Inside my closet full of apparels
for extravagant appearances,
flaunting one for every trait,
from empathy to patience,
lies an old smelly sock
of pettiness, my favorite.
For each attire I don,
the distinct stink of pettiness
lurks beneath.
A tussle to dazzle the eyes,
to confuse the nose
pointing at my feet.
Don’t get me wrong.
I am not ashamed of the sock,
I secretly own it.
This façade is a constant reminder,
to separate the stink
from the stale stench
of my naked being upon it.
The only people
who are truly alive
are those
who are willing to dream
about their version
of the perfect world
in the chaos
we spend our lives in.
Who have the guts
to wake up
and keep chasing the dream
that was not realized yesterday,
over and over again.
People,
who keep fighting
for their idea,
and do not surrender
to the beatdown life gives.
It’s not about ambition
nor about power
or wealth.
People who dare
to imagine a life
for themselves
that does not fit in
the norm
and yet
choose to chase it
and live it.
They, are alive.
I cannot be you.
I can only be me.
Hundreds of versions feeling close.
None of them you.
All of them me.
I cannot paint like you.
I can only draw lines like me.
If I pick colours tomorrow,
it will be the shades I know.
Not the blots and patches like you.
Repeated lines on a white paper, like me.
I cannot sing like you.
I can only hum in the solace like me.
If I pick some strings along,
it will be the one that fits my hand.
Not the jumbo acoustic like you.
Small plastic threads on the wood, like me.
I cannot write like you.
I can only scribble unspoken, like me.
If I filled pages with ink,
it will be about the lives that touched me.
Not a literary marvel like you.
A confused piece of subconsciousness, like me.
I cannot live like you.
I can only live like me.
If I cease to exist this very moment,
I’ll happily be the ashes in the river,
dust in the wind, nourishment for a tree.
Not a thousand things left unsaid like you.
But wearing my heart on the sleeve, like me.
I cannot be you.
I can only be me.
Hundreds of versions feeling close.
None of them you.
All of them me.
I forgive you.
For all that you did
and did not.
For all that you accepted,
and everything swept
under the rug.
For not finding the courage
to share your side of the story.
For the things left unsaid.
For everything else,
I am sorry.
And there are nights
like these,
when these words are
a scream
muffled into the pillow.
A howl
into the nothingness,
without an echo.
A teardrop
under the curfew.
A puzzle
without the last piece.
A truth
labelled under fiction.
A curse
with a hope
that it never reaches.
A plea
for the closure,
my imaginary friend.
A cry
for help,
against myself.
A taunt,
from something,
that died inside.
A prayer,
whoever listens,
to let me survive the night.
ABSINRAW 