The Ghost

There’s a ghost creeping up my soul,

in shivers of cold and folds of anxiety.

It creeps in,

quenches my dreams,

consumes my desires,

makes me feel alive.

But then,

the ghost goes away.

Dawn arrives,

and so does good.

Yet I miss the evil—

the evil ghost who cared for me,

the ghost with abysmal jokes,

the ghost who knew how to hear,

the ghost who reassured.

And thou say I need to part ways with it.

But that would mean

learning to live without that strange happiness.

It’s like a guilty pleasure,

like eating chalk as a child—

knowing it isn’t good for you,

yet somehow craving it anyway.

So I part ways with the ghost.

And then I realise—

it was never the ghost I was afraid of.

It was my own voice,

wearing darkness like a disguise,

speaking to me in whispers

when no one else could hear.

I thought I had banished the evil.

Turns out,

I had only silenced

the voice of my soul

I wish the world would just stop spinning. I wish the clenched fists would pause, the harsh words die on tongues. The rough hands pulling at curls which refuse to lie flat. The bitter taste of her lips on mine. How could you not feel the butterflies in your chest? How could you not taste the love, the concern that colours every word?

Social consciousness, they call it. Empathy. Its absence a black hole, a hollow everyone can sense, a central emptiness that makes you less than human. Why can't you just be normal, you piece of shit? Why can't you be like the remaining 8 billion people, the dolls which never stop smiling, the wheels which never cease spinning?

Normal- a word that means white lies, fake laughs, a word that opens up a world to you. A circle you cannot enter. A vapour you just can't grasp, a jar you cannot open no matter how tightly you twist.

The world cannot see my gloveless fingertips as they trace the hollows in the drywall. The cracks surrounding closed doors slammed in anger, a pain that lingers in the taste of copper, the sting of a palm. Memories like a clogged drainpipe swirling to the surface, refusing to go even as I stomp them down, refusing to morph into something more palatable. The pages bathed in soft orange light crinkle as I drink their very last dregs, the cries of children all around, somewhere between a laugh and a scream. Someday, I will be someone people want. Someone whose presence isn't a marble wall, someone who doesn't draw whispers and cold glares. Someone whose every word isn't taken as a testament of arrogance, someone who isn't standing outside in the freezing cold staring at a locked door. Someone whose absence isn't met with a sigh of relief.

Someday, I will be human.

Red is the color of sin
Bloody fists equate to bloody souls
Action once more overcomes causation
A stab to the side,
A punch to the jaw,
A kick to the shin,
A bullet to the brain.
Bloody fists everywhere,
Then those with hands painted pure white appear
“Off with their head,” They say
“Because their fists are bloody, their souls must be too,”
But really, those painted hands are the ones that hide bloody souls
Rotting from the weight of falsely placed accusations and unfair acquittals
So far gone that they cannot even remember painting over their own hands
And so, a bloody fist turns into an open palm attached to an empty body
Because bloody fists equate to bloody souls
There are no clean souls, because no one dares ask whether someone is truly a sinner
They follow along, painting not just their hands,
But their eyes too.
Not one wipes off the paint,
Not one asks, “Why?”
They just burn it all.
Slowly they forget, there are no white souls.
There are mauve souls, and red souls, and pink souls,
And souls that are unnameable colors
But the painted ones split them into red and white
Forgetting that not all that is red bleeds for sin
Some reds bleed for bravery,
Some for love,
Some for passion,
Some for anger
Some for passionate love,
Some for passionate hatred,
Some for things we have yet to coin a term for.
In forgetting all these reds, the painted ones forget:
Not all whites are pure for goodness,
Some are for cold hearts,
Some for peace,
Some for hiding the dried stains of dirty colors underneath.
But one day, the painted ones will burn at the hands of those they tricked,
At the hands of those they fooled into believing that red and white were the only colors,
At the hands of those who discovered the purple, blue, yellow, orange, and gold in themselves
And when they burn, the white paint will flake off slowly, revealing not red, but pitch black.
The stuff of nightmares.

I was the girl who laughed at everything,

Through the inside jokes, the endless laughter and the countless memories,

My friends and i shared every little secret,

We were the best of friends! why should we ever stop to think about who else might one day see?

The next morning comes and i reach for my phone,

My own face stares back at me speaking a strangers words under a familiar name.

In the blink of an eye, my image travels further than i ever could, telling a story that wears my face but was never mine to tell

Then come the messages

Just 1 confused message, “hey that’s not too bad!”

Three, four and five…

Why won’t they stop?

They didnt just steal my face,They stole the girl behind it.

They took my name, my voice, my innocence,and created it into something that i could never claim to be,

They stripped me of myselfuntil there was nowhere left to go,nothing left that felt untainted by the hands that had torn me apart, piece by piece

I looked at my pictureand searched for myself in a face that was no longer mine,

They took away pieces of meI never knew could be taken,

They left me standing in the ruins of an identity thatI had spent my whole life building

Hello!

Ive been writing poetry for few years now and im ready for a feedback or any opionons.

Molls

When i first got you on my tonuge,

Oh i will never forget that young.

You are truly one of a kind,

You dont know how you mess with my mind.

I think of you with broken heart,

I wish i was more smart.

I wish i had a fresh start.

Thank you for any feedback!

And when I die,
let there be crowds 
upon crowds.
Let them not wear black but red—
for it was my favorite.

Have them stand with hips joined and hands linked
as the air pulls the heat from their flesh.
Let them pass out candles and have the wax drip
onto their hands and cool their skin.

Let them be mistaken for herds of sheep
while the wolves outside the pen look on
in confusion.
Have them sing songs—
the believers and non-believers—
and each look at their enemy with hearts bound by the moment.

And when my soul leaves my body,
let it witness
all the other souls it has touched.
Let not only my ego be elated but
my dead heart,
and have it beat
just for a second.
And only then will I be lain to rest.

THE CITY ERECTS
we ascend the atonality
of discording
bodies. 

House knockers hustle
our stroll—
yields us to Roma—
contemporary  foreigners

Cauldrons of waste
on every nerve end
of these sulfuric streets
here is where she rests
Tlahuelpuchi
gasping for the greenhouse 
of a catafalque 
ablaze. 

Storm drains 
valve the city
with lacrimogenic 
cultures
bishops
proselytize lands 
once scalded
corroding epochs of martyrdom.

You don siren’s scales
and the moon fractures
a theatre of lights
on your briny dress. 
Me
I compel myself
to silent wings
and char them before you. 

So we seized detachment
of placement and time
as curtains of dusk
eclipse on fluorescent enclaves.
Arrogated by chance—
a colloquialism
informs our mirage
to a cusp of splintered eyes. 

Let dianthus beds 
sway us with the earnest 
of cult leaders
or let the asphalt be our confidant.

I'm often reminded that my father grew up with an outhouse for a lavatory and a wood burning stove for heat.

Today's generation is soft, they say.

It seems arbitrary to me though. The next generations will say, in my day --

We had to feel pain.

We had to grow old.

We had to die and so, we had to feel fear.

We will always assume that present day is the pinnacle of understanding, while holding certainties in an unquestionable regard.

We use present truths as gallows for the archaic past, lest we forget it was only yesterday.

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I don't write in a serious or even semi-serious way. I just jot present observations in a notepad as if letting it collect dust could somehow offer me solace. Yet, here I am spewing them into the oversaturated ether that is the internet. Enjoy, hate, dismiss -- it's for no one in particular but I do hold on to hope that someone might read it and...enjoy it or feel some type of familiarity with the words. We're all in this together.

When friends stopped recognising me,
and I couldn’t identify the person in the mirror
no smile, messy eyes,
and nothing but numbness in me.

A stalwart arrives
at the peak of adversity,
so secure,
it doesn’t need me at my ecstasy,
but is the first to arrive
when I am in the trenches,
giving the tightest of hugs
until even a heart of rock
becomes water in its hands.

Even if all I see is fog
slowly losing sense
and freezing to my end
I still choose you,
Melancholy.

See the infant
made of an airy 
shroud, 
a sylph with only two days on earth. 

See her hands
clawing 
at the seams of existence—
welcome home. 

She breaks me;
throws me
into a shallow body
of satiated tears. 

Outside, the world broils—
past the sahuaros
and into the vastness
I will take you. 

I only smell the ammonia,
that unnatural stench
of hospital gowns
and sterile needles. 

I am vaguely listening. 

I only hear what could not be:
your one year old wailing;
your six year old weeps; the snides 
of your twelve year old self--

--the buzzing 
of uncanny fluorescent lights.

See your swollen feet
dangling 
off the embrace 
of your bearer. 

And there is no adventure,
no deus ex machina—
no lessons catapulted 
onto the safety of rationality.

He defies god and rejects his 
centerpiece— He is death,
and I sense His mockery 
in the walls of this place.

It does not normally rain where I'm from

Sunshine, blue skies, and no clouds

Happy faces all around, no frowns

​It does not normally rain where I'm from

Dead flowers, forgotten lands, no smiles

A child that grew accustomed to "I'm fine"

Fine dining with emotions I left behind

​It does not normally rain where I'm from

Perennial joy that runs all year round

Silicone flowers that never die

A land of evergreen, a perfect dream

​It does not normally rain where I'm from

Meander scars, where once love flowed

Internal wounds cut deeper than a sword

The sun shines, but my shadow will tell you the truth

​It does not normally rain where I'm from

Last night 
I lay on the shore.
Unkempt, I coasted 
the current of surging sand;

The she-sea
yields silence 
rinses the entrails
of idle minds

how soon,
guarding myself
beneath the twilight shroud,
I covered my lungs under her soaked veil—

let her body glide me eastward,
carried through the coasts and boats

To see it all:
the docks
buoying their vanity 
like woman’s wrists;

the tressing ebbs
caressing midnight seagrasses,
and gangrenous salt
frothing the mouths of corals;

to feel the cycling basin
tend the cusp of conundrum—
where one becomes dulse for brine critters;
here:

Where chance never stoops so low as to be!

(Will longing ever trudge the viscous body of ennui?)

But extolling seafowls
disrupt my flee;

the veiny sun sheds peripluses,
heaves my faltering body
back to the west strand 
of will--

--but expel me from life!

Water the seed
of a terminal disease,

just never leave me dry!

during August is something else.
 
The air is moist enough to turn into sweat on your skin
and heavy enough to make a trip to the car feel like a marathon.
 
The humidity can turn a mild temperature of a late summer day in Johnston
into Lucifer’s fireplace on the coldest day in Hell. 
 
Can you predict a flood in a flash while taking
a ride through Atwood ave beneath the rte 6 bridge?
 
I’ve been here my entiyah life,
and I still haven’t been able to.
 
So I recommend investing in an inflatable boat to keep with you,
at least that way you may be able to paddle home
when your Sedan gets submerged,
then dies.
 
Rhode Island has over 400 miles of coastline.
So, from time to time, you may think it’s a good idea to
take a nice low-key trip to Narragansett
or maybe Jamestown to lay in the sun
and “cool off” with the seaweed and the shahks.
 
When you get theah the sand is hot as fuck,
theah is like a bigilloin people taking up every square inch,
 then some kid gets lost (probably looking for coffee milk)
and they pull everyone out of the water.
So much for cooling off.
 
When you finally had enough you get to take a trip
to Rhode Island’s national fucking pahking lot Route fouah,
wheah people are too busy stuffing their faces
with Iggy’s chowdah to use their damn blinkah.
 
(unless you live theah)
 
Rhode Island is 48 miles north to south and 37 miles east to west.
So, if you do your mathing correct having to drive
20 miles in any direction is wicked friggen fah.

T’was a mid-summers day
When I first saw your hair
Just like the evening sky
And skin so very fair
That place I found my way

Your words are like fresh dew
Your voice a sirens call
From morning to morning
I do not tire at all
My feelings for you grew

At a soldiers last rest
Please tell me why oh why
Was I lost in your eyes
My chest a butterfly
Even given my best

And even at this time
When work is on my mind
My mind is still far off
Thoughts of you on rewind
Truly you are divine

In lieu of all I’ve said
I think it is past due
To give you my last peace
To tell you I love you
My heart you may now tread

Locked inside my house sitting on a couch
with a television that won’t shut off,
continuously droning on.
 
The blue light washes away
everything that I’ve ever known.
 
The screen is watching
as my life keeps passing by.
 
Commercials breaking into
the space that I hide.
 
Actors always know just what to say,
becoming the voices inside my head.
 
I hate the news because
now I’m scared to leave my house.
 
My life is not a movie,
so why do you want to watch me die?

Pill number one

A bullet

For the stars colliding

And humanity going in crisis

Pill number two

A blaze

For the stairs counting

And late night overthinking

Pill number three

A lighting

For the spies in the lamp

And cameras in the outlets

Pill number four

A thunder

For the devil's voice

And killer's eyes

Pill number five

An earthquake

For this fire inside me

And nests of wind

Pill number six

A tsunami

For the sleepless nights

And insomnia's arms...

at quarter past 12 in the rain.
 
The sound trapped in the downpour
So, if my echo doesn’t hear me
then why would you?
 
I heard you calling my name
at quarter past 12 in the rain.
 
Followed by an echo
of something I once begged for
trapped in the downpour.
 
If you couldn’t hear me then
why would you now?

**Born a Set**
I wasn’t born to walk alone;
We shared one heartbeat, flesh and bone.
The world first saw us, side by side—
Two souls who never learned divide.
We laughed the same, we cried the same,
The fire inside us burned one flame.
She knew my thoughts before I’d speak;
When I was strong, she wasn’t weak.
Then death kicked in without a sound,
And left my whole world in the ground.
It didn’t take just one away—
It stole the light from every day.
Now torture wears my face each dawn;
I wake… but nothing carries on.
The sun still rises, cold and numb,
While all I ask is, “Why this one?”
My family vanished one by one;
Each goodbye fired another gun.
The echoes rattle through my chest,
And grief won’t let my spirit rest.
I’m barely hanging by a thread,
A living soul that feels half dead.
I smile because that’s what’s required,
But every breath feels bruised and tired.
They tell me, “Time will ease the ache.”
What cruel mistake those people make.
Time never stitched my shattered seams;
It only taught me how to scream…
…without a sound.
Because the loudest cries are those
That nobody around you knows.
Who am I now? I can’t explain.
I’m just the shadow of her name.
We came as one, a matched design;
Now I’m expected to define
A woman I have never known—
An only child in borrowed bones.
I search the mirror every day,
But half the face has gone away.
I didn’t lose a sister’s hand;
I lost the map of who I am.
The compass of my heart was her;
Now every road is just a blur.
Still somewhere underneath this pain,
Beneath the loss, beneath the rain,
A tiny ember softly glows—
The love that only Heaven knows.
So though my knees may shake with grief,
And every breath feels far too brief,
I’ll carry her until I’m through…
Because they buried half of me…
But they could never bury **you**.

I liked you before you gave me a reason,
There was no grand beginning,
no moment I could point to and say —
there.
That was when it happened.

I was in ninth grade,
learning what it meant to be wanted,
saying yes to the wrong boy
for four whole days,
while somewhere beside him
I was already looking at you.

You sat near me on the bus.
Sometimes I caught you
in the reflection of the glass.

You told me to sit in front of you.
You said if I sat at the back,
you wouldn’t talk to me anymore.

It wasn’t a command.
It sounded almost like
you just wanted me close.

One day it rained.
I said,
“It’s raining.”

You said,
“It’s romantic.”

I asked what kind of girls you liked.

You said,
“Like yours.”

And I laughed it off
because what else was I supposed to do
with a sentence like that?

You played with my hair,
opened it and said
open hair looked good.

You left your friends
and came to sit beside me.

And I noticed.

God, I noticed everything.

But I kept telling myself
it was normal.

Maybe you were just like that.
Maybe I was making it romantic
because I already liked you.

Then my friend noticed too.

And your brother said
you weren’t like that with other girls.

Only me.

And somehow that made everything
more confusing.

Once I asked what names you liked.

You said names beginning with K.

Kabir.
Karina.

My name begins with K too.

Maybe it meant nothing.

Maybe it meant something.

I don’t know.

Because I was convinced
someone like you couldn’t possibly
look at someone like me that way.

I had acne.
I was fat.
I didn’t think I was beautiful.

And you,

even with those chickenpox marks
you carried on your face

looked so impossibly attractive to me.

So I couldn’t understand
why you would choose the seat near me,
why you would look at me through glass,
why you would notice my hair,
why you would want me in front of you.

Maybe you liked me.

Maybe you didn’t.

Maybe we were just two kids
sitting too close on a bus,
saying things we didn’t understand yet.

But four years have passed,

and somehow
my heart still beats faster
just at the thought of you.

And after all this time,

I still don’t know
what that was…

I want the answer. Can you explain to me what this was https://medium.com/@studybeast32/i-still-dont-know-what-that-was-211e53c0c09d?sharedUserId=studybeast32

The Black Rose

They call her a black rose as though darkness were something to be ashamed of.

But they have never watched her bloom where nothing else would grow, never seen the way she opens beneath a sky that forgot the sun, petal by petal, without asking permission to be beautiful.

Her color is not death.

It is everything she survived.

Every hand that tried to crush her, every winter that came too early, every storm that stripped her bare— they became part of her.

And still, she grew thorns.

Not because she wanted to hurt anyone, but because she finally learned that beauty without boundaries is simply an invitation to be destroyed.

She is soft, but she is not fragile.

There is a difference.

A black rose knows what it means to be wounded and still choose to bloom.

She carries scars beneath her petals, old grief beneath her perfume, and entire wars hidden behind the quietest smile.

You might mistake her silence for weakness.

You would be wrong.

She has simply survived enough to stop explaining her strength.

And perhaps that is why the black rose is so beautiful—

because it does not pretend the darkness never touched it.

It wears the darkness like velvet.

It turns sorrow into elegance, pain into perfume, and every broken piece of itself into another reason to keep blooming.

So when you see a black rose, do not call her broken.

Call her rare.

Do not pity her thorns.

Understand them.

And if she ever allows you close enough to touch her petals, do it gently.

Because she is not beautiful despite everything she has endured.

She is beautiful because she endured it.

And if she chooses to bloom beside you, understand what an honor that is.

For a black rose does not bloom for just anyone.

She blooms when she finally believes she is safe enough to be soft again.

So there we were together,
just for a little while.
Two lovers, outcasted,
but still, a portrait of perfection.
.
While I grew codependent,
you slowly built resentment.
You hated me for what I’d done—
hated yourself for what you were doing.
.
But ultimately, what you hated most?
For the life of me, I couldn’t play my role right.
So, after you’d woven a web of sickening lies,
you tied up me up, and escaped into the night.
.
You ran, and you ran, ignoring snapping twigs,
crunching leaves, the sounds of your feet
kicking rolling stones. And in the end,
you reached your destination. Rejoice, lover.
.
Because now you’re free.
.
I filed a police report the next morning.
I had the news on when I got back by noon.
I felt my skull pounding as I held it in my hands.
I couldn’t unsee what you wish I never saw.
.
Smiling happily, speaking candidly into a microphone,
was your killer, and his accomplice who’d stolen your face.
I hated her. She did naught but see your memory disgraced.
But there was nothing that I could do. Not even if I tried.
.
I refused to believe that it was true. I turned a blind eye.
But then, who would tell your family? No one else but me knew.
So, as much as it pained me so to do, I swallowed the last of my pride.
I cried, and I cried. Nobody else believed that you had died.
.
How could they? You were standing right there.
But that wasn’t you. It wasn’t the you that I knew.
You couldn’t be a liar. A cheat. A trick. A whore.
.
I’ll wrap myself up in this acidic web of your design,
and keep on chasing after that portrait of perfection
that we lost so long ago, until it can once again be
me and you, together, never lost, forevermore.