Frenzied-state.
Let's lament some more.
Memory-whore for times when
we were too naive to believe that life was not an impossible feat,
that we could cope
at least
get through these days
without the stagnant shadows
of childhood-dentity crisis.
These cracks -
shake storms
triumphant winds,
blow past these wounds,
tear careless seams apart,
we get through these days,
lament some more,
memory-hoard-
for times before
we were disillusioned.

She sits in silence,
the world is so sad.
Songs seem lifeless,
repetitive beats,
these notes fall flat,
and the world collapses once again.

People melt,
their voices cry in unison,
the monotonous chant,
sing-song
again-again,
these songs,
their words,
seem so tired and forced,
these words fall flat,
and the world collapses once again.

She feels so trapped,
suffocated,
feels forced to move,
these feet fall lifeless,
no room to dance,
her legs resign,
like all other limbs in apathy,
her feet fall flat,
and the world collapses once again.

If I could,
I would,
hold these wounds against my chest,
warrior-child,
protector,
modern-woman-witch-heart-healer,
but these hands can't heal,
the world in which we're forced to live,
get up,
put on a pair of pants,
this world will not get better,
the world falls flat,
and all collapses once again.

Posess the strength to heal,
posess the strength to think,
to lead, to grow.

i am humble when i feel misguided,
as if a confused glance,
and plea for re-direction,
could calm this ego,
settle, mellow, tame,
the girl rage,
let me
feel safe,
in this gender cage - unlearn
what is painful in unlearning.

To speak. To be. To break.
This China doll estate.
To hurt to heal.
To re-create.

But what if I make a mistake?
This doubt,
this fear,
this silence
requires unlearning.

you tell me to be,
stand strong,
and rooted.
to be mean,
to be me.
to say no.

self-sacrifice is for those who have the self to give,
to give what I haven't given myself,
is to starve,

my heart grows thin.
i want to thrive again.

i know. i can. i'm scared.

this resignation,
to loss,
requires unlearning.

I want to win,
to live again,
to shout, to scream, to rage,

this
int-er-nalization,
of fear and silence,
these scriptures of thou shall and shall not do or say,
requires
unlearning.

Fickle hands,
for greedy fingers,
thumbing through files,
of write-offs and write-ups,
profiles and memories,
selectivey processed,
shhh m'love,
anxiety is unneeded
when
repression is your friend.

A
rush job dance through this city,
I feel like a stranger
in my place of birth.

These people, like all other people,
in anonymous sing-song harmony,
walk through urban landscapes,
in left-right, right-left b-b-beats.

We follow sequence-steps,
like maps.
A survival trick,
for those who need safety.

This city will swallow me whole.
I cannot dance on these streets.
The only motion,
emotion that I understand-
are the techniques that let me hide.

And I go hungry every time,
Hands, heart, feet,
Let’s crawl through the
Social wasteland,
Suburban anxiety,
Propriety
And space.
This space,
my space,
Your space – conditional,
Opportunity for
The beggars, bleeders,
Transnationally oppressed,
Privileged to be,
Your
National minority,
What an honour
To be so obedient.

I
am often given the compulsion
to burn everything that I've ever written,
though it proves to be a little more difficult being in the age of mechanical reproduction,
cyber text
is much more difficult to conceal and destroy.
But seriously, I hate my writing most of the time.

And all is quiet
when things fall together
so easily.
I am usually not one to trust,
these things,
these things,
paper thin and transparent.
These things,
that seem so simple,
and true.
There must be more to this
arithmetic equation,
and then,
in the midst of my confusion,
these words convoluted,
these words
belonged to you.

I
once caught a glimpse
of the monolith
he told me
not to tremble
so much when I speak
but I can't help this feeling
that if I collapse
into gaps and fissures
that this postmodern dream
might somehow pay off.

We
like orphans
retrofitted family
a bricologe
of nationality
diasporic unsettling
ethnic monolithic
border-bumping-trans-racial-crisis-
post-neo-nation-
imagined communities-

We like strangers
on this land
walk through fields
of wandering ghosts,
looking for salvation,
holding god to his promise
that in death, we shall be saved.

We
like scattered seeds
cling to nothing
but to notions
that we once had roots
before routes,
that our cells were not so foreign,
invaders,
that our birth on some soil,
somewhere,
was organic.

We
like post-human hybrids,
shake skins
like cross dress identity,
unsettled and scattered,
shedding skin,
until the tissue crumbles,
and we'll have no place left to go
save for the collapsing into
dancing
like the crowds.

When the blood
goes thin,
and the skin,
like onion peels
into layers,
I cradle these bones,
and cherish
these moments,
like forever,
entombed,
like forever,
trapped in these bones,
where cells converge,
and the heart pumps
like fists
on leather drums
pounding, moving forward,
pounding,
cells converging,
dying,
flesh,
cradled in this skin,
on top of bones,
live forever,
one day we'll be scattered back to earth.

Quietly moving
Through tangled illusions,
Crack candy code romance,
I’m tired of this dance.
Let’s stop and breathe everything in for a moment
Pause
Think
Reflect- prospects?

Forward?
Always.

Or maybe it was all wishful thinking.

And I’m falling apart trying to tear myself into fragments,
Re-arranging limbs
into readable text phrases,
Piece by piece, frame by frame,
Skin folded into layers

Skin

draped over
precariously
assembled bone
and plastic organs,
impulsively
retrofitted parts and pieces,
I’m constantly on the verge of
Falling apart
And falling...

For
I
Am the girl with the eyes
Constantly searching,
Pupils wide and
Transparent like film,
Stand still
Says a voice
Wait in the darkroom,
Wait while the
The silence cuts glass
On these cells

And all I want to do is tell you
To stop fucking staring into to space,
And to focus,
Just focus,
And take all this in.

And I can’t figure out,
If it’s you or I’m crazy,
If I know you at all,
Drunk on your faults,
And maybe that’s what’s so alluring,
That you could be,
So opaque,
Or maybe just to me,
Reading what can’t be read.
Taking words
That can’t be spoken,
Demanding that you
see
the image
that doesn't exist.

I like to crawl,
and curl,
into corners,
compact,
like a body,
of tension-
muscle failure,
I grow complacent and tired,
in this skin.

In this skin, my hands are thick and calloused,
fingers leaving imprints,
on guilty surfaces,

do not touch. do not touch.

But the needle on the spindle is so alluring,
My wrists are shaking,
I draw nearer, and closer,
just a prick on one finger,
and


Do not touch

At the cost
of
Absorbing poison,
that's the trade off
of returning to the scene of the crime.

And it's all a lie,
like the tango-dance sparring
between our eyes as we meet,
and I can't tell if you're genuine,
or if you can see me at all.

And perhaps I fall far too easily,
for the traps that I set for myself,
when I'd like to think that I'm stealth,
but I'm clumsy after all.

But I can't keep reaching,
for the hands that are not outstretched,
because as soon as I think that I have your hand clasped in mine,
your apathetic grip will loosen
and
you'll let me drop.

And I can't do this.

Girls can only break so many times,
before the bones turn brittle,
and everything shatters.
Girls parts sprawled everywhere,
like confetti on the floor.

And though it is tempting
to walk across
log-bridges,
through deep waters,
for the thrill of near falling,
I can't take this anymore.

And if it's the choice between
you
and the prospect
of bruised egos,
I'm not so sure if I'll willing,
to take
another fall.

I give up.

A cure to writer's block?

Hello, welcome to Sarah's First Ever Writer's blog. I shall be showcasing random bits of poetry/fiction/whatever I can come up with. Feel free to expression your impression of the works. Constructive criticism/suggests are always welcome.

Thanks,

Sarah