Maybe They Were Better Without My Helping Hand, Sucking On My Feelings, I Became A Barren Land, Maybe

The Pot's Everything

The seed sown in a pot, Nourished with its care in ways untaught. The pot's everything was the plant. The reason for its existence was the plant. One day, The plant outgrew the pot. And was now held by the other. The pot, abandoned because of its care, Swore to never love anything in its life, Due to the hidden fear. But the other seed sowed in its heart, Germinated and opened it once again, Knowing, that it wouldn't sustain. But still grew just to keep the pot's soul alive, To keep it filled with warmth, For bringing the another to life.

~ark

Forgotten Death

Wandering in the endless desert, I searched for a stable land. But who knew I searched for more time, Just a little, to live and die once again. Enclosed behind the bars of glass, My attempt to avoid the pathway towards the end. I let those pages free, but the memories, Tried to recollect the pages falling into shreds. Living like I have centuries tomorrow, I held the needle, with a little thread, Who knew, my eternal life ran, In the hourglass of my forgotten death.

~ark

The Memories

Here I faced them again, The people I knew. The memories I once considered a part of mine, Slowly accumulated the truth. The glimpses inter wined, Left me nostalgic, dilemma grew. I gradually travelled the journey, From smiling to fathoming the traps their eyes drew. Standing in the freedom’s queue, I yearned to see the old view. I chased the future, Dwelled in the past, I lost the present, time flew.

~ark

Her Life

Her laughter echoed the pain of her cries, The ice melted, she burned and tried. Happy face with empty eyes, Her smile depicted the pain confined. Her words reflected her past mistakes, She vowed to change her dying life. Bleeding by the cuts of their knife, She refused to be called futile. She decorated her old grave, With the ribbons of the broken ties. Rising from the ground once again, Her silence roared the goddess's might.

~ark

My own work disgusts me, at times. I find it flat, I find the words that had depth now are as shallow as a children's pool. I look to the right, and then to the left: so many other of us here and there, their poems with hard-to-read fonts, and crazy weird background colors. Big ones, 10k+ ones, think they are fools. But I see the magic, I see the struggle, the courage, the craziness, the sadness, the reflection in the mirror—blurred. The writing is good, but my eyes are dull—addicted to the aesthetic, to the trend, to the dopamine cycle, to the movement—how do I break this cycle? I'm being swallowed by it! I want to me the same, and to fight the norm. I want to inform, to conform, to deform, and then to destroy everything. I want to be real, to open a way, to see and be seen, and to become, and delight in the fact that I am another human being.

December 2024?

Wasn't it 2019 yesterday?

I predicted the end, Merely after one chapter, half written. The rest of the story waited patiently, I too waited for it to begin.

~ark

How difficult it was to accept that you were never the one. Lying in the shadows of others, no source of light until they leave. It was never envy or jealousy, just question marks.

Just wondering where you were lacking. No matter the efforts, no matter how much of your time invested, you were just never good enough. The weighing scale always rose upwards at your side, the lines of progress descending. 

Life is a competition, I believe it too, As always, I prepared to achieve something, But somehow found myself standing in the “I wish, I could” queue.

Participation matters the most, they say, but those symbols of achievement just never reflected you. 

~ark

Preparing felt a burden then, Because the performance never improved.