breakdown

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the entry to the path of sorrow
begins with a moon-shaped tear,
a fissure made the exact measures
of guilt and trepidation —

the leaves are brown, shades
of evil intermixed with erased
shadows of hubris, the roots
extend to the edge of mindful
games, that we play and lose
against ourselves,

lifelike patchwork is the center-
fold to this closet-like space,
where any form of easement
into the wing and skin of things,
takes a toll on what keeps a breath
functional, carrying on the treble,

silver-busy emulations of the past
take the form of ghosts that come
out only in day-light, and work their
ethereal way through the doors
and dreams, the greed-eyed arrows
fixing, breaking disciplined griefs,

i have elsewhere to go, nowhere
to belong, enough of the calendars
and clocks have been spent, rendered
useless in the loss of feelings,

i gather exits to stop all my blind deeds
from recurring, and shut the banners in,
becoming the equipment of toil, to find
some need of listlessness, the coal-fire-
red glow spreading in criss-cross patterns,

as the ongoing landslide
is felt (the ground i tread upon in
beleaguerment slipping away)
before its coming.

.
© Anmol Arora

Image source (The Beauty Is In The Breakdown Painting by Kevin Cross)
For MLM Menagerie’s Bonus Wordle

Also Linking it up with the Tuesday Platform at With Real Toads

***

I have been working on a new Insta handle for about 2 months now, for literary and creative posts: @anmol.ha.
For contact, you can reach out to me through my multiple profiles, enlisted here.

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line-break

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a line breaks from a poem,
worded in the waning wonder of
a vanquished want,

runs through my palm,
resting against the hollow of
my ache — controlled —

measuring ounces of comfort,
harbouring

my nights in an oblivion-obvious pause…

…picking up the pace,
keeping on.

.
© Anmol Arora 2018

For dVerse Quadrille
Image source (The Pause of Unknowingness by Dan Crossley)

***

For contact, you can reach out to me through my multiple profiles, enlisted here.

disbelief

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a sense of disbelief —

people pleasing people,
shadows falling a-p-a-r-t
in their own figurative voids

make for an entirely new
picture, atypical of agonies,
realized but not really felt.

whiteness doesn’t scare me,
lights measure my body mass
and frequency of my beats.

the ground shakes, angles
come down, and i learn to
belie that very disbelief and

know, inhaling is vital for this
and every other moment
to pass.

.

© Anmol Arora 2018

Image source (Deep Inhalation Of The Cosmic Breath Painting by Ganesh Bhat)
Linking it up with the Tuesday Platform at With Real Toads

***

I have been working on a new Insta handle for over a month now, for literary and creative posts: @anmol.ha.
For contact, you can reach out to me through my multiple profiles, enlisted here.

Life, right now

Okay, it’s been a long time coming. It’s strange how this place used to be a repository of all my horrid experiences in life and how it provided me refuge from the insurmountable grief of being alive and wading through the darkness of my mind, and how I stopped doing that entirely, focusing instead on something that came out to mean a lot to me. For a change, I am reverting to the original intent behind everything, perhaps behind every word I have ever written.

I know and I acknowledge that living is not easy. My college education made me aware of the social condition of so many people and communities all over the world. My experiences pale in comparison to those who struggle to even survive — death, illness, starvation, violence, war, et al. govern their lives and their actions every minute. I am so privileged to have a roof over my head, regular meals and clean drinking water to keep my body alive, healthcare provisions when I am sick and financial support for basic amenities and some leisure. How I live may deem to be luxurious by many and I am often ashamed of that. I try to be politically and socially conscious, raise my voice in whatever way I can against destitution and exploitation, and care about people around me. This is of course not enough.

I am not enough, even when I have all these privileges and luxuries. I am constantly fighting my own self, my own condition, my own mind, my life which seems to be adamant at breaking me down. Perhaps I am complicit in this internal violence. And it hurts at times. Otherwise, I have in a way blocked myself from feeling, from dealing with my own emotions or expressing them in a way which is direct and confrontational. So, I am doing this to try to undo my own resistance to the acceptance of my condition. Intrusive thoughts are a part and parcel of my everyday existence — panic attacks, suicidal thoughts and social anxiety are so inundated in me that I no longer heed my own pain.

Yes, I had to deal with some situations and circumstances which have left a deep impact on me, made me snivel and cry in the corner of my bedroom, holding my own self to get through the hour and the day. ‘One day at a time’: I had come to believe that as a dictum to help me through every day. What a limited condition to keep alive!

I finally had some control because I was busy for three years with my education. There were times when I would find myself in a dark chasm, but I could find my way out, find a light at the periphery of my vision and get on with it. Since completing that, it’s been three months and it seems I am back to where I was. Life has come a complete circle and I am still reeling from the things I had come to ignore and bury within my psyche.

I am not doing good. I don’t know what lies ahead, but I find myself not caring about it. Incidentally, a friend brought it to my attention after a pitiful thing happened to me today. She said that I am displaced from some solace the routine had provided me and that I am giving up now and that is making it worse. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I may be giving up on everything, and not just my career or romance or other sensory experiences.

And yet, I am not able to do anything about it. I don’t know how to take care of myself anymore. At least I am waking up every day, trying to read and write, having one or two meals, drinking plenty of water…

I am putting it all out there just for the small comfort that I am sharing it. How I always have this need to be understood! This is the only thing that keeps me going, for now, to be able to express and reflect upon my own breaking.

That is all.

when attention demands tension

and by the virtue of a dying god,
I laid open some old thoughts,
and assassinated each one

by
one,

the blood spurred on my face, the
fates danced in my dreams, I saw
a night so young and delectable,
that I ejaculated my venom, rubbing
against its folds, my heart stung,

it’s a morning of blossoming
shades, lilac and violet, that I enclose

in my arms,

the winds whip my hair gently, the sun consumes
my face by its silent glare, fuchsia rings adorn my
brown cheek, and I decide that it is time to sleep-

my face upheld by the strings of the sky, mouth open
for hovering bees – there’s a certain kind of violence in it.

.

A fragmented and anxious piece for Day # 7 of my 30 Days, 30 Poems Challenge.

Image source

Repository

Within the twisted lanes of insanity, there exist such wide and glorious fields of understanding and clarity, which are but a product of a resounding confusion clouding the eyes, shattering the peace of the mind, almost killing normalcy. Almost.

You feel most alive when you are nearest to death. Similarly, you are most sane when you are close to insanity.

tilting sideways
the glorious fields of gold-
like his mind

I remember standing close to a mustard field, inhaling pollen and exhaling my last attempt at keeping myself sane. I had this desire to fish. To capture a fish from somewhere in that river of yellow and gold. The sun burnt my left cheek and I kept on waiting for someone to bring me a fishing rod.

No one ever came. I am still waiting. In some alternative world. I know that I am still waiting there after these four long years. Because I still want that fish in this world. I lost everything because I never captured that fish. And thus, things can never be right.

I caress the burnt mark on my left cheek.

remembering-
calm of mustard fields before
the onslaught of frost

Within the twisted lanes of insanity, I exist. I am a smiling figure atop that beautiful building you see from afar and you miss out on the spectacle as your line of sight changes. You miss out on the spectacle of how that smiling figure takes a leap from that beautiful building, burdening the air with all his weight.

You do feel that weight with every breath you take.

small buds protrude
out of the damp, heavy soil-
the cold wind picks up speed

~

taking in a whiff
of the remnants of warmth-
I feel cold in my bones

.

Inspired from Bjorn’s Haibun Monday prompt at dVerse. I have molded it in my own way.
This is Poem # 2 for my goal/challenge to write and post a poem every day of this month. The painting depicts the wide, sprawling fields of wheat, but somehow, the yellow/gold reminded me of a mustard field sparkling in the winter sunshine.
Image source: View of the Church of Saint-Paul-de-Mausole by Vincent van Gogh.

funny story

it’s kind of a funny story-
how disgruntled life can be,
in short passages, we lose,
find a reimbursed amount
of despair, the ache to let go,
not dragging anymore one day,
a step taken where winds await,

a story told, yet is unknown,
the body counts, owe nothing,
the end doth come without cure

(For Ned Vizzini)

.

It was sad to know about the passing of Galen Haynes, aka G-man. May he rest in peace.
Linking it up with Flash 55 at With Real Toads and Poetry Pantry at PU.
Image source 1, 2

“Life can’t be cured, but it can be managed.”
Ned Vizzini, It’s Kind of a Funny Story