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

On Medication

Poetry

Taking the pill again
To feel how she should
Sweat beads roll down
Like purest pearls
On her back
On her chest
And her hands
Sipping her sins
Drinking her worries
She drowns, gets up and drowns again
It pulls her in with a chain
Around her ankles, around her neck
She swallows the bubbles
Others are fine
They breathe how they should
While she’s on the dry land
A flapping fish
People passing by:
“Why is she so low?”
Taking the pill again
To feel better again
To feel how she should
But man,
We should stop pretending
Or else we will turn into
bridges for people to walk over

Silence

Poetry, Writing

The hidden beast remains untamed
Lingering away from chains
Between torn walls and tangled dendrites
A false refugee playing the victim

As the thunderstorm roars
Like your mother outside the door
Blaming herself- for you being broken
She’s a fuming kettle about to explode

You hide like a criminal under the bed
and count the days until freedom
Planning the ways to get hit by lightning
Thinking of methods to kill that monster inside you
Taking the role of incendiary
Burning those bridges
So that others can’t get to you

Close to the edge
It’s hard to see clearly
The fog is blinding
It’s not that you are okay
But they couldn’t ask politely

She prefers if you died on the phone lines
If you waited in silence
If you became silence

People are too lost they have ears but
they suffer from deafness
Your screams are pointless if no one can hear them

Stitched in poetry

Poetry

I am a muslin cloth stitched in poetry
This heart string embroidery
I am an artwork
But they don’t look at me
Repelled by worry
I keep it together with a needle and thread
Stitching away thoughts
They won’t escape
Moments like years, too long
My sanity is a patchwork
A blanket from an old people’s home
Left near the bins in the charity shop
Fallen apart too many times
I don’t even know, who am I?
Keep tying knots, saying no
Still, the stitches keep appearing
But I’m always unfinished
If anyone needs me, please complete me