Skip to main content

A page from the depression years...

I want to die writing!
The exquisite, clich├ęd, romanticism of this idea is rolling in my head in parallels with death ….

My death …
Closer every second
Yet so far …. I think,

I’ll live forever
The lonely image of me,
A colourful painting of a person with a pale personality, me
Typing my feelings on a broken laptop hoping that maybe, if I die …

They’ll understand,
That I cannot speak,
I’ve always wished to be physically mute, so I would stop being misunderstood,
But it seems the only way I can mute myself is by as many pain killers as I can have,

And alone, in silence, I write
Maybe for the last time,

A part of me hopes that in a few minutes death will come and greet me and lure me with its silent beauty

A part of me is afraid of letting go, the people that I truly care about, that’s the worst part, it hurts right through my chest and burns the corners of my eyes…

The last part of me just wants to write forever

I’m not sure whether it’s writing calming my heartbeats,
Or the pain killers in my poisoned blood…
I like to think it is words,

Beautiful, insane, lethal words…


Popular posts from this blog

The Prospect of Being Happy

I'm on medication that will make me myself again. The doctor said. But I
Don't know who to expect
to see
in the small mirror on top of my dresser
with polaroids of my best friend and I.
These medications,
Will make me myself again
The self I was
Before the illness started.
A self too young
To even have friends.
When I'm okay again,
will I still be a writer?
When I'm okay again
will I... really... Be ok?

Just add water.

I wrote a book about you, and the grey concrete that gave life to me. The dead cement, the rough surface that scratched my knees and made them bleed. The hot asphalt, glittering at the touch of sunrays that warmed my veins until blood would overflow and pour out of me like some gory scene in a horror movie only, much brighter. It gave life to me.
I wasn't born out of fertile earth or wrapped in sweet greens, I was, very much, a child of mud, sweat and dust. Tirana, this vicious parent with bullets between its teeth and a bleeding tongue.
Tirana this prison of sorts, beautiful, and charming and disturbed. My bipolar hometown, my little slice of hell. How I miss it. It gave life to me and slipped a pen between my fingers and a taboo between my legs and it told me to choose.
I do not think about taboos father, I am too careless, too temperamental for that. I am rough inside like the hot concrete that birthed and raised me.
I stare down, from a window up on the fifth floor of a pre…

The other one

Her reflection glooms late in the morning and early afternoons of long summer days in England. Like a dark cloud, her existence rains over me, showers my wisdom away.  I was wise...I think. 
When I look at her, when everybody looks at her, she is the perfect imperfection. She is the shining light in the lambs eye, the glistening of tiny waves in a vast calm sea. She is beauty.  Her reflection darkens around me in the gloomy wake of my soul. It shadows my insides like there is nothing left. I am the walking dead. 
She is beautiful. I hate beautiful. But yet, I love her, I resign to my fated collision with her. I am her's, belonging, praying, kneeling at her ruthless beauty. The more I try to escape it, the more she enters me and shadows me.  I have no wisdom, no talent, no love left. 
Her beauty rains over me, showers me away.