oh sometimes, I look for an invisible poet
living in my head.
I recall the days when words flew out of my fingertips
typing, writing, scribbling anywhere and everywhere
I would be on the bus, on my way to see an art exhibit
down south of the town
where art was just a name for broken buildings and demolished dreams
I thought they were beautiful because someone used to live there
someone decorated that place with curtains and pictures of their dogs on the mantle
but that someone is no longer there.
I sit there in front of the broken house, on the un-mowed lawn,
the weed and the dirt tickling my legs
I imagine what it was like to live in the ghost town
to have a life, to have a wife, to have a family.
I know it was a man who lived in this home
because his flannel shirt still hangs on the washing line
was he killed? did he have a stroke? did he lose his job? where is his dog?
I write.
I write the story of a man I’ve never met in a place down the south that does not exist
because my mind works in strange ways
I see things others don’t. Some call me crazy.
Am I?
Shame on you if you believed magic was real!
Or if you really thought dragons once lived.
It drives me crazy how I see a man in a broken home, his flannel shirt flying
against the wind
and
I get sent into therapy.
Category: Poetry
Do you remember?
do you remember the first time you stepped on the green grass?
bare feet, the little blades tickling your toes
you bent down to smell the earth,
sniffing your nose
and you wished
that moment would never pass.
do you remember the first time you ran through the paved street?
or maybe learned to cycle,
your father holding your bike steady
you shrieked and swayed a bit
but you knew you were ready
because you could always run back safely
to your family in a heartbeat.
do you remember the first time you learned about god ?
or visited temples ?
rang bells ?
even saw monkeys stealing sweets !
for you festivals meant fun and lots of tasty treats
and every time you went back to those temples,
you would still be completely awed.
do you remember how it has been a month of terror?
the lives you lost, the tears you shed, your dreams that drowned.
was it science
or fate
or just random trial and error?
everything you knew is now just aground.
do you remember how it has been a month of resilience?
the grasses you sniffed,
the pavements you ran,
the gods you visited- are no longer there.
yet you see hope, love, and courage at every single distance.
because when you lost your family a month ago,
you still had brothers and sisters at every corner that care.
ten years later, i hope you remember that afternoon
not as the day you lost everything,
but gained something new
i see strength in you, the courage you have is a boon
you have us all standing with you-
i know you will pull through.
Today marks the one month anniversary of the devastating 7.8 magnitude earthquake that hit Nepal, killing more than 8600 people, injuring thousands and destroying more than half a million homes completely. May the souls rest in peace.
Tell Me Your Stories
Tell me of the time you lay down on the only green patch of grass that hadn’t been mowed
And looked up at the clear blue sky
It was early summer of May.
Tell me that you felt beautiful
Even though you knew it was just another sad day.
Tell me of the time you played fetch with your neighbour’s puppy
Your hands running through his lush brown fur
Every time he came running back to your outstretched arm
Tell me you wished you had someone too
Who would never leave you or go away too far.
Tell me of the time when you watched your best friend die
The cops, the lights, the people surrounding her
The world stopped by but you couldn’t cry.
Tell me how you drank yourself to sleep
For her next ten birthdays
Until you realized it was a drunk who ran her over
Only then you could finally weep.
Tell me everything. I want to know you.
Tell me about your dreams.
Tell me about your fears.
Tell me what keeps you awake at nights.
Tell me why you love being alone.
You are not alone.
A million moments later, when it is 4 am in the morning and you are 80 years old
sitting by the fireplace
I hope to be by your side
to tell you how much I love you
for all the things you tell me.
The Confused State of an Anxious Mind
I don’t know where to begin.
Maybe this is not even a poem.
But I want to tell you how anxiety feels.
My heart races at the speed of light.
And my brain slams the break pedal.
Can you feel what happens then?
The laws of physics, inertia, motion, Newton.
All come flashing back in my head.
I never liked physics anyway.
But I cant help it.
My thoughts are racing backwards.
I need to get out of here.
I think I’m gonna die.
I think I’m gonna fail.
I think he’s going to forget me.
I think my mother just had an accident.
She hasn’t called me in an hour.
I ask my brain to stop.
Or maybe it is my brain asking itself to stop.
I don’t know. Im confused.
But my heart.
Oh my heart loves to run.
140 beats per minute.
Running towards the finish line.
Running to save my life.
Running to study for that test.
Running to beg him to stay.
Running towards my mother.
What do you do when two parts of your body move in different directions?
I cannot breathe.
Sometimes I think it is all in my imagination.
At least that is what someone told me.
“Relax, nothing’s happening. Why are you so anxious?”
If everything’s my imagination,
Then why can’t I draw pictures of it?
Why can’t I write a book about it?
Why does my body respond to something that I’m creating?
I take deep breaths.
Sometimes into a brown paper bag.
Sometimes I have panic attacks.
Once in the movies with my friends.
The muscles in my chest tighten and I cannot breathe.
It is embarrassing.
This is why I’ve become a recluse.
I don’t know when anxiety is going to hit me.
I need to be alone.
I don’t know why anxiety hits me.
I just wish it didn’t feel like home.
Sweet Summer of Twelve
Sweet summer of twelve standing in the balcony of my room
on the third floor of our huge house facing the gurgling river a few yards ahead,
I felt a touch of sky dropping on my shoulders.
Gods had given me a gift- the weight of the whole world rested inside my frail heart.
I remember it was the same fall of twelve, a few months later
I was standing in the same balcony,
only it was the sky that was gurgling. Pouring and screaming, clashing and crying.
I stood there in the middle of the night. Not quite in the middle; it was 2 a.m.
I hated the rain, and I wanted to die.
I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t jump, I couldn’t cut, I couldn’t overdose.
I was weak. I was brave. I was unhappy. I was not enough. I was never enough.
I stood in the rain to torture myself. I was scared of the thunder. I was controlling my fears.
I felt limitless.
I thought a lot about suicide that night. Sounds insane but I wanted a chance.
One shot at the power to control my life; even if it meant during my death.
Sometimes freedom is all you really need.
Freedom. Freedom. Freedom.
I moved places, I saw faces, I saw freedom, I saw more pain. The more you have, the more you need.
Freedom is to dive off cliffs and kiss strangers, smoke pot and watch the stars, sleep until you drift away into oblivion, wake up, pack your bags, and
move on someplace else because the freedom you have is not enough.
Freedom is to let go of such expectations, yet hold on to your dreams, embrace your sadness, turn it into a weapon,
feel every single breath your lover takes,
see the grass, see the sky, see yourself in the mirror, see what you really are and not look away.
Wild winter of fifteen, I stand in a different balcony looking at a lake
calm and vast, the weight of the grey sky turning it into a deep shade of silver.
It looks beautiful.
The same winter of fifteen, I choose to live.
Live while I’m alive, live after I die, my organs in the bodies of strangers,
my dreams in the minds of millions,
my sadness in the struggles of every depressed person,
my hopes in the insides of their hearts.
I cry. You cry.
I am depressed. My friend has social anxiety.
Another one is schizophrenic.
Another one told me he was seeing a therapist.
I am depressed. You are not.
Yet we are the same.
One day we shall realize that the borders we have
are just lines on sand
easy to create, easier to cross.
I shall donate my organs, you shall donate your hopes.
Hopes and organs and bodies and dreams and
hurts and fears
different for each, same for all.
The universe stops only at a full circle.
Corners
I am here at this corner
Trying to give you my world
Breathless with expressions
of my fears, doubts and insecurities
but also happiness
that draws us closer.
You are here at this corner
Looking at me
Hearing all my words
But are you listening?
I see you smile
You are not looking at me anymore
Slowly
we are drifting apart.
Your reactions
remind me
that I’m talking
to a stone cold wall.
And here is our love.
In a sad twisted corner.
All alone.
TheHyperteen 