Big Deal!

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Washing dresses,
and cooking some meals.
I should be all homely.

but I wasn’t. Big deal!

I was out somewhere
Having the time of my life.
Supposedly.

but I wasn’t. Big deal!

I and this guy
started off as friends
we remained friends.

Until I was not. Big deal!

Always there for me.
He proposed, we married.
He was happy.

but I was not. Big deal!

He left me alone
except for our child,
Baby Anxiety!

I cried a lot. Big deal!

It followed me around
kept me up,
nightly!

Its lies I bought. Big deal!

And one day he returned,
the father of my son.
Finally!

Depression was his ID. Big deal!

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Deathbed Confessions of Unrequited Love

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A thousand wounds I bore,
All different; similar gore.
The pus and blood that oozed,
Was the same of every noose.

Each cut on my frail body,
had a separate source.
Yet, it had always been yours,
the pain for which I stay woke.

The noise from my cracking bones
was your voice calling me a whore.

When I bled, they sent my blood,
to the best of labs for an autopsy.
What pathogen had gripped me so
The wanna know, they wanna know.

Your name on the report
Shook them to their core.
Poison kills poison, they thought.
And gave me then, your vaccine dose.

The discovery of the century?
My illness had no cure!

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My Entangled Thoughts

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I can’t speak for other people because their minds are not on the list of places I had checked into but my own thoughts, I have visited often. Thus, I know the questions that arrive in this desolate place I call my brain. They used to be simpler and consulting a parent, a friend or a teacher sufficed. Yet, they grew complex. I can’t say on which exact date the change happened. All I know is that now, I have queries with no answers.

The people I used to look up to are as much confused as I am. When they had no replies to my wandering abstractions, they silently accepted me as their own.

“Congratulations! You have crossed the threshold of black and white. Welcome to the Grey zone where everything is muddled up,” they informed me.

I cannot turn to them with my pleas no more.

I have learned to ignore my mind, my conscious, and its ramblings but it continues to gnaw and nag me. When the tossing and turning of these contemplations chew away a chunk of my brain, I go to Google. If natural intelligence is failing me, I try artificial intelligence. If nothing else, it kills time. Afterward, I am left with a hundred new types of hopelessness.

The familiar wave of despondency engulfs me. I smile. The exhaustion takes over my senses and I sleep. My brain, however, stays awake bringing me fresh thoughts from the realm of horror to ponder over in my dreams. Sometimes, the audacious bastard brings forth pleasant fantasies of a time to come or a few cherished moments from the times gone past. There is nothing wrong with the latter as long as you are asleep but the moment, the first surge of consciousness hits me, all the niceness melts into a sharp tinge of longing that slowly settles into my mounting melancholy.

The hustle of the day conquers my being and the cycle repeats.

Knitted cross-stitches,

Ah! Painful itches.

A spider’s web hanging,

Intricately from ceiling.

Intertwined earphones,

Decaying set of bones!

Inosculated boughs of a tree distraught.

How nasty are my entangled thoughts!

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“A Life of Pretense” 

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I laugh a lot. People take me for a jolly person. it is rather sad that 90% of my giggles are to please my fellows only. I do not restrict my insincere show of emotions to laughing. I have cried for others too. Some of my tears were genuine, others? not so much! If I ever disclosed which was which, I would risk my credibility as a human being.

Heck! I have even pretended faith. Not a long time ago, I had been into madrasas and Majalis. I had been a part of congregational prayers more often than I would like to admit; it was all action-no feeling. The one emotion, however, that I truly felt is agitation. When anxiety hit me, I was alive.

I have pretended to be alive for several years. One day, I decided I should be able to feign death. Thus, knowing it would end up in a failure, I ventured forward. I went to bed and slept. 16 hours later, I was disturbed and forced out of my bed. I couldn’t tell them I was dead for that would kill the purpose. I persuaded a doctor to admit me to a hospital, but they didn’t declare me dead either. I knew in my heart I was more dead than alive but it was easier to pose life than the demise.

Descartes said, “I think; therefore I am” so I stopped thinking, and that robbed me of my anxiety. Now, no part of me was alive, and they continued to believe in my existence!

My final thought, which is a proof I had lived once; why is the world so apt at calling your bluff of dying but not of living?

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You Write Poetry, you’d Understand

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In that one poem I wrote,
You were the first word.
That entered my mind.

It started with you.
My poem, my masterpiece.
And then, the emotion had to subside.

Still, I meant you,
throughout
But you didn’t rhyme.

I searched for a synonym.
But what I meant,
Only you could define.

I decided to stick with you.
Pronounce you to fit the lines.
Poetry doesn’t always rhyme.

Then, you conquered it all.
Every sonnet, each couplet!
You were all I could write.

You can’t create poetry
With one-word vocabulary.
But to me, you sufficed.

It made perfect sense to me.
Journals filled with “you, you, you”
I had probably lost my mind.

Alas! you were a fucking entendre.
The wretched day, you told me that,
You turned into my biggest plight.

No poems, anymore, I write.
You were my only muse.
I realized that one dreary night.

Random Thursday Thought

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I wish I was someone else… anybody’d do except this person that I am. I wish I could craft like some of my friends do. Beautiful gifts they create out of random, most useless stuff. All I have ever done is destroy everything. Or I could clean like a washing machine or perhaps like a vaccum cleaner but heck… I can’t even clean like humans do.
I want to cook too. Like a chef or even better… like my mom. Yet, eating is the only art I know.
I wish I was not so tired always. I wish all the fantasies I have of completing some amazing projects turn into a reality. Peeling off vegetables, changing sheets, taking care of house decor…
Why is it so hard to get out of the bed? Some days I’d like to metamorphose… like that Kafkan Gregor. Is there anyone out there who will silently put their foot on me and whistle a bit… to cover the sound of my shrieks ?