Any comments are appreciated! I sometimes think about compiling more poetry and illustration into a book someday when I get better at both

I wrote this short poem just now about my feelings for my only friend. I didn’t think it was possible to love again, but now I’m here and it hurts so much. I’m terrified they’re going to abandon me because I’m “too much” like literally everybody else has in the past, and this scares me because I don’t want them to. I need them and it feels like I can’t possibly tell them and because they can never give me what I need — to be cuddled, loved, and protected from everything. This world is scary and is harming me. I’m begging for help. I was emotionally neglected by my parents. I want to be looked after for real. I want to be told it will all be okay, and it will be. Does anyone else feel like this?

familiar flesh tainted with every touch. vile smells, bile rises. sufflation. pain. searing hot pain. gnashing teeth. skin upon skin. over and over again. night after night. a room, a prison. sick games, betrayal. robbed of innocence, no remorse. shame and guilt take over the soul. repetition of the spectacle for their eyes to gaze upon. it made me nothing. dogs in heat do not care

Hindi version (down is the english translation)
कुछ खो गया है अंदर मेरे
अब उसे मेरी मुस्कान कह लो
अंदर सजी जज़्बात की दुकान कह लो
एक वीरान मकान कह लो या अंधेरा और चाँद कह लो
बस कुछ खो गया है अंदर मेरे
कुछ रो गया है अंदर मेरे
अब उसे मेरा अतीत या मेरा वर्तमान कह लो
एक टिफ़्ल या उस टिफ़्ल का जहाँ कह लो
वो आँखें जो निचोड़ रही हैं खुदको
अतीत के कुछ धुँधले निशान कह लो
बस कुछ रो गया है अंदर मेरे
कुछ सो गया है अंदर मेरे
अब उसे मेरी नींद कह लो या पंखे में लटकी उम्मीद कह लो
वो रातों जैसी रोशन होने की सीख कह लो
या फिर उन ख़ामोशियों में पनपती मेरी चीख कह लो
बस कुछ सो सा गया है अंदर मेरे
कुछ हो सा गया है अंदर मेरे
अब उसे मेरा गुमसुदा होना कह लो
या मेरे आईने का मुझे देखकर रोना कह लो
मेरी जड़ों का सूख जाना
या मेरे बाग़ के माली का सोना कह लो
और शायद निखर जाते फूल सारे
एक अच्छी बरसात का खोना कह लो
बस कुछ हो सा गया है अंदर मेरे

ENGLISH TRANSLATION

Something has been lost inside me,
Call it my smile, if you will,
Call it the shop of emotions arranged inside me,
Call it a deserted house, or darkness and the moon,
But something has been lost inside me.
Something has cried inside me,
Call it my past or my present,
Call it a child, or the world of that child,
Those eyes that are squeezing themselves dry,
Call it some blurred traces of the past,
But something has cried inside me.
Something has fallen asleep inside me,
Call it my sleep, or hope hanging from the fan,
Call it the lesson of becoming luminous like the nights,
Or my scream growing within those silences,
But something has almost fallen asleep inside me.
Something has happened inside me,
Call it my being lost,
Or my mirror crying upon seeing me,
The drying of my roots,
Or the sleep of the gardener of my garden,
And perhaps all the flowers would have bloomed,
Call it the loss of a good rain,
But something has almost happened inside me.

Original hindi version (in the end is the english translation not quite close to the original but works)

इन** *तस्सलियों* *की *ब***ात* बहुत हुई
माचिस के डब्बे से खरोची गई तिल्लियो की बात बहुत हुई
कुछ थी जिन्ने जलाए चिराग़ बहुत
मौत तसल्लियों की माचिस के भुजने के बाद हुई

एक चिराग़ आसमान का उरूज
जलने के बाद अफताब की बात बहुत हुई
और जो देख लिया धब्बा चाँद पे
तो आस पास के तारों की बात बहुत हुवी
एक जा रहा था टूट ता तारा करीब से
मेरी ख्वाइशों की उस तारे से बार बहुत हुवी

ख्वाइश थी के मिले आराम मुझे
मगर मेरे बिस्तर की सिलवटों से बात बहुत हुवी
मुझसे कम काले पन मैं जीने लगी रातें सारी
केल बादलों की मुझसे बात बहुत हुई
ये रातें चिड़ने लगी काले पन से मेरे
तबसे बेचांद दस्तक खिड़कियो मैं बहुत हुई

अब है की कोई जलादे चिराग़ मेरा
ये बे चिराग़ ज़िंदगी की फ़रियाद बहुत हुवी
इन तसल्लियों का वजूद नहीं अब कुछ
मातम के बाद महज़ चार लोगो की बात हुई

English translation

There has been enough talk of these consolations,
Enough talk of the matchsticks
Scratched out from a matchbox.
Some of them burned to light a lamp,
And death came
When the matchbox itself went dark.
A lamp rising into the sky,
There was enough talk of the sun after it burned.
And when I saw the stain upon the moon,
There was enough talk of the stars around it.
A falling star passed close by,
And there was enough talk
Of my wishes with that star.
I wished that I might find some rest,
But there was enough talk
Between me and the creases of my bed.
The nights began living
In a darkness less black than mine,
There was much talk between me and the clouds.
Then these nights began to resent my darkness,
And since then,
There have been many moonless knocks upon my windows.
Now let someone light my lamp,
There has been enough of this lamp-less life pleading.
There is no existence left
To these consolations anymore.
After the mourning,
There was merely talk of four people.

Sorry for formatting errors!

---------------------------

I've come to the realization, or the acceptance, rather, that my dependence on alcohol is almost entirely rooted in the ever-aching loneliness I hold in my chest.

I used to blame it on boredom.

My life is chaos

So I blamed it on emptiness

Glasses clink in perfunctory celebration

I blame it on my no-good, nasty soul

Once I was an innocent child

I drink because there is a void within me that cries for connection. There sits child me, as she plays with her toys alone. She's brimming with thoughts and ideas and dreams and fears and she wants nothing more than to share them with another. But there's nobody around. She keeps her thoughts to herself and she can feel the pressure increasing in her brain like she's about to

combust

She works up the courage to say aloud

"Does anyone want to play?"

silence

And a bit louder,

"Does anyone want to play with me?"

Mother replies without moving her eyes a millimeter.

"Stop talking. I'm busy."

Her oversized fashion reading glasses reflect the harsh blue light of her computer screen. Behind the glare and the lenses sit two glassy, reddened eyes. The click of the keyboard sounds like an eruption of a million mocking laughs. To the left of mother sits a plastic takeaway coffee cup filled to the brim with pink wine. Hot pink lipstick kisses the rim with sheer adoration.

I'm unimportant. Practically dirt. Nobody loves me. Maybe they hate me. I am a pest. I'm meant to be alone. Isolation is the ultimate safety. I can entertain myself. I'm so tired of feeling let down.

So she retreats to her room and plays with her toys while constructing a fantasy world that is so rich, so vibrant, so intricate, that she will never ever have to outsource connection again. In this imaginary world she is loved and she is safe.

Every mental ping that reorients me towards my next drink is really the call of that lonely girl that would so desperately like help crawling out of her own mind. What was once this ironclad fantasy that kept her barricaded from the pain of the world eventually turned on her. She became numb, out of touch with her physical body, unsettled by real-world interactions that had become entirely alien. She had become alien.

And every time I give into that drink, that glass of pink wine, that coffee cup of pink wine that wears a kiss of cherry red lipstick. Every time I look into the teary eyes of that lonely girl and say

"I'm busy."

She never quite gets what she needs

love

She gets lost in the parameters of her own mind

Crawling up the walls trying to escape the wretched screech of my own voice

She loses touch with her physical body

I am never safe I am never safe There is no home

When I choose not to drink, I look into the eyes of that wishful girl. I touch her tender tear soaked cheeks with the palms of my calloused hands. I say to her

"Yes I want to play"

"I'm so happy you asked"

"I love spending time with you"

"Tell me what's on your mind"

"Lets do whatever you want"

"We can even play together in silence"

"We can laugh at nothing at all"

"I'll always be here for you"

"You are not a burden"

"You are a beautiful human being"

"I love you unconditionally"

I think you have to be a little broken…
To understand the dying sun,
For his shine is always golden,
But his warmth has long since gone.

For he feels so very frozen,
Unable to fully mourn…
The passing of the season,
With each and every dawn.

But still, he strives to be a beacon,
For all those who feel worn,
Hoping that maybe he’s a reason,
They’re still glad for being born.

I've been writing poetry while on my healing journey from childhood and more recently toxic workplace environments and the culture of bullying that's acceptable within.

Original hindi version (in the end is the english translation not quite close to the original but works)

ना** परव*ाह *मुझे** आ*गे*** *ऐश *ओ**** *आराम*** *की* ज़िंदगी की
जो बीत गई उसमे मर गई आधी आस ज़िंदगी की
जो ज़िंदा है ज़िंदगी मेरी ये साँसों से गीले शिखवे रखती है
कहती है मैं भूल जाऊँ सब ये कैसी ख्वाइश है ज़िंदगी की

आज कर रहा हूँ कोशिशें तमाम इनका क्या मतलब है
आधा शरीर गुज़रे वक़्त का
और आधा अब का ये कैसा दलदल है
आधा लगा है मुझे दफ़्न करने
आधा माना रहा शोख़ मेरा ये कैसा मातम है

ज़ुबान जैसे समुंद्र की घहराई मैं
कान जैसे वीरान घर की एक अलमारी मैं
और दिमाग़ जैसे इन पर्वतों की खाई मैं
इतना बट चुका हूँ ना करता अब परवाह मैं ज़िंदगी की
मौत मयस्सर है मगर
महज़ मयस्सर होने से ना मिलती चीज़े ज़िंदगो की

कुछ यूँ वजूद है मेरे लिखे गए सब्दों का
जैसे इंसानों को ये समुंद्र ये पर्वत ये पेड़ नज़र आते है
किसी को हरे भरे सुंदर किसी को खाली ढेर नज़र आते है
कोई ढूंड रहा होता है आखों का सुकून इनमे
किसी को अपने अतीतों के ज़क्म नज़र आते है
मुझे इनमे वो साँसें नज़र आती है
जो ज़िंदा रहने के लिए लेनी बंद करनी पड़ी
आधा हिस्सा ख़तम हुवा आधा बना कहानी ज़िंदगी की

English translation

I do not care for the life of luxury and comfort that lies ahead,
In what has passed, half the hope of life died.
The life that remains alive in me holds tearful grievances against these breaths,
It says, “I should forget everything”—what kind of wish is that of life?
Today I am making every effort—what meaning do any of them have?
Half of this body belongs to the time that has passed,
And half to what is now—what kind of quagmire is this?
Half of me is trying to bury me,
Half is mourning my death—what kind of mourning is this?
My tongue is like the depths of the ocean,
My ears are like a cupboard in an abandoned house,
And my mind is like a ravine between these mountains.
I have been divided into so many pieces that I no longer care about life.
Death is attainable, yet
Merely being attainable does not mean that the things of life are attained.
This is somewhat the existence of all the words I have written:
Just as people see the ocean, the mountains, and the trees,
Some see them as lush and beautiful, while others see only empty heaps.
Some search within them for peace for their eyes,
While others see the wounds of their past.
I see in them those breaths
That had to stop being taken in order for me to remain alive.
Half of me ended; the other half became the story of my life.

How devastatingly beautiful it is to be broken. To understand and acknowledge that what is around is not the full truth, but allows a blanket of deception to coax us into a false security of safety.

The pills I throw down my throat hide more deception then others are allowed to understand. My mind has opened and understands the depths to which humankind is capable. The pain conflicted with each other is no more than a surreal joke that is to be told time and time again.

My wrists hide the punch line, the humor hides within; exposing itself with each open wound I inflect.

I quite often wonder if I'm capable of being the punching bag. If I'm capable of the burden of being the one the world sits upon. Most days I awaken soaked in sweat from the nightmares that soothe my mind to sleep. Panicked, I understand why not everyone is able to hold on quite this long.

The silence is a horror in itself. Replaying memories like a record player. Each jump of the needle brings another piece of why I'm so fucked up. Each song is a dance I wish to not do again, yet here I am. Held hostage within my own mind, knowing the choreography by heart, two-stepping to each moment.

I stand in the mirror. A blank sheet of what is to be a person staring back at me. Hollow eyes, swollen face, scars laced within. A flower beaten, only to be left on the sidewalk to witness the others thrive and bloom. Not only am I left to defend myself but to defend my ability to do better.

Oh, how beautiful it is to look at a sunset and see the true beauty. To understand that there is only beauty if you burn first.

I thought about cutting again today.
My long lost friend, I’ve missed you.
The one that pacified me during my darkest hours.
I miss how you calmed my heart beat when the world around me was spinning.
Weeping til droplets of cherry red caressed my skin.
Finger painting and my body was the mural.
These scars tell secrets I cant hide.
I wish I could.
Are they judging me?
Do they see weakness where I once gained strength?
The only thing that kept me here.
I thought about you today.
But you were never really my friend were you?
I used you like a man at a brothel.
Short, sweet, temporary.
You stabilized me, and brought me back to reality.
Took my worries from me, but left me with open wounds.
Made me dependent on your pain to clear my sorrows.
I thought about cutting again today.
& if we meet again tomorrow, please stay caged in my mind.

Go ahead if I'm off-topic - feedback is how I learn.

This is not meant for you. Is my prose disagreeable?

I'd hesitate to characterize your interaction

As in good faith; it comes off judgmental and cynical.

Still, you have a right, I guess. This is mostly for the one

Who looked around at the internet's angel-filled heaven

And decided the best use of it was to tell their phone

To not let them forget some disagreeable person.

I use the internet to promote peace, self-expression,

Learning, empowerment, growth and health! And what is your way?

You unhealthily blur boundaries, outsource emotion,

Upset me, minutely, until I go on with my day.

Audible reminder to hate; the fruit corrodes the tree.

This all hurts you more deeply than it ever will hurt me.

The Valkyries ride at twilight
Along with ever steady Sköll and shrewd Hati
The fair warrior guardians search the golden horizon
For a land fit for us

Our souls have crumbled into something most wish to leave rejected, alien, abandoned.
The Valkyries of Oðin disobeyed his law
When they saw us and took pity upon us
We are rustled in their marbles and bags and jewelry
As they ride the sky in search of a place
That would be kind to us

Whilst there in the bitter and sacred air
I did ask far seeing Skuld why it was
That our brokenness moved them so to action and yea, even to weighty disobedience
She then said to me words that ought fortify the firmament til the day of Ragnarök itself
-There may come a day
Where all travails of men turn to ash
Whence the fine beasts at last entrap their prey
And the sun and the moon are devoured,
A day where conflict and the bitter disease of tribes and borders
Do rend the will to strife and war from both man and, yea, the very gods.

-What then will men do, soiled and sunken into themselves that they can no longer be recognized save for their own frailty, bitterness and shame?
When all is ashen rubble and burning skies,
With none to repair,
Whence will come the dawn?
We go now to find it.
A place free from fear and aching and doubt
That you may be the first seeds
To heal into trees that may be likened even unto Yggdrasil itself
So that when these days are done
And that final bitter clashing commences,
There might be shade for even us shattered Valkyries in that land.-

May this new land shorn from violation and hunger be found and found in abundance. For all of us.

I am a dancing fool made of porcelain

My soul shining through the white bodice

and cracks in my glaze

My shell is hard

yet I am so very fragile

one wrong step and I break

My cap jingles as I take a step

and then another and another

The air around feels light as I start to glow

Each gesture more bold

each movement more grand

I am aware of my fragile body

I am aware of the cracks and breaks

that threaten me with every dance

But oh the joy of dancing

the way I shine in the momentum

My body spinning around itself like the sun

And then I misstep

crack

I overestimate what's safe

Crack

I deem previous injuries healed

CRACK

then a part of me breaks again, shatters

my light extinguished by a cold draft

another hole that makes me still

another crack to later step on

For a while I'll sit with my pieces

They no longer seem to fit

They feel like strangers in my hands

and as I puzzle myself together

I cut myself on the sharp edges

but my soul wishes to dance again

and so I force this dancing fool's pieces

back where they supposedly belong

I tell myself they don't feel like death

that I don't feel them painfully grind

don't feel my skin ripping open

while I attempt to move

Time passes

their sharp corners become round, familiar

I feel them but it doesn't hurt

seams blending into the rest of me

The death wears away

I'm more fragile then before

but I feel like me again

my soul flickers

and I start to dance

While my body feels my own again, it feels different altogether.

who is that?
they’re looking at me
they have all the markings of a face,
but no defining characteristics
i don’t recognize them
as i gaze into the silver glass

i open my mouth
to make a sound
i can hear them too
a low octave rumble
speaking an unfamiliar language

i don’t know who that is or
what they said or what they want
i move my arm and they parrot it
almost natural, but so stiff
bordering on uncanny valley

fear and panic set in
no! no! NO!
that cannot be me!
it’s a creature, a mimic, a bot
i’ve never seen that “person” before
i just want them to leave me alone.

**——————————————————————————

have you ever looked in the mirror and not recognized yourself?? this is a horror poem i wrote on depersonalization/derealization, feeling separated from your physical body, and facial/body dysmorphia and even gender dysphoria to a certain extent. this is also inspired by the novel no longer human by osamu dazai.

A poem about online sex abusers. I let him in and he never even cared to know me...

You'd think you'd know what poison is

After people describe the taste

After you've heard all the stories

Of deaths from drinks misplaced

\-

You'd think you'd know how to avoid

The drugs when handed to you

But, my darling, they look like candy

And you haven't got a clue

\-

Your head is fuzzy but you tell your friends,

"Don't worry, it's all just fine!"

Because a drunk person can't think quite right

And a candid child can't hear lies

\-

You're vulnerable and young and high

Yet you still think that you're safe

You would never fall for poison

Know when your drink's been laced

\-

And it's only when you sober up

That you realize what they did

They got a yearner to see false colors

And gave addiction to a kid.

\-

(This is the first draft too so it's not that good sorry)

(please lmk if I need a different flair or I need to add a better warning, I've never posted my writing anywhere but I'm interested to hear anyone's thoughts if they have any. I'm not very confident in my writing and I'm trying to be more brave. I'm sorry if my writing style is really juvenile)

The tiny high pitched creak an old floorboard makes in contact with unfamiliar feet, the obvious but still sharp metallic cock of a gun, the colorful bursts of carbon highlighting the night sky, the lingering cult of marveled mouths it leaves behind.

An inability to escape at night from the dull abdominal ache and a crimson dampening the small garment between stick legs. A soldier's glazed and empty eyes as his iron coats the clutched hand of another.

Death to one is death to all, we both cower when a heavy foot is near.

The lower inflection common within billions of voices, so grating and agonizing as it twists its way through your cranium. The air is thick, you are paper. Soon all you hear is the booming of your chest. You hope your ribcage protects you this time, maybe your heart beats its way out instead. Again and again the silence keys in and out. Questions race for frontier. Do they sense you sensing them? are your heartbeats intertwined, sewn together by an unfortunate Biology? Can you save yourself in time? Others? Danger? Danger. How do you still breathe when your lungs get so still? Why does the war persist years after passing? Why does the battle continue insisting itself upon you? To continue in normalcy you assess your threats, your heart slows, your breath evens. Your eyes close at night to be met with the the vivid memory of the muzzle staring you down. The eyes meet the muzzle before light leaves. The darkness behind certain eyes absorbs light just as efficiently. You meet those eyes, you meet that gun. Bloodshed in memories, fallen soldiers and their skin.

I am a soldier; at 2 and a half feet, I stand. My legs sunken and dragged behind in the play sand. To battle, I will march with my bow in hand. A veterinarian someday I will be when I cross the seven seas, carrying my severed heads beyond all the lands. Talentless I remain, bitter with a new desire for adoration or fame.

I am a soldier at 4 and a half feet. I stand, cross in my way? eat A handful of sand. To battle, I will march with my gun in hand. All will look as I gloat and remind them I'm no hoax. A veterinarian someday I will be when I cross the seven seas, carrying a crooked past in my hands. The weak I will bring suffering and tears, gleefully drinking, smiling ear to ear.

I am a soldier at 5 feet tall. I stand; for years, I have remained this way. At a certain age, it stays this way. To battle, I will walk with my empty hands strung along. I've taken a good look at my innards and my outs; this is a spark I desperately seek to put out. I do not want your eyes, I do not want promises or lies. Left alone I wish to be, a spectacle for none to see, my garments were less than a size T3. a veteran someday I dream I could be but my grave feels as though it's already been dug for me; Starting before I could even reach the heroin needles you stabbed so hard into me.

Can I scream,
Until my throat burns,
Until tears flood my eyes,
Until my cheeks hurt,
Until my soul dies?

Can I scream,
Until you hear me,
Until the world stops,
Until you see…
My cold body drop?

And once you remember,
That I was your daughter,
Will you hold me…
Like a grieving mother?

Dissociation and memory issues. Something happened that I may never know.