Sunday, September 27, 2009


You're beautiful
like the angry rain.
and the spot of sunshine on the hills,
peeping between the shadows of the clouds.
and when you giggle in your sleep
and mumble secrets that no one will know,
everyone can't help but smile.
your swishing hair
and swirling eyes,
magnified voice and
complete authority..
your baby soft skin
as you curl up into sleep,
is the only sign of how small you are.
your manic laugh,
that is twice the size of the rest of you,
your exaggerated surprise,
your sudden bursts of hysteria
and incomprehensible fury..
for someone so tiny,
you're larger than life could ever hope to be.

Thursday, September 24, 2009


forever ends here
comes to a screechy grinding halt
and stands with folded arms
waiting for me to paint the final stroke
on the canvas of our story
was never really ours
and it is running away
no, not running
calmly away
maybe if it had run,
it would have been easier to watch it go
it slips away
and its gone


when i tell you i love you
little do i know that
what i say
is written in stone,
my epitaph.
every word i say
fizzles in the air
and trickles gently away
with a sly smile
knowing full well
that it will see me one day
my epitaph.
every thought
as if alive
scurries over the gentle, pliable granite
in soft indentations,
hard lines and curves,
blurry words
that mean nothing to passers by
but every thought
every word
everything i do
waits for me
in the crowded, humid hallways of the end
to see which will be chosen as my epitaph.
"I'd rather leave a thought behind than a child"
what thought?
how do i know
that the thought that i picked out for You to remember me by
will remain carved into your memory?
or the memories that i wanted you to forget
the pain
the hurt
the embarrassment
will not stay etched longer than the rest?
how do you know
what your epitaph will be..
how many epitaphs will i have
how many thoughts
am i leaving behind
how will i ever know?
that is why we fear death,
not because we don't know what lies ahead
but we can never trust the things we leave behind.

Friday, September 11, 2009


have you ever wondered about Nothing? about how as a race, we simply cant deal with it?
we create mountains out of molehills, and live in ivory towers. and all the while, introspect and reflect, and think and think and think. we simply cant deal with voids, mental or emotional. blankness is always negative. negative spaces, as certain people reiterate. so why are negative spaces such a bad thing? canvases have balanced landscapes, still life's always are centred, always carefully "composed". posters and book jackets and curtain patterns are all beautifully thought out, right down to each set of perfectly aligned four corners of the repeat pattern. and negative spaces are a no no. and the same goes for each of our lives. nothing is always filled with something, if nothing else but thoughts about what could possibly fill it.
when we lose someone, all we can do is think and think and think about why we lost them. why they did that to themselves. why the world did that to them. we think of all the possible reasons, all the problems, and all the other people who will be suffering.
what that person left was a void. a blankness. in the lives of each and every person who was aware of her existence. She made seven hundred people cry for her, and at least two hundred let it affect them enough to be upset for more than a few hours. she broke all of our hearts, simply by not existing anymore. but why did our blank eyes fill up with tears, and our insides suddenly fill up with a strangely heavy foamy feeling that we cant get rid of even now?
how can she not exist anymore? we cant deal with nothing. we will fill the nothing with something or the other, even if all that we can find to fill it with is tears. because when anything beautiful ceases to exist, whether it is a torn up painting, a lost scrap of though that just doesn't come back, or even something as fragile and beautiful as a human being, we will feel the Nothing. its strange how Nothing seems close enough to almost be tangible sometimes, a wisp of a concept, that brushes our subconscious, but slips away, and to make ourselves believe that it was Something, and it was there, we fill it with scraps of anything that is at hand. the glass, whether half full or not, is still never empty. because beautiful things, even when they become nothing, exist as a concept, if such a crude word could be used. and beautiful things, however distant they were when they existed, become what we need them to become to us once they do not. they become a source of grief, a source of learning, a source of pain, a source of conversation if nothing else.
what she didnt know is that nothing is worth becoming Nothing, because once you choose to do that, you become whatever everyone else wants you to be. you become shaped by fragments of other peoples possessions and memories, and exist as nothing but a blurry Picasso style mosaic, with your nose on your chin and your heart plastered on your forehead.