Dear heart

Dear heart,

Have some courage, have some faith. I know you’re wounded again, when the old scars haven’t completely healed yet. I know how you ache every night, and how nothing I do helps you heal. But, trust me, you’ll be alright, you’ll be fixed. A few cuts and bruises here and there, I’ll apply ointment on them, I’ll make sure they heal real quick. I’ll be the doctor, you be my patient. You’ll be whole again, dear heart. You’ll glow again, dear heart. Have some courage, have some faith in me.


You and I

You and I – we are just the same, like synonyms. We laugh at the same jokes, and are crazily weird. We both like to be lost, detached from the reality, in the world we slowly built up over the years. We are the same missing puzzle pieces from two different puzzles, no we don’t fit in together – not even close. We are mad and impulsive, but that doesn’t matter, because impulsive is wild, and wild is beautiful. They laugh at us, call us idiots. Yes, we are idiots, idiots-in-love. We are walking in the deep woods, fingers intertwined, giggling and stealing kisses. It won’t be long, before they would hunt us down, and pull us back to the dull and grey monotony of reality. So until then, let us be lost in this wilderness of love and insanity. Until then, kiss me, will you?

Long evenings

In the pink and orange hues of long evenings, even the happy memories are tinged with a sadness of nostalgia and bad memories. I let my mind wander back in time, and think of you. Letting you go, was like convincing myself that I can never again listen to my childhood lullaby. You weren’t made up of bright sunshine and sparkling lights. You were plain – a mix of white and blues. Yet, your presence was an addiction I still can’t stop craving for. You were the lazy Sunday morning breeze, which I would feel on my face and smile while I’ll be on my balcony, lazily brushing my teeth. You were the long nap after reading a good book, you were the extra pillow between my legs. You were the room heater I sat in front of shivering, after shampooing my hair in a winter morning. You were the mild fragrance which came from my shampooed hair, you were the tune which I hummed as I walked along. You were the smile on my lips as I fell asleep talking to you at 3 am. You smelt of sunshine, you dispersed hope and refracted gloom. Together, we made spring.

Purple lilacs

Our love is a fiery orange, a quiet shade of olive. Our love is a peaceful blue, and as pink as a cotton candy. It blooms everyday, like vivid and colorful spring flowers. You make me forget about the dark days, and all I can see is your eyes, shining brighter than the stars in the night sky. Our love is the soothing silence that covers us in its silent magic, our love is purple lilac trees, blooming lavender flowers in the spring. Our love is me craving, stitching and weaving you, in my poems. The freckles on your nose, the glint in your eyes, the way you move your hands when you talk. Our love is the flame you start in my soul, our love is the way your lips twitch into a crooky smile, everytime I say something amusing. Our love is, treacherous, yet miraculous. It’s safe, and ours.


There’s nothing beautiful, nothing intriguing about a wrecked mind, when the same chain of thoughts, in a never-ending loop, keeps on playing and playing. When there’s hopelessness, but you can’t push yourself enough to battle it. When your internal demons catch hold of you, and you’re so tired of fighting them, that you just give in. It’s been months, and now your brain doesn’t know what it’s like to be at peace, to not have a single negative thought play inside it. It’s been months, and you don’t really remember what happiness is, sadness is your home, and people mistake your absense as a way of seeking unnecessary attention. Struggles are beautiful in their own way, they say. But what if you didn’t choose that path? What if you were pushed into it by forces beyond your control? And what if you just can’t get through? When the fear of failure haunts you every single second, when your future seems to be in utter darkness? And there’s absolutely nothing you do about it. For you have no faith in yourself, and every time you look at the mirror, you see a demon. You’re on a dead end road, called self destruction. So you start with harmless cuts, and then they go deeper. Blood drips, but you don’t feel much pain. It feels good actually, to have your mind stay calm for that slightest instance. You’re so sick of yourself, you’re so sick of writing about your tragedy. You’re so sick of ranting and crying out for help. Sure, there is help. But your demon doesn’t let you accept it. Life is a fucking battle, when you have two souls living inside you, one good and one, the darkest of all. You’re desperate, to make it stop, so you find ways, to escape from the reality. You don’t get out of your bed for most of the days, you binge watch movies and series. You read one book after another, most of them inspirational, but what will inspiration do, when you aren’t even ready to take a step? You’re an experiment gone wrong, you’re a failure in life, dull and not strong enough to survive. You’re so fucking sick of yourself, you wonder how people around you take it. No, this is not for sympathy purposes, nor is this a way of reaching out for help, it’s just a rant, a mere piece of writing.

Take me away

Take me away. Please, take me away, from this path of thorns that over the years, I have built up for myself. And now, I look back, blood dripping from my toes, regretting not thinking about the consequences of my actions. But I wonder, what if I wouldn’t have done a single thing differently? What if it was meant for me to make those mistakes, to push myself further and further into the dark alleway? What if that was the only way out? To get lost deep in the woods, and finally find a clearing? Maybe, it was all meant to happen. But right now, the weight of my grief is so much, that I’m afraid the earth beneath my feet will shift and swallow me, and I’ll slowly crumble away. So, take me away, beyond the horizon, to the milkyway. My soul will float between the stars, finally free from the tragedy of life, finally content, and, at peace.

Walls painted grey

Some people are just born that way, with tragedy in their bones. No, it doesn’t mean that they don’t feel any happiness or any joy in life. They certainly do. But, the sadness always lingers behind, like an old memory trapped away in the little corners of the heart, just waiting, to make it’s appearance in their good going life, every once in awhile, to mess things up, and leave them confused and lonely. They long for love, they long just to smile from their heart, but it’s difficult to get out of the pool of melancholy in which they once drowned. So, exhausted, they build high walls around them, paint them all different shades of grey, and hide away, their own grief breaking them apart, consuming them slowly. They sit silently and wait, for any sign, that they can find happiness. Sometimes they push themselves, break those walls, to see the glorious world that awaits. They finally find blissfulness again, until the tragedy makes it arrival, and they go back behind the walls they once built, silently dissolving in their dullness.