I should ideally begin this with disclaimers but I'm not going to. Poetry should just be. I write it for my own reasons and you take from it what you will and what you do. I just hope, in some way or another, it helps you, even if to simply feel.
I was sitting on my window ledge at night yesterday when I wrote these two poems, which I haven't titled yet:
1.
The creases on the spine
Of my favourite book
Are the number of times
I chose to drown
In words
Instead of creasing
My wrists
Under a blade.
2.
Killing myself
Was never on the cards.
I just wanted to sleep
And never wake up.
So imagine my horror
When not only did I wake
But I did
Into a living nightmare
of shifty eyes
judgmental looks
And spontaneously combusting
parental tears.
Of anxious questions
Curious fears.
And a life devoid of
Razor blades,
Even when all I wanted
Was to shave.
(First readers' responses: Nikita thinks this is funny in a very twisted dark humour kind of way. I think it's just funny. Ananya thinks I'm crazy. Ashu thinks this is beautiful. :P)
(Not a disclaimer: This is not me making slight of suicide. I'm not insensitive to the struggles of people. I just have a perspective and I write. If you take offence easily, please don't read my blog. Thanks. Bye!)
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