Writing is my therapist, my lover and the shoulder I cry on.
To write, I need pain. I need sadness.
To make my mind spin, I need sorrow. I need to worry.
To make me feel, I need tears. I need heartbreak.
But I am happy and content. I am in love. I feel devoted.
I feel so alive. I feel whole again.
Writing about happiness is something I have not yet explored.
Give me grief and I will give you a novel.
Give me love and I will give you silence.
I am not a love letter, I am a sad note.
Little Goaty, the baby goat. Part of the gang, a playful musketeer.
The mischief she gets up to is something we have accepted with a smile from ear to ear.
She came to us with a heart full of hope, and eyes full of wonder.
She was nudged out of the trailer by her mother, who wished for her child to live longer.
Her mother begged her to run, to get away as fast as she can, away from the life of cruelty that humans have directed.
A kind human, with a heart full to the brim with kindness, saw Little Goaty and so she was saved, it was fated.
The caring stranger enclosed her with warm arms and watched the trailer drive away.
And now Little Goaty is here, playing and jumping deep into our fields of luscious green. We look on and we truly hope that we can save them all one day.
Struggles with my writing is something I cannot explain. I tell you that I write my feelings and my “poems” are mostly emotional purges I have on really tough days.
But what happens when my days are tough but the need to purge is not there? Do I just let myself write erratically to see what falls out or do I wait until I am ready?
I’ve been worried that the need to let it out has gone into hibernation. The string that keeps me together at the seams has gone to sleep.
Do I hold back from thinking too much about it or do I ransack my mind to find the bits that make sense?
If I don’t find purpose soon I feel I may explode.
Mother, the thing you don’t understand is that you keep burning a hole in me when you tell me “I hope you end up lonely”.
You remind me of the future, a future you’ve predicted. “You’ll destroy your life but it’ll be too late. Tanya, who will love you when I die?”.
Question I want to ask you my dearest Amma is, do you love me now while you are still alive?
I hope for it all
I hope for love
I hope for loneliness
Doesn’t hope sound like goodbye
I hoped for more
I hoped for forever
I hoped for an end
Or is hope just another beginning?
Hope isn’t real
Hope isn’t the truth
Hope your heart away
Hope the hurt to the ground
Do you believe hope will save you?
Hope is an escape
Hope is a delusion
Hope is a break
Hope may crack you
Or is hope a rope that pulls you back to life?
And even when I hold my head high,
with the stars within my reach,
I hear the disappointment in your voice.
And even when I’ve escaped the mess in my mind,
leading a life with some idea of purpose,
I see the sadness in your eyes.
And even when I’ve stopped wishing for death,
with an aim to heal the wounds in my soul,
I sense the retaliation in your words.
But mum, even with over ten thousand miles between us,
and a short phone call once a month,
I catch the hope in your hello.
My mother once said, everything you do will be laid out in front of you once you die.
Do good things and your whole being will only speak of the good.
Do you ever wonder what your body thinks of you?
My ears will speak of all the bullshit I allowed myself to listen to.
My mouth will voice all the white lies that tumbled out of my mouth.
My insides will speak of all that I filled it with, the good and the bad.
My skin will utter of the sharp edges that split it apart.
My body will shout about the hate I flooded it with.
My stomach will whisper of the days I neglected it.
My legs will declare that I only loved them when they behaved.
My mother, who taught me to how to hate myself while embracing myself…
…will speak of how I shamed her.
Who are we and why are we here?
Our fury knocks us down as the world falls around us
This earth is diminishing, and people are relishing in its despair.
We are less than we used to be yet more than we have ever imagined.
Narcissists are changing the world so it only benefits themselves.
While the poor burn in cages, screaming to be heard.
Our screams fall on death ears, our eyes raise up to the sky.
What are we doing, why won’t they hear our howls?
Friendships are not always what you imagined.
High standards, shatter our illusions.
Lower your delusions, before they turn to deceptions.
People aren’t always what they say they are.
Pretentious and confusing, always raving for conversation.
Conversations of reality tv and malicious comments.
Not needed, not wanted, just stay where you are.
Happy on my own, happy with out it.
It’s been 27 days since I last wrote. 27 days of being blank. Of being numb.
Is it possible to feel everything and nothing at the same time?
Confusion dulls me as I’m not sure how to handle my mind.
Feelings, thoughts, actions all become lost.
This isn’t poetry, it’s just words I purge out of my system and ruin your day with.
Please don’t confuse me as a poet. I am not one.
I write about feelings and thoughts, whether they flow out of your mouth or not.
Uncensored and dark, isn’t that what life these days is all about?
Or would you like me to write about love? And how it fucks you up.