082.

How long is it going to be like this?
Until things change.
Will they? Change?
They will.
How do you know?
Everything’s always changing.
And she’ll be okay?
We’ll all be okay.

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new book: through love, lies, and other things that exist

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A Collection of Poems and Words

AVAILABLE HERE
E-book: https://payhip.com/b/vUaP
Softcover/Hardcover: http://www.blurb.ca/user/store/rainsharmin

i wanted to write lyrics with these flowers
and thorns and stars you’ve tattooed across my arms and my chest; but maybe these thoughts and feelings are too scattered for song. so maybe i’ll write these uncaged words instead.

i ran into something unbelievable last winter.
it came into our lives in the fall. and it grew and grew. and by winter, it was so huge, that the whole world had to morph and widen and brighten to fit it. this morphing, and widening, and brightening was a journey filled with light and dark, learning and growth, hope and doubt, dreams and rude awakenings, shock and wonder.
these poems and lyrics and words are a documentation of that journey.
a journey through love, lies, and other things that exist.

labels. (excerpt from “the art of breaking”)

labels.
as soon as we grow up, we get labelled.
stamped, dated, labelled.
birthdate. time. place. weight. height. worth.
name.
an arbitrary name we have no choice in, yet it becomes
something so intricately woven into everything we do
for (usually) pretty much the rest of our lives

as we grow, we accumulate more and more labels
likes. dislikes.
school. program. skills. talents.
derogatory terms. categorizing terms.
brands we wear, bands we love.

our personalities end up being boxed into these few labels
some others stamp on us. and some we stamp onto ourselves.

and that’s what we become.

enclosed and contained within our own selves,
taped and packed and labelled.

( just another novel excerpt – working title: to be happy )

or (it might be weird but) i want you to be happy. [working title]

so, so fleeting.
 
you have to keep moving, keep talking, keep working
or else they forget.
 
one by one.
 
they all forget.
 
“there is no break from this prison.”
     that’s what he told me.
“this wonderful prison with gold walls, and silver mirrors, and admiration in the form of obsession”
     i didn’t know. i don’t know. i will never know.
“they put you up on this pedestal. but the legs are made of cotton balls, and the seat is made of wood, not brick. everywhere you look is sterling silver imitating gold. fake smiles and empty words imitating soul. the windows aren’t glassed, they are just bars; bars with gaps just wide enough for tomatoes and bullets made of words and burning lights and hatred. judgement. criticism. lies. lies. lies.”
 
but they don’t even know you. i plead.
 
and he just stares back at me.
 
i don’t mind.
i don’t look away.
 
until he finally adds:
“and what makes you think you do?”
 
 

( just another novel excerpt )

pleasebeokay,pleasebeokay,pleasebeokay

i want to save you.
let me save you.
 
but you knew all too well, how hard it is to save someone who doesn’t want to be saved.
 
it’s more complicated than you think. he whispered.
much more complicated than you think. he whispered.
 
and then he walked away.
 
 
 
but you knew exactly what he meant.

dear dreams –

dear dreams,

i remember you being slightly bigger, way back when.
much, much bigger. like, the size of a flying building times an airplane, or the power to control the weather, and be a famous singer and dancer and an awesome kindergarten teacher, all at the same time. or something.

looking back, it seems as though, all the time that i spent growing, you spent shrinking. and your decreasing pattern was probably not linear.

the first things that i think changed you, were the things that i watched and read over and over, and then you became love songs and poems and stories, and i became a character in a novel.

you were still pretty big back then. just, a different colour, maybe. i can’t really be sure. my memory is not too good, but. i’m sure you were still pretty big. maybe.

so. then. how did you become so small?

ah. of course. the inevitable. well, maybe not “inevitable” since some do seem to be able to get away without being too affected by It, but most don’t, and i’m one of the most, aren’t i? i guess i am.

you just kept shrinking and shrinking until you went from the size of magic and fame to the size of dandelions-are-pretty, and thank-you-cards-to-strangers, and post-it-notes-at-bus-stops, and letters to no one.

but, hey,
It has only showed me the cliff,
but i haven’t fallen off the edge, have i?

even though i’m a ‘most’,
i’m still fighting, aren’t i?
fighting using letters and sounds and drawings and smiles,
instead of buildings, and fame, and nobel peace prizes.

but, still.
i am fighting, and  – though
your vision has changed,
and your path has changed –
your (realtrueultimate) goal hasn’t, has it?

i don’t know.
i think it hasn’t.

and, i guess Changes are okay.
i wonder why most ‘most’s seem so afraid of them.

i don’t mind your new look so much.

just, do one thing for me.

because i don’t want It to consume me, and
i want to keep running after you. so, just,

always be something worth chasing.

and if, sometimes, i fall behind,
please be fair and give me some time to catch up.

thanks.

yours, always,
– me.

p.s. Reality is worth a visit, but i like living in you much much better. honest.


 

just one of my earlier pieces. :B a letter to my dreams. it was part of this 30 day 30 letter challenge thing (which i never finished, heh~).

stories belong to the readers –

you know when you write something and it’s a little personal and a little cryptic

so it’s not really clear what it was originally meant to be about
but the words could technically be applied to many things, based on the reader’s interpretation?
 
but then some readers keep begging you for what it “really” means?
 
i’ve never believed in it — in this “real” meaning of something i create.
once i’ve put it out there for others to read, it’s not really mine anymore. well, not as much as it was when it was all in my head.
i put it out to the world, so you can
make it yours.
 
it’s not up to me to say what’s the “right” or “wrong” way to read something is.
 
 
stories belong to the readers –
 
at least that’s what i think.
 
so i’m kind of really against being asked for the story behind my poetry. ^-^
i guess it’s a personal preference of mine. 🙂 but i really do believe stories are meant to be molded and personalized by each person who reads them.
 
what do you think? ^^