Tag Archives: confessional poetry

The Pros and Cons of Thinking and Overthinking

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Where thinking sharpens insight, and overthinking sharpens fear.

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I am a thinker, and I am almost always thinking,

and then overthinking what I have already thought

That’s what I do all the time, being a thinker,

thinking about what thinking has done and brought

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I believe I was thinking before I was even born,

of my fate and my purpose, and I was so thrilled

I believe I will be thinking after I am dead,

of my life, and if the purpose was finally fulfilled

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I believe I have always been thinking,

of my destiny and the paths leading to it

I believe I will always be thinking,

if I am on the right path or falling into a pit

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I keep on thinking of other things as well,

mostly kind and sometimes so cruel

The kind ones I reserve for others,

while the cruel ones are for myself as a rule

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I keep on thinking of dark possibilities,

the distance between a bullet and my brain

Is it exactly one impulsive decision long,

or do the decisions form a long chain?

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Or how much blood is sprayed everywhere,

when a bullet-ridden body thrashes around?

Is it just enough to write a final message,

or is it by buckets, and seeping into the ground?

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Or even how does the brain perceive the bullet?

Does it get frightened by the violent invasion,

or does it welcome the small projectile?

A possibility of completing the equation?

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Also, how much time do the memories consume,

to fade away in the darkness and to get extinguished?

Are they switched off suddenly and abruptly,

or are they slowly and gradually relinquished?

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I think, and I ask myself all these questions,

and when answered, the results frighten me

But sometimes the questions remain questions,

hanging stalactites, piercing my heart with glee

Who Gives a Shit?

Posted in Poetry English by

A brutal, unapologetic poem about meaning, indifference, and the absurdity of existence.

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Who gives a shit if we win or if we lose;

or if we go free, or if we tighten the noose?

We are all here to walk for only a while,

some walk for ages, and some for a mile

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Who gives a shit if you remember our deeds;

or forgotten by all for whom we sow the seeds?

We are all here to do our own part,

some make it a burden, a few make it an art

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Who gives a shit if we remain forever chaste;

or if we surrender to lust even with distaste?

We were blessed with pleasure by Him;

we must follow its fulfilment at a whim

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Who gives a shit if we walk a virtuous path;

or if we love what’s forbidden and invite His wrath?

Sins are seductive, and virtue is so boring;

to walk straight is dull, and so indulging is the whoring

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Who gives a shit if we are as moral as the prophets;

or if we favour immorality because of huge profits?

Comfortable is what this life is supposed to be;

luxury is what we should all pursue with glee

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Who gives a shit if we believe in one or more gods;

or, if we choose to be faithless and don’t bet on odds?

We may decide to be a herd without a shepherd;

but in a race for survival, we need to be the leopard

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Who gives a shit if we ever get what we want;

or if we fail and are ready to face each taunt?

When we get lucky, we should thank our stars;

when we miss the mark, it was never ours

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Who gives a shit if we are as selfless as we claim;

or if we are all selfish, playing our own game?

Life is so merciless, as we have all lived and seen;

on the other side, it is always brown and never green

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Who gives a shit if we keep on living for long;

or if we die tomorrow, being crushed by a throng?

We didn’t matter at all, we never really mattered;

our dreams of grandeur should be all shattered

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Who gives a shit if all goes quiet when we die;

or if it all restarts and we are born anew with a cry?

One cycle or one after another, a sequence or progression,

we may all be one or a part of a large procession

Self-flagellation: The Last Highway out of Hell

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flagellation_by_mariapetrova_dd11d3u-fullview

This is not redemption—it is penance without absolution.

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He whips himself, he whips himself very hard,

his silent screams, hiding behind an ugly grimace

The cat-o’-nine-tails screams like a mad banshee,

the knots striking in a frenzy, a blood thirsty race

Each lash is a tribute, a homage to a specific memory,

a black hole in the whole black and vast space of life

Each stroke exposes a white pulsating nerve,

a silver snake writhing under a very sharp knife

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He hurts himself, he hurts himself so real bad,

drawing crimson patterns across his naked back

The skin breaks, and ruby drops appear one by one,

thickening, congealing, stinking, and turning black

The flow of blood sometimes turns into a rivulet,

drops transforming into streams, streams into creeks

Crimson spatters his bent shoulders and the spine,

tracing the paths of pain and the punishment it seeks

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He makes himself suffer; he suffers for very long,

feeling the whip slither within the stinking, thick slush

The skin is no more, his back is all but raw flesh,

but his overpowering regret, the whip fails to crush

‘Oh! Why do you punish, why do you hurt yourself?’

the Devil asks him with a mockingly soft sympathy

And God, He just turns his face away in disgust,

there is no place for him in His great hall of empathy

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‘I walk the path of pain, I have chosen it for myself,’

he answers and grips the whip firmly and caresses it

‘I penalize myself, I pass each judgment harshly,

I condemn myself; the fire of misery is always lit

Self-flagellation is my penance for sins so many or few,

it is a dark journey, and I have been travelling ever since

Self-flagellation is the last highway out of my own hell,

while my soul burns in agony, I remain the exiled prince’

Depression and Me – Till Death do us Part

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A marriage vow written in shadows: depression doesn’t ever leave, it keeps on waiting in silence.

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All the faceless monsters lurking under your bed,

and grey smoky ghosts, hiding quietly in the shed

They are still alive, and though very much well fed,

their appetites grow stronger, smelling your dread

Oh, you were so mistaken, and you were so wrong,

they are still here, and they are still very strong

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You thought they had gone and had finally left,

leaving you for once alone, happy, and not bereft

Letting you grow freely to move either East or West,

was something so obvious, but you were so obsessed

Oh you were damn crazy, and stupid to think so,

it is not over yet, the dark misery and the grey woe

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Yes, they look different and may have new faces,

their new but scalding words leave new traces

Their horror remains a fact, and it has a rational basis;

you are an idiot; you were never in their good graces

Oh, you are confused and bewildered by this shit?

No worries, you may run, but you will again be hit

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Yes, you will forever run and hide from them in vain,

but you will meet them always, again and again

There might be a brief respite, and maybe a little gain,

but then will come suffering, and definitely more pain

Oh, you will scream, and torture yourself to death;

you will suffer and burn till your very last breath

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But listen, my friend, and listen to me with care;

they are of your own making, so it’s only fair

They might frighten you, and they might even scare,

but sensibility and you? It has always been very rare

Oh, you may protest, and you may angrily differ;

you are their creator, though this may sound bitter

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The ghosts and monsters will forever stay with you;

the shadows, the dark, and the legion of demons, too

You will keep on feeding and rearing them, it’s true;

but they will keep on torturing and tormenting you

Oh, you may try, or you may find your hands tightly tied,

but good fortune is a horse, you will never ever ride

A Dialogue with the Darkness (Previously, the Darkenss Within)

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When the self turns inward, the sharpest blade is awareness.

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I want a sharp knife;

the sharpest of all I have ever seen in this life

A knife with an ivory grip and a gleaming edge;

engraved with obscure ruins, carrying a death pledge

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I want to plunge it into my belly;

slicing it across, all through the quivering jelly

Cutting open myself and savoring the soothing pain;

smelling the oozing blood and enjoying the red rain

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The steaming guts will spill out;

and so will the coldness, without a doubt

I want to confront the coldness under my skin;

I so want to face the raging darkness within

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I want to feel their texture and what makes up my core;

the ice-cold mercury seeping out of each pore

I so want to sense their force, so binding and so freeing;

their powerful darkness vibrating in my being

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I want to question them all, the unanswered queries;

hanging in balance, the forever silent juries

I want to challenge them all, the reservoirs of valor;

forever loud but hollow, the reds masking my pallor

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Why do you reside within me?

Perhaps two despising lovers smiling with glee?

Or are you sent by my respectful adversaries,

not really bothered, and just two emissaries?