Tag: anatomy

Pre-surrender syndrome

Multiple papercuts

Acid squeezed on the superficial injuries

And the pain is felt deep within

As if a strained muscle

Or the spread of a heartburn to your eyes,

Shedding from agony.

Insanity.

Stress.

Obesity; full of unspoken words.

Conditions of a surrendering soul.

Giving in to desperation.

Prognosis yet undefined.

The world is overweight

Altitudes of rocky mountains

plunged on my shoulders,

tearing up my muscles,

rupturing my vessels,

slowly drawing my soul out.

That’s what the world’s burdens feel like.

What about the world?

Carrying all those creatures and their filth.

Tolerating being stepped on, shitted on.

Enduring with the pollution, be it chemical or mental.

Accepting all the change that has happened to it’s ground and sky.

Living all alone,

playing the bad guy

and taking the blame

of not just one being, me,

but also the seven billion beings still breathing,

and don’t forget the billions of people who lived before our time.

Witnessing the history built by the creatures

who blame it for their incompetence.

I wonder what kind of weight it carries.

I wonder. I wonder if I wonder is spelt correctly or not.

Deaf

I diagnose myself with deafness –

and blindness in some days,

when my eyes are swollen

and all I can distinguish are the light and dark.

But deafness is permanent.

I can’t hear myself think logically.

Even the annoying voices have become so faint.

I can’t hear the scream that escapes me

when I lay down in bed,

or the prayers I constantly repeat in desperation.

I can’t even hear the silence,

only a persistent buzz;

a broken radio with no signal.

Could be a chronic infection in my ear,

secondary to my insane state of mind,

cured if only my sanity is treated.

Silence is but a temporary escape.

I took the last chain of smokes for tonight

as I sat in the cold,

hoping the chilly night would freeze my heart,

freeze my emotions for a second,

but all it did was numb my hands and face.

I placed my ear plugs,

replaying the songs that best described my misery

at maximum volume,

silencing the sound of the wind,

the sound of passing cars

the thoughts that still rebelled against its host,

and the shriek that exploded from my trembling mouth.

The tears followed, but my face was already numb,

so I didn’t feel it running down like Niagara falls

Today’s cigarettes have already burnt my throat,

I couldn’t feel the cry that screeched itself out.

I only felt the aching tightness that blazed in my chest.

And between the first song and the next, a pause –

I heard it.

The suffocating sobs that I have tried to bolt inside this fragile self of mine.

I’m traumatised.

I hid under my coat,

waiting for the wind to blow me away.

How many do I need to smoke to burn…?

Chain-smoking.

A new hobby, a habit.

How many do I need to smoke to burn my lungs?

How black are my lungs now?

Are they black as my soul?

Stained by all of the sins I’ve done and will do?

How will I describe them if I ever dissect myself?

Black as charcoal?

Black as midnight with a few popping stars that faintly shine, indicating some kind of existing hope?

How many do I need to smoke to destroy my lungs, so it can shut-down my heart?

Why do I need to indirectly damage my heart?

Why don’t I just get a knife and stab it already and get it over with?

Why all of this dramatic slow suicide?

Ah, yes.

Forgive me, I seem to have forgotten.

I don’t want them to directly look and know that the problem lies in my heart.

I don’t want them to find the name carved within that bloody muscle.

I don’t want them to blame you.

I don’t want them to find out about all this love that I am saving for you.

I don’t want them to find the painful sufferings and point their fingers at you.

I don’t want you to know that these are my true emotions towards you.

I don’t want my strong self to be crushed by this weakly that I am now.

I want the love I have in this beating muscle of mine to be hidden from prying eyes, including you.

I want to burn it along with my soul and leave no trace of it in this cruel world.

So tell me,

How many do I need to smoke to burn my existence from history?

Thoughts from the balcony.

If I jump from this balcony,

It won’t hurt? Would it?

If I jump from the fourth floor,

I’d just get a couple of broken things,

Broken limbs, neck injury, spinal cord injury,

Paralysis?

Paralysis.

Paralysed limbs.

I hope it extends to my heart.

Paralyse my heart too.

Make it stop beating,

Pumping,

Feeling,

Hurting,

Bleeding – apparently I bleed emotions, not blood. 

Injury to my nerves – facial nerve – 

Maybe I’d learn to have a poker face,

To cover for the painful expressions I’m trying to hide.

Jumping wouldn’t be so bad now, would it?

You’re already miles away,

You wouldn’t know until it’s too late,

And then, even your love won’t cure the broken body I will possess.

it couldn’t even cure the broken heart you left behind.

I never knew a broken heart can be broken even more.

They were shattered pieces of glass before you came along,

With you, they’re nothing but ash now.

Just one last favour, if you may.

Do not scatter me in the wind, or in the ocean.

Keep me in a floral vase on a safe shelf,

As one of your trophies.

If anything, you managed to win my heart.

I’ll give credit, where credit is due.

The human flowerbed.

She leaped into the core of an efflorescence.

The point at which her toes touched the damp soil,

pastel light shone, whirling around her limbs,

spiralling around her fragile body.

Leaves covering her entirely like a bed sheet.

Thorns piercing her skin for stability.

Lilies fixated on her chest just above her heart,

maintaining its virginity, its purity;

Surrounded by sweet violet Hydrangea,

to provide or steal away strength

for all the heartfelt emotions.

White Gardenia circling the neck and shoulder blades,

for the rich sweetness of hidden affection.

Eloquence is the Iris’ obligation,

outlining the lips,

and blossoming out of her mouth;

purple for wisdom

blue for faith

and yellow for passion,

all of which are the Iris’ duties.

Lavender Heathers filling her beautiful mind,

the origin of her beauty and sensibility.

White Heathers coursing in her limbs for protection,

and for good luck when dreams convert to reality.

Running down her back to her behind are long-lasting Orchids,

to maintain pride, refined taste, luxury and perfection.

A masterpiece, she has become.

So delicately structured.

So dangerous and rare.

A flowerbed that breathed in life.

A human flowerbed, that is.

What I see in the mirror these days.

Her eyes crimson as

the vessels coursing through my shell.

Her complexion pale

as a body drained of its soul.

Her hands cold as

my heart during winter, summer, spring and fall.

Her smile empty as

the void that was left; just a deep dark hole.

Her back stiff as

the expressions I now hold.

Her name “Ar-Gee”

the same as my initials.