The Deranged Thoughts Of A Girl

 You were crying on the stairs outside your office and I almost walked past you because I was late again. But I turned back, stood in front of you and asked you if everything was fine. You quickly wiped your tears and said yes, maybe a little confused as to why a random stranger stopped and asked you that. The random stranger hopes that you find it in yourself to say 'No, I am not okay' next time someone asks you that. You will, right?  We all sit together, listening to each other, voicing out and stacking problems one on top of the other like they were so simple when it was eating our heart out for months and years, hugging each other, crying in each other's arms, you found me from across the room that day and sat next to me. 'Tired, aren't you?', we share a weak smile and you let me rest my head on your shoulder. 'Don't give up, Lynn. Cry if you want to. Don't give up on the world with your heart.', I snuggled in closer to you, watching people

 I can barely remember what I talked about yesterday but there is so much I still remember so vividly and on a day that does seem kind, I might be tempted to tell the world all of it. But will anyone look at me the same again? Like a person that breaks down in the middle of a crowd, or a breakup story that travels through all mutual friends or how you opened up to someone that you trusted a lot or days when you are really silent, that is all you will be remembered for, stories. People do have their own mysterious way to remember you. I want to be able to tell my story, every single bit of it, about how I love and why I cry, about the simple things I am grateful for and the people that I am glad I met, about my bad days and how my voice breaks when I try to be kind, about the people who loves me and cares for me in the most soft and caressing ways. I want to be able to tell the world how I feel. I think everyone needs to tell the world what burns inside them with so much power so that t

I have lived and breathed through my art, I have loved people in silence yet so loud with my art, I found the strength to forgive people through my art and I am learning to love myself through my art. The repressed emotions I had within myself found an outlet and I came to realise that it was normal. That it was normal to accept feelings I had been trying to hide for so long. I still wonder where I would be if I kept on believing that parts of me I disliked could never learn to love by itself. The distinction to call art good or bad feels like a limit, a limit to control the way we humans are capable of expressing ourselves. We are all in this together. Together in an effort to be understood.We all have our art. Art never has to be something that can be witnessed by others. It can be anything. It could be a feeling inside you, the crumpled paper in your room that has your words, strokes or melody, or simply your existence. It could be the way you hold someone, the way you help others t

What's so great about palindromes?  The idea of a word sounding the same when you write it backwards, meaning the same when most of the others don't. Why are we so intrigued by this? Does it make you believe in something bigger? Maybe it's because we are always surrounded by words that lose its value when you turn it back. Maybe it's because it does feel nice to believe that even when you reach the end nothing is ever going to change. In a world full of uncertainties, some of us have always found comfort in words and some days I feel the words need us too to live.  A friend I made used to send me the poems he wrote. I don't know much about him but I know how he feels, how everyday makes him feel, how much he loves his close ones and how much he was hurting. He'd send me poems he wrote for his muse and I have kept them on a pedestal in my mind so that I can always remember this is how it must feel to be loved. His poems felt like a palindrome, one that could neve

I hesitated to write about it because I had to think about the generations of family that I would be bringing disgrace on. Then I realised even the disgrace wouldn't help me to forget incidents stuck at the back of my mind telling me 'If only you knew'. At sixteen, when the classes were filled with jokes about contraceptive methods, I laughed along. The one sentence that explained sex in the biology text felt stupid, something that you could skip because it wouldn't come for the exams and for once you were right. But do we all realise the damage we are a part of?  You tell us off as a generation  That doesn't love the right way, A generation that fucks  And not one that makes love. A generation that always  Fall prey to fits of passion. But you tell us off for   The wrong reasons. We are doomed because we are still the generation  that gets sex education Weeks before tying the knot. Still the generation that  Holds the trauma of abuse  Without a soul to rely on. Sti

 Every poem feels like a daydream For a poet who mourned the  Death of her words that couldn't Be brought to life by merely  Writing it down. I fall into a haze never really Knowing how I began but as soon As I write the last word I are aware  Of my breaths and my words feel New to me. I always read my poems over and  Over to find errors but never once have I read it to understand what I  Felt when I used my words to Tell the world a story. I love my poems through the ones That read it and make it their own, Because on days when my paper stays blank I go back to them to remind me Of the days when I used to feel a thing or two.

 My world would have been  One that was devoid of hope If it weren't for all those Moments you stood strong For the both of us. It does crumble now and then When the nights stain the days With a sad darkness and the words that should never Have been used together find Their way over to me to Remind me that the universe  Was corrupted to give me hope. But I find you in the corners Telling me that even when my  World stands still you would Go around and bring your  World to mine, we find hope For each other but are selfless  To keep it within ourselves and Somedays I know that is what Saves me so I write you  Thank you notes when I cry For letting me believe that This instance of agony  Would pass as long as I  Have some hope to  Keep you close.