a suicide letter

I know why she didn't write a suicide letter. When you have reached the very end of your tether, you have nothing to say. What can you say to console the people you leave behind? What can you say to explain your reasons? Is there anything left to say when you've been through this a million times? Can you say sorry when you know it is completely meaningless? Can you say I love you when you are deserting everyone, causing immense pain and scarring them for life? Can you express your feelings when you know that there is no way to communicate what you are really feeling inside? When it becomes a conscious rational decision, and you sit down to write a letter, everything that comes out sounds either stupid, selfish or cliched. All I can say is that I have made the decision full stop. Goodbye.

musings of a drunken fool

Mummy you brought me to life,
carried me in your insides,
fed me with your fluids,
nurtured my synapses,
and loved me unconditionally.

I fell in love with you from
the first time I opened my eyes.
That familiar heartbeat,
that beautiful smell,
that incredible innocence.

I was yours and you were mine,
we were hooked to each other
for what seemed to be an eternity.
Our love didn't change
until one day you were gone.

My heart was completely crashed,
but I painfully rebuilt it when you returned.
Until you left me again,
and then came back again.
Sometimes you were gone
and back in a day.

When it seemed you were back for good,
Our love naturally resumed,
and we both rejoiced.
We could finally get to know each other again.
We could finally be in love again.

Mummy you killed me,
poured a tank of gasoline
all over my heart,
lit it with a matchstick,
and burnt it to ashes.



(Entropy goes only one way,
and fire is so permanent.
I will never be happy ever again,
there is no question,
my greatest love of all is gone.)

passed away

forgot what it feels like
to feel so bad
that writing tragic poems
feels so good.
to even have the need
to write a poem
to release and die.
to be trapped in a corner,
without any strength
to even hit the walls
or ask for help.
living life as a ghost
of one's past self,
a facsimile of what
you've built up all
these years, and find
old familiar feelings lurking
back up again, emotions
you thought you'd left behind.
to read back the darkly
decorated words and feel
relieved and comforted,
that momentary release
of negativity, that quickly
replenishes its self.
yet you find yourself
filling up the pages,
hoping that one day
they might run out,
only to find that once
a volume finishes,
another one creeps up,
his sons in their turn
seem to be even stronger
than their forefathers.
you find yourself with
collections of collective pain
whose meaning is never
fossilised but keeps changing
in accordance to the current.
forgot what it feels like
to feel so bad
that writing stupid poems
feels so good.

a lost thought

Looking for that ever elusive connection,
a link between my brain and her mind,
a once sprouting synapse that has retreated,
a message received in a dream forever lost,
a bright idea during a drunken frenzy,
a beautiful memory of my mother slowly fading.