No glass of bliss, just blade of bloodlust,
No crooked smiles, just hollowed heartbeats,
No selfless trees, just forsaken wastelands,
No quenched poems, just papercuts.

-

Speaking anymore.
Too many noose hands have choked my blue neck.
Too many fires have scorched away my forests.
Too many bleary scraps of my futile existence are still stuck in between a grown man's full teeth.
Too many misty eyes have refrained from scrutinizing the reasons behind my tear stained ones.
Too many ears have unheard my plaintive, violent shrieks, or the silent ones that excavated discernible, yet nebulous scars on my cheek,
As they roll down and shatter like a million diamonds on the cold, unfathomable floor of crushed bones and dried blood.

-

Hey. It's me.









(Caption)

-

I didn't know you were my destiny, but you barged into the house, broke the threshold, ripped away the curtains, so unlike what i thought your presence would feel like. You trailed muddy lies all over the carpet, spilled bloody scars all over the sheets, and burnt all the stars of the ceiling, and still kept that annoying quite smile on your half moon lips. That smile of yours is enough to send shivers down my spine, and turn my heart to the rock of your knuckles. And i wish you could leave me alone. But the only thing i have prayed for since a year is that you never run off in the wind. 'Cause your sister speech is a million times worse than you. And i'd rather swallow my screams for a lifetime, rathar than let another beast follow the stinking fear that has found its home in my bedroom. Until the next time you clasp open my jaw, and climb inside its broken shards, i guess its goodbye,till another ghost story comes alive. And also, i have never said this, but thank you. Just thank you.

-

I see...blue.









(Caption has more messy rubbish)

-

/Its music till the wick burns out/.





(Caption)

-

And what do you know about me.
And of open crucified mouths, stale slimy fingers of gnawing fear keeping the lips ajar, and only the blistering anger keeping the unhinged jaw from collapsing.
And having cracked walls, beds for too maroon bullets, and too caged fist holes, for a spine.
And of paper skin, wishing to drag in the smoking fireworks and be lost in the ashes of fading stars, just to escape the engulfing darkness of origami hands, persistent at every corner of this circle room.
And tangled tongues. And broken bones. And of bedtime stories turning into nightmares.
And what do you know about me. Of the girl who was here before me. And the one before that. And the one before that. And how I am living off their borrowed love. And how I am so deep in this debt, the only currencies left with me are anger, fear and hatred.
What do you know about me. Tell me. Coz I am clueless here.

-

And what do you know about anger.
The crimson of that sunset, or the maroon of my wrists, can coalesce to burn behind my eyelids.
Or the hollow of my palm becomes a nest of a transient mesh of bloodsoaked lines, intertwining at all the wrong places, flawed as reverse clockwork.
The way my heart is a sadist for it's own pain, and how all this drenches my whole skin in it's own inexplicable wrath, for even more hurt.
And funerals.
And blood.
My anger is my blood.
And how am I supposed to live without either.
Just tell me.
I wanna listen.
Just speak.

-

And what do you know about fear.
The way the blinking of eyelids can turn days into nights.
The way the stumbling clouds transcend into mere metaphors for quivering hands.
The torn up highways and treetop sunsets can feel so much more significant than breathing.
When you realize the 60 seconds of a minute, and every jagged cloud escaping your blue lips is just as quickly lost, and the incessant pool of a few drops of maroon.

Ask the burnt forest as it peeks at the kindling sun again.
Ask the Firefly that escaped birdcage hands, only to be encased in the jar.
Ask me.
Before you speak.
Just ask.

-

In the very beginning, we were just two broken records, merely two inexplicable, odd tunes. Then, some ragged breathing, you halted, I sped up to catch you before you lurched off the cliff, and just like that, we were a melody. Two tunes, in harmony this time.

But soon, broken as I was, I stumbled and strangled myself, in fisted bare hands, juxtaposed with an open blasphemy mouth. And you spend forward, no second glances, no farewells. Just a funeral. Cause, along with being broken, I was also a corpse of a record. And the notes of life and demise can never coalesce. Our tunes became parallel, sworn never to link again. I, the excruciating melody of dead, and you, the beatific harmony of everything else.

But if I promise to speed up again, to catch you before you lurch into that cliff, if I conceal my dead tunes in chimes of bereavement, rather than ending, if I promise to stop circling in incessant circles, and forget this player, to stride forward, towards you, will you sync with me? Will you halt, just for a note, and make a harmony of me? Will you?

-