Verbless

 

Days spent in an environment fast-paced,

Nights drowned in a daze – slow motion.

Lives lived in parallel realities, in complete collusion

Of who I am and who I pretend to be.

A rack of masks, a collection of emotions

None of them is meant to last.

…

Constant conflicts, constant fights,

A race for dominance over no one’s life.

Years of living under the familiar pretenses,

Stage of elaborate acts, theater of pain.

…

My life lacks the verbs, I use only nouns,

An occasional adjective, thrown in the mix,

Adverbs replace the full sentences,

I avoid the clearness of my thoughts.

One-word answers, this is what I use

Too tired to explain what I really mean.

This world feels like one-pager;

A document for fast consumption.

The poetry is too emotionally charged,

Too sensitive, some days even complex for the exhausted brain.

The novel is too long, too many connections, several plots –

A composition that requires effort in the era of the quick story, three minutes long.

…

I hold my breath between the endless tries and failures,

Every exhale attempts apologies I never wanted to convey.

Every tomorrow feels like debt I refuse to pay,

My hopes are stacked, hidden where my drafts are laid to rest.

Every minute I unwind feels like another task on the to-do list I fill out each morning;

Another thing I am too tired to do right.

More and more often these days I am the scent I leave behind,

A faint fragrance on the note that no one reads.

 

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.