What is so special about paper So inviting, that you spill your mind Without a second thought you let yourself scream As its alluring blankness drinks up all tears Neither complaining nor probing, ever patient Moulding chaos untamed into concrete. It isn't easy to make vague abstract ideas concrete Especially when you know it might crush you like paper When your brain's a psychiatric ward, you the patient Your own body playing cruel games of the mind And all you are is these rips and tears These are all you see, and you can't even scream. Hush, my dear, they'll come for you, don't scream Just whisper till your throat fills with concrete The aftermath of this hurricane is the silent rain of your tears So you turn to pour them on your single-lined paper It's the only one that listens, anyway, no one else pays any mind Like Anne Frank said in her diary, paper is patient. That's dumb, it's just inanimate, not patient Maybe, but at least it hears you scream Stretches its blank canvas before your yearning mind Makes your brain throw up, turning vomit into concrete At the end of the day, all you have is paper Massaging, inky feelings flowing, until you stop breathing tears. Your eyes are now empty from filling up with tears You're lost now— but be patient, you're both doctor and patient You'll find yourself one day in these rustling sheets of paper As your pen leaks on them your every single scream Which materialise into jungles of concrete For the therapist, another case study, another dissected mind. You know this space is which can be flooded by your mind In peace, no judgment, even though it's so thin it tears Like you, but don't you see, it's tough as concrete For it shoulders the weight of your voice, so patient Displaying the black ink soup crystallised in each scream So bleed on it, darling, and admire the bloodstains on this paper. Shape in concrete the products of your mind All the paper you have will wrap warmly your tears No longer will you be a patient of an eternal scream.
11th April/ (9/30) / Sestina
Yeah, yeah, I know, I’m two days late, but I’ve caught the illness-that-must-not-be-named, and no, this is not the ‘new normal’. Say that phrase one more time and I’ll hunt you down, gouge out your eyeballs and shove ’em up your nostrils. Also, who’re you to complain? I wrote my first frickin’ sestina. A sestina. The internet tells me it’s a form poets dread, and I now know why, and I’ve written it while being three different kinds of not okay. And that too not a forced poem just for the sake of keeping my promise of a new poetic form every third day, but an up-close kind of poem. I dunno if it’s a good sestina or not, I’m no *googles who invented this obsessive form* Arnaut Daniel, but I’ve written it, it’s taken me an hour or so, excluding med breaks and food breaks and pee breaks and whatnot breaks, and you have the honour of laying your eyes on it. Just, allow me a drop of narcissism while I’m fresh off a cup of coffee, okay? Let me enjoy this for a moment before I descend back into self-deprecating ‘humour’.