Let’s put the kettle on 
A book, a sheet, and a song
Let the wrists find their ways
Around twists, yawns 
And hypnotic sways 
The wind, the shore 
Fill the remaining silence 
We trance to our unusual 
Carefree alliance 
Discordant and lost 
We hum the chorus 
Not attractions
But the moment 
Is allowed to lure us



I have breathed
But I have not lived
I have moved 
Yet I have not lived 
I turned through decades 
Sliding down slides 
Gliding down corridors 
Bold verses brought with them
Yet I have not lived
I have been mugged into alleyways 
Darkness and dark thoughts created 
I have been stripped bare of experiences 
I wasn’t allowed to have 
Opportunities found the lane
To my home too narrow 
The gates too rusted to be graced
Yes I have not lived
I have waited 
Years of my life have gone up in smoke
I have waited and lost all threads 
To hold on to with a looking forward 
I have scribbled on walls
Of my fate and self induced imprisonment 
And I have not lived
I have grown from hiding in wardrobes 
To not fit under the bed with my demons
And I have not lived
Had I maintained journals ardently 
I’d have vague sketches of the constancy 
Of these lunar phases at my disposal to refer to
But I have not lived
Not enough and not fairly 
Never in a way I’d term satisfying 
I have not lived and that’s how I lie to myself 
I lie and say I haven’t lived 
Or have I 
Have I been storing memories away
Not labeled as proper expected experiences 
The unexpectedly abnormal 
I forget 
I’m ashamed I forget
That these too are experiences
If not normal and conforming 
Neither conventional nor convenient 
But they are mine
Mine to call to recall to relive as I please 
But I don’t 
I put them to sleep 
And tend to them when they wake up 
From nightmares 
Yet I say 
I haven’t lived 
I haven’t lived as others did
I haven’t grown as others did
I haven’t had smoother paths with silken shoes
I haven’t had guiding lights without prices to pay
I haven’t scorched myself without stories to tell
I haven’t 
I haven’t had normal as all define it
I haven’t lived 
I haven’t lived
As all did
I haven’t lived 
I haven’t lived

Just that

Pain begets poetry. 
Pain begets art. 
A fact so often glamorized 
And glorified 
But past the layers of reassuring illusions 
It’s just that. 
The sickest of truths.
For what gives pleasure 
To one’s senses 
Probably came into existence 
After slit veins
Charred throats
And all sorts of metaphoric 
And literal 
Forms of pain 
Wove their way into an artist’s life.
Such is the sick
Twisted beauty of creating art. 
One must burn
So another in another time
Having found solace 
In relatibility.