy." - F. Scott Fitzgerald

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    I wanted a fairytale so bad
    that I poisoned my own apple
    looking for a true love's kiss
    and severed my toes in half
    to fit into the glass bellies.
    Loved a man instead
    when I couldn't find the frog prince
    and kept loving him
    till long after he became a beast.