Urban Shadow

 

The Dawn is running away from me as if I am cursed

Leaving me restless, unsure if I can survive the day.

How I am supposed to know what is best for me,

What will silence the noises of the mindless routine?

How am I meant to handle the burdens alone

When the sadness is my second skin?

So lost I don’t know where to start from.

I am circling in confusion – how should I behave?

I refuse to continue this pointless day.

In the daze I remain motionless – I don’t remember what I have accomplished,

What I have built is unstable – the architect in me is dead.

…

I taste the borrow guilts instilled in me,

I feel the passion sleeping underneath those accusations.

How could I tell what is best for me

When the night keeps occupying every cell,

When my pride is gone for so long.

I crave my runs under the morning sky

When the air feels crisp and untainted,

To feel the lushness of the grass under my bare feet,

To scream the fears out the way I used to,

To shout and then to stop on the edge of the cliff.

…

And yet here we are – on the crossroad of the days passed

The reflection of the lessons learnt and what should be improved,

The place where I should make the choice – to avoid the wrong turn.

But the perception is through someone else’s eyes…

And yet I cannot go back to what I was – a forgotten wasteland now,

The loneliness floods back in full force – I cannot be different.

…

Despite my wrong doings, I cannot betray what is in me  

Even though I am the one who destroys what doesn’t serve me anymore

And leaves it behind, no turning back.

I blend with the new scenery – a different place, a different version of me.

…

There is no point for reaching out, this is how I am built.

Like the monuments I leave behind, I am one with the city – once on the spotlight

Then part of the charm of that abandoned street.

Now transparent, a shadow, a ghost of eternity.

Sad Symphony

 

(Reflection of the poem written when I was 14)

 

Eyes dried, hollow,

Shadows dancing behind the hazel hues,

Darkness in its finest,

Dreaded obscurity.

The mind preoccupied from thoughts scattered from past, present and of what it could happens,

Infinite ideas, pathways easy and hard,

Like a game, I reach another level, new quest immediately pops out.

Life is not that simple, not so straight forward, no code behind the visuals.

I can hear my young self nervously pacing, holding that one paper rose,

The hands are as empty as the heart - isolation as huge as the Artic Ocean,

Frozen in time.

Symbolic shire on the little vanity, picture from the days when thirty-something woman was a call from the future,

Never anticipated, only now matters - grow little flower, fly little bird.

Yet I am still escaping the reality into the writings,

Still in denial, still soul-searching; some habits never change.

Palette in greys, thorns hugging the soul, ache is what still dominates the life.

Mental weeds grow instead of lush meadows – imagination semi-working, a lot has passed.

I keep sinking into the oblivion like I used to,

My inner fireplaces no longer keep me warm,

I have abandoned the prayers – they were never answered,

Only anxiety is lingering beneath the cheerful smile.

The Self-love never practiced is tearing me apart,

The tears stopped visiting me – as withered as what I profusely refuse to release.

And in this moment, I do realize how the young ghosts quietly show through the same fears

Flashback from years long gone yet so relevant.

…

The eyelids are shutting down; the calmness of the void remains the sweetness I constantly crave.

My shriek continues to devour me.

Even now the pain remains as sharp as before,

The sweet memories are getting more bitter

And keep inflicting the old, hidden, drenched in unrest Loneliness.

Written in the Dark

 

In the abyss of memories, I stay rooted, collapsed into exhaustion

You are nowhere to be found,

Sun cannot shine in this bit of battlefield of snippets of happy times.

I am clutching this book again,

Ready to relive what was, like a fly in the cobweb of what could have been,

Overthinking every action, every word’s hidden meaning.

Conversations on repeat, the outcome - still the same.

Tears falling like spring streams,

At least I have survived.

…

Growling voices surrounding me,

Inner demons surface from underneath a troubled mind.

Their company is what I enjoy best,

Dancing with the cruel beast in the rhythm of lost souls

Vibrant tunes, ugly faces – they are still mine.

Dark fantasies played before these blue eyes,

Restless is the hearth.

…

In the end the morning comes to undo what the night knitted under its voidness,

Silence will never be my friend, serves me nothing but distress.

If the thoughts can burn then I am already in ashes

Willing to fly when morning breeze is ready to play.

If the feelings are tides, then I am at bottom of the emotional ocean,

Buried tempests and outer freezing gusts – this is what I have become,

Still turning the pages of the book of life I have written when I mattered most

Now a cherished treasure, like a reflection in the mirror never telling lies but yet never speaks the full truths;

Lookalike wearing the best mask while hiding the rotten images of poisoned consciousness.

I drift in daydreams, lost in the countless unchosen paths of coming back to my senses,

Yet without my shadows I am utterly incomplete.

I keep writing chapters of my unnamed self until I break fully down,

Until I give up the final spark of the soul I still cling to.