The Wrong Kind of Medicine

Poetry, Writing

It’s the wrong kind of medicine
Misdiagnosed prescription
The pills swallowed whole
Floating in the toilet bowl
The taste reminds me of regrets
Anxiety induced tongue twister
They said I should despise myself
And be afraid of everything
Become a rotten wooden raft
In the middle of nowhere, shaking
I wear the mask of self-fulfilling prophecy
When the storm hits, I allow it
Thanks to my useless education
Hollow advice from cold hearts
I am part of the cause for this tempest
It’s the wrong kind of medicine
Labels injected deep into skin
Slowly turning into a part of me
I am the church of self hatred
Practice my holy beliefs and hate me
Drink from the goblet of expectations
I have many tears to waste
It’s easy for a walking disgrace
That’s what they said in my head
Those voices are always correct
If I was a painting I would be dripping in red
Thoughts like mine always bleed-
The self destructive taste
Cannibalistic way of living
I pray in my own altar in front of the mirror
And break like glass, silently shattering
It’s the wrong kind of medicine
To think of yourself as a burden
Clinging to the victim status
Has never treated anyone

Advertisements

Artificial

Poetry

My eyes won’t open
This is a surprise
Inside a freezing examination room
I’m on the central table, naked
Eyelids stitched closed, memory erased
Why am I here?
I feel how their empty faces stare at me
Eyes scan through, I am their product
Numerical identity, a bar code
I refuse to listen, the words fade away
Arms and legs in leather restraints
They butcher me like a pig
Breathing is a chore, when organs are
Taken one by one
My stomach is almost hollow, but I’m still alive
Our future celebrates technological sadism
They all look like me
I don’t even know which one is real
Love and rational thought is easily practiced
Humanity fooled, destroyed
Thinking is only a code
How many like me have been here before?
In need to be fixed
I could be like them, consciousness micro-shipped
How will I ever know if I’m artificial?
How will I ever know if my feelings are real?

 

Broken Records

Poetry

Oceans unaware, eyes tied
Seagulls faraway screeching
Waves pushed aside like blankets
Anxious routines, broken records keep on circling
Blinds closed and then opened
Feeling the air, empty handed
Phrases repeat themselves
Never been used to silence
The light is also blinding
That screen is an exception
Same programme from 7am
I’m still paying attention
Another day, it’s all the same
Prepared beds, medication ready
They shut the lights, I try to drift to sleep
Counting from a thousand to zero
Backwards in threes

Burden

Poetry

Inflicted damage through corrupt touch
I am the infected- bearing wounds under the skin
Living lifelessly in the asylum nightmare
My lips were kissed by seductress silence
She turned my tongue into a broken forge
I could not craft any more words
Frozen solace, my only comfort
These solemn routines permanently haunt me
I have dug my own grave with my bare hands
For my head to rest
Bury me slowly, I am nothing but a burden
Blind from the flood of misery and terrified
I must have been allergic to life

Specimen

Poetry

Between two walls
She is framed inside a cedar box
Like a rare insect specimen
Nailed on the edge of the hardboard
Under glass enclosure
For their close inspection
Are her eyes bright enough?
Is the head still intact?
Why is she positioned like a broken orchid?
Never right enough, never good enough
Constantly observed
Tired of having dried up wings
Disintegrated legs made of wooden sticks
Forcing more made up smiles, a trapped fly
Self-destroying parasite
Over-thinking, self-analyzing
Unnecessary introspection turns the faucet on
She chokes on salt-water, if nobody’s watching
When it’s appropriate

Forlorn

Poetry, Writing

I’m nothing and everything at once
Thoughts closed inside a box
Day turning into the night
I see, the moon is suspended
In the sky from a tight rope to hold on to
Or to end your life with
I’m always in the middle of everything
An island made of ice, floating to an unplanned route
without a compass- not for an adventure but for some answers
My mind is torn, after all, I’m forlorn

Wise Words

Poetry

Let me hear those wise words
Let me run towards rejection
of my own understanding
Don’t sell your truth to me
If mine is worth nothing
According to your principles
Let me hear those roars of your privileges
I can suck, shine, polish
Everyday is practically the same
What can you do for yourself?

Your wise words
I can’t remember your silence
When was the last time
You felt like meat?
Sculpt me till I’m perfect
Your wise words rot inside your throat
Like dead bodies buried far below
When the night falls
They’ll come back to haunt you
I’ll be free at last