The Alteration.

It was the summer of '99 that changed the course of emotions and induced the ensuing silence.


She was a bright child, vivacious, zesty and everything nice. It was the era of grandma tales and their hidden promises, and their folklore. When innocence and truth prevailed, irrespective of the many manipulative schemes hidden from eight-year old eyes. 
When touch-me-not plants held more importance in the scheme of things.
When chocolates were taken, and not a thought was spared for how they were offered.
When swaying in the air, held to life by strong, trusting arms was the lone flight of adventure taken.
When only love was understood and interpreted.
Not lust.
Not. Lust.
Lust, what?
As the tiny skirt swayed with the winds of happiness, the eyes scrutinized innocence in a loathsome manner, a manner unheard of, and unseen, a manner that has absolutely no space in the scheme of things.
When the tiny feet made way amidst the tall trees that masqueraded many a hidden secrets, evil followed and decided that chastity must be enshrouded once and for all. 
And as the pearl-like eyes lost themselves in the maze of the mystic hues of nature, hands made their way up, up the legs, to the apex that exposed the hidden cruelty of human existence. As innocence was silenced, in awe and bewilderment of the things done, like I said, that were unheard of and unseen, as pain slowly found itself in the reality of mazed out emotions, innocence slowly crept out.
Like incoherent ripples losing themselves underwater.
Like sand from a desperate grip.
Like life ebbing out.
Eerily, with absolute perfection. 
The scheme of things were altered. Childhood was lost, and silence gripped her like the pain that returned on each one of those daunting nights that sleep was stubborn.
All that held life together now, was deep, induced pain.
All that was left of her, was her stoic existence and the same, questioning bewilderment. 

Subtle aggravation.

I've always been expected to be the stoic kind, sifting through men, as seamlessly as the waves, eerily expressionless.
They say that I carry myself with a mysterious sense of detachment, scampering along with a comfortable sense of isolation. My socialization is limited to my trysts in the bedroom, the aftermath happening with the guy slowly treading out, perturbed by my lack of emotion.
My aloof existence has sparked discussions of a perhaps abused childhood, and the likes. My apathetic solitude and the lack of aggravation pertaining to it, ruffles quite a few of those hopefuls trying to squeeze their hands between my legs.
This feeling of disengagement hasn't been developed overnight. A heartbreak, three deaths, and after having been lost in a trail of smoke, it wasn't hard to be stoic.
They say, I lack drama.
Why not see the world inside my head?

I love you so much because of our uncomprehending love for The Shins.

What do I do about you boy?

As I relentlessly tread around as to what to do about you boy, you settle yourself into the couch as lackadaisically as an uninterested spectator. As and if I ask you to leave, you shrug and make a move. If only my spirit was as strong, 'cause the sooner I say that, I'm tempted to pull you into a close embrace, and as your lips passionately close on mine, the world seems perfect, and at peace.
But yours, is a sauntering heart.
It scampers, to rest on me,
awhile.
only to cruise away.
What do I do about your vagabond spirit, boy.
Its appeasing,
wishful,
but only in the superficial retreats,
I wish you and I existed.
But then again, we do,
and we manage, pretty well.

If your fingers were to ever trace my spine, you'd perhaps fathom the love that's been induced in me for you, the goosebumps-inducing love that is slowly, but steadily augmenting. The love that's scared of being shunned. If your lips were to ever trace my smile, you'd perhaps comprehend that the smile spreads deep inside. If your hands were to ever trace my curves, you'd realise how they tense up with the expectation of our intimacy.
You do strange things to me without apprehending.

I'm a victim to the impact of these words.

Like a child isolated,
away from blissful existence,
and simplified chaos.
Searching for peace,
holding his hand,
resting her head
on his warm heart.
Peace, with his assuring words,
and simmering kisses,
and long, ever lasting hugs.
Of beautiful eyes,
and strong, worked on hands,
leaving drunk kisses
on her crimson cheeks.
Peace, who drew her like a magnet would,
like assertion would,
like love would,
only to leave her finding her way again.
and as she ran about in blue polka dotted knickers,
chasing Peace after,
he chose to play, wily games of hide and seek,
and as tears dried up in her insides,
and choked her from within,
with the words barely coming by,
he just sat aloof,
and chose to wonder why?

Caressing my wounds,
negotiating emotions,
missing you a little more,
and crying a little less,
'cause you see tears cease to fall,
as the pain augments,
and the insides hurt,
loneliness is all there is to appreciate,
and talk to.
Gaping emptiness,
notwithstanding,
one wonders,
if life could be a lollipop,
sugary sweet and nice,
simple.
And as my smoke
takes its twirls,
and loses itself in the fog,
I can't help but fall,
into the abyss of grief,
where little children
seek my company,
as imaginary as joy.
I let you go,
as you grew from a loving boy,
to a strange man,
stranger than unknown,
I let you go, my darling,
not realising,
that pain is all that will be.
And as I fall,
with counterfeiting tears,
and worthless living,
I finally see where I stand.

Winter winds.

"Its funny when you've claimed that you've moved on when you haven't really, but then you really should 'cause thats how normality rolls, but does normality find a place in the whole scheme of things?"

Someone like you.

"I'm so out of this."

The problem is we never can be, 

not you,

not I,

its like this constant reminder rushing through our veins,

and this figment of memory that we'll keep holding onto,

like little children lost in the sands of time,

holding on to lost and found pearls. 

You cut open those deep wounds that lay dormant for two whole years. The sad aroma of pain notwithstanding, you also stood aloof soaking in the sweet satisfaction of my wails. And as I got screwed over, for the unrequited trust and senile belief and the iterated affirmation of my feelings, you stood your ground, which was sliding off under my feet. Ah, such beguiling emotions!

Bound.

Like an eerie presence,
the child within me,
cried to sleep,
disheveled, with naked longing
for pacifism,
and everything sweet.
In depths of longing,
and prolonged agitation,
like a burning house,
upon an isolated hill,
like the misfit wailing out,
his dreams of fitting in.
Like the cluttering crevices,
abound with bottomless pain.
Inhaling a life of ashes,
this sleep does not amount to peace,
when thou hath said,
that distance is a sweeter gain,
the heart took its leap,
and sunk to affliction.
It took to the pen, thus,
"Distant dreams,
spewing grief,
of lovelorn tales
and violent mèlés."
And thus, the pain began to gather dust,
as another heart withered away.