Almost… not Quite

I spent my childness
Wearing princess clothes
Over bordered pin stripe suits
And I danced to a ballad
Written for people
Who would always be prettier than me
When the first hairs grew
Amidst a failed puberty
I decided on a war
And I fell in love
With every passing stranger who decided to look twice
Twice it took my breath away
Thrice, I was left writing poems that made me regret
Do you understand where we stand now?
Now, that the leaves have withered away?
I packed away my MAC
Bought with tiffin money I saved for years
The matte lipstick has become decoration
Of a lover’s lips
Someone I didn’t even dare to love
But, I cared enough to surrender myself to
And my mother tied me up
Three turns of the rope
As I laid in the garage awaiting the car
But, it never did come, and so I was released
Sans the madness that made me dance so
So, next time a jazz record came on
I played loud guitars and growled
Donned a leather jacket and stood behind
A group of men who decided that screaming at this girl
Who I still love, as a sister now
Was the perfect response for her short self trying to click pictures
I could never forgive them for that
But, hey I was being a man
So, at the 20th cigarette by the Ganges shore
While, talking to friends about love and lore
All while, all I could dream about was poetry and art
Was the mask I pulled
The matte lipsticks and concealers
The ruby red, and translucent
Were less of masks than my words became
Until I was laying across a man’s chest
leaving behind trails of lipsticks
Red makrs that went down the sternum
Right down to a place
Whose name I shouldn’t take
Censured myself to the extent
That outside the home of his
I smoked three cigarettes
As If I didn’t like the taste of sex
in my mouth, on my body, on everything
i wore the t-shirts, but, I loved drapes
So, every time puja came around I wore dhotis
Mom thought it was tradition
it was just being myself
I was never a woman
But, wearing something that flew so seamlessly with my body
Drawing art on my body
Writing poetry quotes acrossed malformed breasts
Highlighting features that they want to be hidden
Hey, I do have stretch marks
And scars from a leg badly broken
Who are you to judge?
And why do you think that I
After all this time would even care
Because I wear glasses and throughout school?
Because you decided grabbing my breasts was a good joke?
Non-sexual, jovial, brotherhood?
And I didn’t realise why it made me feel uncomfortable
Till now
But, I own myself more than I ever had
graded visuals, gradients which go from blue to black
Pieces of me decorated by a boy
Whose love often turned to hitting
And yet, I was happier than I was with you people
But, then I could never be the princess again
Dark umbrellas
Staunch shirts that hid me
behind layers and layers and layers
All mounting up to this shameless
Image of someone who is almost there
but, not quite
Not quite himself
I decided on love by the time I was 17
But, the 13 years kept pulling me back
So, when i shared my first kiss with a man
I congratulated myself on not making my identity a mask
For all these fears and aspirations
I had gathered over for years
So, you know what?
I will listen to Taylor Swift
As much as I listen to hip-hop
And angry ballads written behind garages
And like I danced the shimmy yesterday
While my friend was in the bathroom
And I will again
And I will wear my mascara because that is the only time I was myself
And I am no woman
I have never identified as such
but, I refuse to be broken idols
And I know you like imagery so take this
The diary bound in leather
had charred pages which threatened to reveal all these poetry
That were supposed to be hidden
but, I just flled ink in my fountain pen
I let love in
And love happened

Amanda Palmer, Asking and Fears

Last week I held myself up enough to read through Amanda Palmer’s “The Art of Asking” on a whim. This came betwixt a horrible week riddled with a lot of life’s complexities, a majority of which centred around an exam which is due on December this year. Being a performer has always perplexed me to some degree, I have never found myself identifying with the spitfire woman screaming her vocals out of a soapbox. I would rather be Allen Ginsberg, sitting in a studio fashioned out of garage wood in the centre of a town that seemed to be screaming out names. Yet. Palmer means something to me, her ideas of motherhood, her fear of becoming irrelevant is something that plagues me on a daily basis. I am after all someone who takes long breaks from my own blog without warning and threatens to not come back, until the heart pushes so.

portfolio_featured_amandaart

You see part of me in consumed too, I have been dealing with these feelings that scare me. I do not know if I am “homosexual” enough for people. I do not think I can be “bisexual” anymore either. I haven’t really been attracted to women in a while. I find myself contemplating over the nuances of what it means to be gay in India, and I think I fill none of them, except for having this strange need for sucking a dick at the end of the night. There is something about the collar bones of a man, the contours of his chest, the slightness of the hair, the veins in the penis that invites me again and again. I confess over tea that I am afraid to open up enough to actually let myself out of that zone of being sexuality-less, because then my vulnerabilities will also show. The reason I turned off the lights last time after all was not because I found my lover to be ugly, but, because I was so sure that I was. I have always hidden my body under wraps and wraps, and it takes courage to open up bits of myself for inspection.

Amanda in this way, represents something that I can never been. She’s a fierce poet who is confident about her body, she invites her fans to draw over her bodies, an act of two-way trust. For me, I hide behind lenses of cameras with words trying to make them feel what I feel in my heart, in my libido. I do not know if the libido would preserve itself over the years, I am terribly afraid of course of being a loner in the world which is tumbling downwards. Thatched roofs are hard to escape, but, I was born under one, and not with a silver spoon in my mouth either.

I feel phony as a writer too, and this only owes itself to the fact that mostly I do not get the time or motivation to write a lot. Battling with depression meant I did not write at all for the most of past few months. I wrote some stories in the centred way that I do, but, those poems sound fake and hollow, withering away before the sand of time could even touch them.

I am panicking.

But, Amanda taught me this. I asked for help yesterday, I have been asking for help all week, trying to get people to rally around me for some of my passions. Maybe, most of them will be negatives, maybe, nothing will come out of it, but, well, what’s the worst thing they could do anyway?

I didn’t want to write this…

… but, I have to.

Last night was a difficult one. I was out with friends and something happened with me. And that is there. But, I guess I have to give a little background so here’s how it went.

Afternoon, I got a panic attack because of seeing a guy messaging. it was weird, since, I really do not know what resentment I hold against the guy, except the fact that it exists and it is bad enough to give me instantaneous panic attacks so, yeah. Later in the day as I was recuperating, my friend asked me out to a university’s fest. I figured it was OK.

I thought I would smoke weed and get the panic out of the system and that didn’t happen, and since, I am trying to quit, that is kind of a relief so.

Surprisingly, there were school friends there. One who I hadn’t met for three years. And first time we saw each other he called me an asshole. Well, to be honest just waking up from a panic attack had meant that I so spaced out that I could not react well, and I went along with it. There was rum at least.

I think halfway onto the first peg he asked everyone to poke me, something which happens fairly often in college and I don’t mind all that much. But, then this other friend who does know me groped me instead, and it was a buzz kill. It was scary, I was silent, i could not react or interact with them.

It was just…

They were not bad people but, I felt like way and it was getting to me.

Then my friend who I had not seen for 3 years was drunk as fuck and there was a fight? I don’t know, I don’t remember doing much except getting smothered. He smelled nice I guess. But, that was it.

I was fucked up.

And I need to say this here, now.

I walked home feeling unclean, smoking as many cigarettes as I could, but, I couldn’t manage to get anything out of them. By the time I reached a crossing and called a Uber, i think I was exhausted enough to pass out.

I just…

There have been incidents in the past I have wanted to rub off, but, this one was terrible enough.

In other news I was messed up enough to says I liked this guy, and it didn’t pan out well, I don’t mind that really. It happened, and all things need to happen.

I just really needed to write this. So, yeah

 

Of Poetry

I crashed yesterday. I guess I should have seen it coming. It started with me getting tense and getting those small chest pains and then suddenly, I was suffocating all over, the broken glasses dug into the shallow skin of my life. So, this is me now, sick and tired, so tired that I can’t go to the parade even. On the other hand though poetry has caught me, and that is leaving me scared, because no matter what they say, poetry does not catch you like…

He came out of the woods
An window we could visualise
If only we kept an open mind
And in a moment we realised
That we’re all flying

It comes in differently, like

A blizzard through the night sky
Snowflakes that pierce into your skies
A blue sky into the faltering heart
A tear which is pure pure ice

Which is why I am scared really, because I am crashing and I am poetic and everything is mixing together to create a cocktail of something that  do not quite understand yet. I am trying to put together the pieces which are crumbling sand.

I like putting down depression as an experience, but, it is more really. It is a broken string that keeps playing the same tune again and again and you are muted, unable to move, your hands and legs locked and your motivation a silver line in the sky that is forever melting.

It’s also fear, of failure, of never getting what you want, of always being alone. ANd I cannot give up on that, can’t run away from that.

So, yes, I am crashing and I am writing poetry.

I am also thinking about all the “I Love you”s I would take back from him by the end of this. Because I don’t know how much any of those words meant to me and it is not really about meaning anyway because all of those were spoken with feeling but, feelings are scary things when you are crashing.

So, yes goodbye now

The Year that has Gone

2015 was supposed to be a tough year but, looking back it really hasn’t been that tough. Right now, as I sit with a smug smile on my face I just remember that this year has been hard and good at the same time.
It started hopelessly, but, over the days it has become much much better, and every single day has been worth it.

And to think that I might not have made it this far because I was sitting with a cup of bleach during the world cup of 2014.

It turned out better than I supposed that it could ever be and that is something I cannot even begin believing in the spectacle it has been.

So, yeah, let me immerse myself in happiness

Happy New Year

An Ode to Will

You left me in a sort of darkness
Something that wouldn’t even let me figure out
How to make those special noodles
Because I had only ever made them for you
Truth be told, I forgot the way to grocery shops too
A leftover from when you jumbled up the roads
I guess, this means you left me alone
A loneliness that made me change
So much, that even the when I make my lasagna
I can’t make it for one person anymore
And your plate still awaits your return home
Strangely, I still warm that blanket in winter sun
Even though you would say that it was merely typical
Also, no one warms your side of the bed
So, while I do get invitations for the night ins
I don’t get a warmth beside me
When the untrained arm reaches across to you
Still, I do attend your classes
With perfect silence, maintaining decorum
I see you forget your tie once every week or so
And even I wear unmatched belts
You smile so prim and proper and fake
When you call me up and ask
Ask me to speak of these poetry you read
And I keep silence as my only answer
For, you should know what I would say
If I somehow managed to break out
I guess the poems didn’t matter when we were together
But, they do matter so much now
Say lover, do you still call me Lan by mistake
That name from an old pulp fiction
That you loved, and I couldn’t
For I know I still call you Endless
Since, some days you are only the scars you left
Poetry inside my leather bound heart
Stories on my walls and stairwells
All things that cannot be wiped away
Tell me Endless, do you still smoke your Camels
When I am so so far away?
And do you still buy our old whiskey
Drink entire bottles in one single day?
On one of those last days I remember so clearly
You reading Shakespeare and crying
Because you could not make sense of it
And I could never bear that
You were poetry, and being away from that
It made you some what less
So, in an impulse I forced you to leave instead
Doesn’t mean I do not want you back
For poetry and languages aren’t meant
To be barriers between people
Not that I have managed to understand your verse
Or those large epics that you read
And I still hold onto your voice before the fountain
And I remember the screams that followed them
Tell me, do you still howl at night?
Make your partner check for monsters?
Or was it me who made you so afraid?
Some days I see your monsters still
When your dress looks creased and crumpled
Or when you forget what you taught
Mostly though, it’s when you evaluate my essay
Insisting that I deserved the hundred
Your “friends” know now don’t they?
I am probably the joke they tell of in lunch breaks
Help with this, I might have if I had the courage
To write you these poems of reassurance
But, then my pen’s ink has stopped flowing long before
And my hand hurts whenever I start writing
I remember you being like floral arrangements
A bridal wreath that was placed before burial places
And even though you wear white in dreams
I cannot help but, wear black again
Two people whose love can never fit in place
Your verses that bite into me as gunshots
A wonder in the smoke that smells of sadness
No, I would not leak your secrets
They are mine to carry till the end
Nor will I share your breaths at the end of the night
Tell me, how to manage to sleep with this weight
Or do I stay awake
And if we are storms that will tear each other
Is that love still according to your poems?
Is this what it feels to be Endless?

I Achieved a Little

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Today Was a Good Day.”

I believe good days can only be measured against the bad days that precede them.

The last good day I remember, one very close to my heart came after a long period of trauma. I remember being sick for days, my gut being sad, and everything falling apart. I was depressed, and pretty much done for. Liver functionality took a dump when I tried to overdose on paracetamol. I felt so sick after the night I sat with a cup of bleach in front of me, I wondered if I should have woken up at all.

It was the worst of days…

None of my plans had worked, none of the things made sense at that point and seriously speaking? I felt like I did not have any friends.

Then, inexplicably it happened. As it often does…

Every writer has this moment of pure creation, of pure bliss. You see an idea and that encompasses you. Happened with me.

I spent day after day writing and writing, trying to build up the world.

Sadly, the novel failed.

But, the day I got that idea.

An evening spent in futility with a book in my hand whose pages I did not turn was turned into a night of work. The ideas rushed in like a flood and they drenched me full. I had to hold on, just to make sense of it all. It was not a huge idea, it was not something that I would be proud of but, it was enough, and by holding on, I tasted happiness

Come on, let’s walk

Walking is one of those things that I keep to myself. Whether it be the longer aimless walks, or the shorter walks to reach a destination. I do not know when the passion started really. But, even before I could spell out my name completely in English, I was walking halfway across the city to sit in an ever growing playground with an uncle of mine. After that, it has never really gone away. I have been in love with walking, and walking has reciprocated it with so many little things I have found on the way.

I guess it had something to do with the fact that I grew up in a small patch of a village perched on the roads of an ever growing metropolis. My family has never consisted of a bunch of village dwellers. There was always a love of the land, a love of the common things in them; that I have seldom seen in a city dweller. Growing there, though, I always admired the cycle, I have never been fond of cars or bikes. Bikes scare me, and cars…
Cars are suffocating.
Cars and buses are really suffocating to me. Unless it is quite empty and free, I get all stuffed up and afraid of everything near and far. The anxiety makes me feel strange.
I guess, that is another point in favor of walking.

However, this is not even the reason I walk. When the road doesn’t want to end, when you meet a new place suddenly, and your legs cannot carry you further, there is something that breaks within yourself. Walking in a way is a way to my own enlightenment. It is the only moment I am content with myself, the only time I am truly confident about everything I have done.
Plus, the city I live in looks beautiful when I walk through the roads…

So, lets walk, shall we?

If only love happened spontaneously

I installed my first gay dating app a few days ago and I became really scared. I couldn’t really handle all the pressure that came with it but, I knew I had to do it somehow or the other. You see I have been out to my friends and I know a few bisexual people over the internet but, I want to meet up with people and know them closely and maybe, fall in love. However, as I found out, a dating app isn’t really one that helps with friendship.

I am awkward with anything sexual and that kind of makes me so vulnerable when it comes to these apps. i know people are looking for hook-ups and I don’t judge them, but, I really want to know people you know and NOT have sex.

Yes, i am being a bit of a prude, and that’s scary and surprising at the same time but, it’s weird anyway. I want to dance as the evening breaks over our heads. i want to see him walk out of the sunset and to fall in love with him, completely before I move on to making out. Maybe, because it is hard for me to let go without my defenses being exhausted already.

When you spent most of your teenage years alone, your adult self makes such a big wall around themselves that it is hard to breach. Sure, I enjoy thinking about sex, and some days I wish to be with a girl I like, and other days I would love to spend decadent days and nights with this guy I once met. However, mostly am just scared. Scared of meeting people, of knowing that they think that I am annoying or not worth the extra effort.

Plus, I have never been a looker anyway.

Yet, I hope to fall in love, and maybe that is a crime…

Who knows?

Also, help needed. If any of you know a way to interact with gay or bi men and women in Kolkata I would appreciate it. Thank you…

A New Home

The prospect of moving always made me a bit scared. I have always been limited to one particular home or another. And when a big move happens it kind of dampens your spirits.

You see I got a new hostel and I have to move into the new place and it scares the wits out of me. That coupled with the fact that two seniors are living in the room and refuse to let go. However, I do have to move since, the earlier room I was staying in is already booked by someone else, a nice kid by all means. In all this turbulence, I have been left pretty much dumbfounded, without a way to vent out all the pent up feelings about being without a place to stay, without any place to call mine. I am living with a friend now, and that’s ideal in its own way and not ideal in other ways. It is fine though, except am still sad.

Am also sick, and out of sorts so, this is where I leave you now. Adios. Love