how i loved you
it was a love that i could keep
only if i was broken
maybe it was not love
but people like me can only hope
hope for “the almosts” and “the similar”
hope and be happy in our misunderstandings
i don’t remember
how you loved me, if you loved me
so maybe, even in hope
i was not as blind as i wanted to be
I hear sweet laughter
from far away (from the floor above).
Leftover light from that bright world falls on me.
But it is not mine.
and it seems I am not allowed
to love anything that is not mine.
It seems no one can be mine
until I constantly try to please them,
chain them to me, make them dependent on me,
do their chores, worship them,
read their minds and say only what they want to hear,
be only what they want me to be.
Is this how I make this person mine?
or should I wait for someone else
to put me on a pedestal for once?
I don’t think that would be love though.
But what do I know?
I have tried doing things right every time
and look where it has got me-
passed out on floor,
yearning and envying another’s happiness.
when i stood
in front of the respected uncaring adults
who could never see me,
beside the fickle-minded fun-seeking friends
who smoked ‘idgaf attitude’ every night,
holding the hands
of the demanding demeaning frightening voice
of the one i wanted to love,
the one i almost loved,
i knew how to smile.
i knew how to let them off the hook.
i knew how to care for all those
who don’t have to care for such things.
and so i make it through another day,
another month, another year,
trying not to break anyone anymore,
trying not to abandon anyone,
making a list of all things that were once beautiful about them,
convinced that this imperfect me deserves only suffocating relationships,
careful not to see hope in any short-lived moment of affection.
The sun that shrivels up in your eyes every morning,
the dry tear that never leaves your eyes,
the soft bend in your words when make excuses for other’s fault,
the hint of self-berating in your mellowed down tales of woe.
This weakness that is similar to mine.
This weakness that I love.
I wish I could free you from this,
if only I knew how.
How long can we stay at sidelines
and watch a flower being crushed.
How many can we save even if we try?
There are many flowers on numerous path
and there are many people who have places to go.
Let me show you around.
This place that you think as mine
will soon be yours one day.
Especially because you will want to own this mess
more than you want to own my heart.
And though my eyes might roll
at the sound of the word “own”
but that’s just how things are.
One day we might yearn for each other’s glance.
And slowly with unsure lips we pray for more-
for some sweet words, for a secret to keep
for happiness of a day, for hands that don’t let go.
And soon with love drunk lips we demand more-
for reasons, for time we never seem to have,
for guarantees, for becoming better than what we are.
And that day when you will have all that you demand
and still feel like I have not given it all.
Come to this room, and see this mess.
These old clothes, old words;
these unwashed plates with leftover moldy attention.
And realize why I don’t want you here-
in this museum of what I was.
This is not the world I want to share with you.
Can’t we build a better one.
When my own opinions can’t budge the doors
that are closed on my face,
I run back to these books
which list how to think, what to want.
I do not look for how it is done
I look for what I did wrong.
But my mind is so immune to a good advise
that the words that I read make me sick
even when they could be my medicine.
But I don’t yet know if they are,
cause my wish for a better life fades away
in front of the genuineness my heart demands from me.
He sat down and decided to write a list
of all the things he had lost.
He decided to look for them.
He decided to find them
the same way the dreams of past had found him.
He put his pen down
and stared at the wall ahead,
stared till his eyes would hurt
as much as his heart does.
He cried whole night
for he couldn’t remember
even one thing that he had lost
and couldn’t understand
why the shelves in his heart
He didn’t know how to search for them.
He didn’t know where to start.
Slowly I hear
a flood, a riot, a madness of people
rushing towards me.
Their voices turning from
to name calling.
Their anger pulling triggers
real and imaginary.
I hear a silence in the world
that looks at me
and tell me a list of things I did wrong
to deserve this.
They look for a reason to forget the existence
of people like me
whose broken pieces remind them
of their own cruelty.
And soon they run to another direction
finding someone to bully.
But many a times, one of them looks back,
helps me get back on my feet.
And now I do not know
how to hate them.
I fear my hate will make me one of them.
Would people have been more kinder
if only the world didn’t misunderstand
niceness on a daily basis?
How come we live with such a distorted view
that we are afraid of being good to each other?
From the fear of being judged.
From the fear of being ridiculed.
From the fear of being burdened forever.
From the fear of being taken advantage of.
From the fear of being looked down on.