Author: psychopathsgetbored28

About psychopathsgetbored28

"Above all, don't lie to yourself. The man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to a point that he cannot distinguish the truth within him, or around him, and so loses all respect for himself and for others. And having no respect he ceases to love." - Fyodor Dostoyevsky So, here I am, trying to be honest to myself.

to all the listeners

‘Is there anybody there?’ said the Traveller,
Knocking on the moonlit door;

oh but no my horse doesn’t
chomp in the background
as a matter of fact i don’t own a horse
but oh how i wish i would value
being a fancy horse-owner
if my mind worked that way
but does it?
it does not.
it puts up the title of
a poem as an ode to listeners
quotes Walter De La Mare
and rants about not owning a horse
but who owns a horse in this day and age
and not talk about owning one
and who can never own a horse
and whine about not being capable of owning one
if you were to listen
to me 20 more seconds
you’d know that i am not
all that wrong,
that i strive for
well formed thoughts
which is simply a joke
i was cracking a joke
just like your words and your obsessions
which crack the trail of my thoughts
weaken their very structure
dope them with your expressions
amplified voice
accentuated words
the fabric of my thoughts get disorganised
creased to a permanence
by the same complains
the misfortune of my existence
the blessing of your life experiences
and my thoughts
they’re not the same
colour, they’re never
the same words
the same struggle
eroded by the edges of your
smile after that slap you planted on my face
in the empty of my skull
my words
they echo
and ring in
images, colours and desires
that only i can listen to
only i can experience in all
its filth, the purity of
the disgust it holds, the pitch of the joy
it very frequently experiences at the wrong places
to all the listeners
the patient and impatient ones
the sullied and deaf ones
to all those who are cursed to
live in some intensity for someone else’s words
furrow your brows and listen
this is the fallacy of being a listener
that somewhere in the back of our heads
we’re all talking about our non-existent horses
some of us simply don’t know what horses are

And how the silence surged softly backward,
When the plunging hoofs were gone.

forfeit

i have missed opportunities
those are places i have not been able to reach
my survival drive is not strong enough
to push my wishes along with it
i have not arched my back
and been a shelter to the images
i could once see so clearly
it made sense and now it doesn’t
but it still is beautiful
that self
in its distance
in its ignorance
in its ambiguity
in its beliefs
about a grief that
has cemented my bones to its frame
solidified by the continuous
sinusoidal of creating and destroying;
harmony –
there’s so much disquiet
in its acceptance

and so it goes

sun flickering through trees,
at the speed of life;
or cars; guess i will never know
birds huddled on a line
weighed down in gravity;
or unity; i will never know
it’s the distance between the
airplane and me that makes it
look like it is suspended in time
but I cannot complain about distance
it keeps me suspended to my life

positive signs

i have started searching again
for people, it seems
this is as bad as it gets
i cannot swallow myself whole
it’s a problem
but it was supposed to be a disruption
writing makes triviality
sound profound
written words arranged in a sequence
fuel some with self-regard
that’s why i started writing
in the first place
it made me think in
familiar sounds, at times
not in a native language
my troubles sound serious
but right now i’m only
familiarising myself to
certain sounds
and angles,
to resting on the
right side of my arm

people live this way
some way, i cannot understand,
and like their living
not lives, perhaps
but living, yes for sure they do
i notice it at times
otherwise i assume
it’s like a balm
– to assume – temporary relief
i also assume that there’s some pride
in living life as asked by life
some humility in giving up
because i haven’t yet lived
that life in such intensity
i can only assume
and until i experience it
i can feel safe about the future
or the past, that when i chose to
look past something
or look into something
while discomforting myself,
regardless of the number of attempts taken,
cause i wonder against whom are we keeping scores,
it was all an attempt to feel good
only to forget very soon
but when i revise my days
it’s always unfulfillment that dwarfs every other feeling

some words

i pursued it till it lost its meaning
that’s why my head weighs
heavier on my hands
and lighter in the air
heavier on others’ shoulders
but lighter on the floor

as pity stems from worn-out love
and blooms in forced smiles
with raised eyebrows
the sight of which is as
alluring as it is despicable

appreciable, nonetheless;
everything in its own way
is appreciable
no matter how negative
the lessons drawn from a story is
it’s all towards the little good
that can be found in the destruction that
comes with each tick of the needle
and each memory we rebuild in our
heads for our convenience
it will take a lifetime to
learn that sounds are
simply the gaps between the inaudible
the comforting routine sounds
the kind routine inaudible

it’s probably the colours
that bother me the most
yet i wanted it to stay
a little longer

i’ll take your miseries
take care of them better
than what i’ve done with mine
but give me your laughter
and your people
your colours
your flair
your sun
your filth
just for a day
and i will be a little less greedy

give me a day of an unmindful you
’cause you’ve lost whatever it is
you meant to me once
and i promise to be a little less of you

we will always lose

how fickle can some people be who
expect you to accept both
their vulnerable and glorious selves
you cry and i submit to your pleas
you bluster and i worship you
i wish this mercurial behaviour
makes your skin break and swallows you whole
spits you out for the distaste
your silver self-love and
platinum arrogance of that self love
wouldn’t even let you disappear
such is the force of your existence
such is the intensity of the illusions you carry about yourself
i believe everyone is the same
but not everyone will have a mirror painted silver on the other side
some will look through it and spend another
thousand on a lipstick or a cologne
– it’s pitiable how easy it is to love oneself
if you haven’t been trained to live otherwise –
but that’s just a layer of coloured whale blubber and
a whiff of self-confidence
that you put on yourself to blend in the crowd yet
stand out because it shouts of you trying so hard
it’s the sandstorm of life that blew you away with itself
promising you another smile from a fellow human you liked
promising you that car your neighbour owns
promising you the bright eyes of some impressive people
promising you that book you thought would make you
sound smarter than others
it has come to you in all of your glory in the
smile of that human you liked who doesn’t care about your presence
in all of you vulnerability after buying the same car as
your neighbour when now they have decided to
choose spirituality over the bourgeois
and now you know those people had bright
eyes because you had placed them on a pedestal
the glory of that book never making you sound
smarter because you have never even liked reading books
you’ve never really liked anything at all
and that is the way it is
you’re a person disinterested in life
others asking you to push yourself has only
deformed you more than ever
you so wish to wake up to all of this –
the truth – but now the sand has become a
part of your eyes, your limbs, the air,
your ground
you can no longer find the past
for you have changed it by changing your
present self into something you were never
supposed to be

In each and every case
you have lost and continue to do so
that’s how every living being is
so when she asked me why i don’t consume
nutritious food when my bones crackle
like lego blocks
that’s because i hate every particle of
sand and every cell of my body
just not enough to not sustain its existence
and enough to make me look like a hideous scenery

sing it to yourself

the white of the world is so
devoid of the holes in the nightsky
it has sunken my eyes
three inches further inside my skull
i feel my eyes shifting
in the agony of being cleansed
every now and then
why can’t it suffer a bit more
without giving in to comfort
comfort – oh, it’s the skin i wear
so thick it has grown, my flesh
no longer knows the pain that
this life was meant to be
yet on some nostalgic days
it drags comfort in
front of the mirror

“ever wondered why your eyes cannot meet mine?
why you cannot sleep without killing yourself atleast five times?
why you have no right to a choice?
why you can like only your own versions of real-people?
why your ugliness demands respect?”

i hope i destroy myself
more than i have already
so much so that every inch
of my flesh rots while i am still alive
for all the ill that i have wished
on people who have done the same for me
or perhaps not
there’s no way of knowing
and while i am in the process
of mouldering into shells and cells of
my loathsome beliefs
i’ll climb the walls of my comfort
to have a better view of the last white

An excuse for all my dishonest replies

With no objective way left to think; once I became a part of my life

none of my opinions about my life matter anymore

with no intent of these words making any sense

just like how most times my reflection is more important than  me

or how I enjoy the imaginary company of every real person I have ever met

it shouldn’t make sense

but only hatred feels home – blurring the lines of distinction

my illusions avoid me from seeing so much that I feel I have been disillusioned

i simply can’t make sense of any form of affinity

– everything seems to have a reason and I, like most in this age, am a child of romanticism

(just like these disjointed lines which try so hard to seem ‘poetic’)

for any action taken, word spoken, tap left leaking, child neglected – if there is a reason

it is an illusion – as much a subject to my acceptance as to my scorn

Fever

In a thought of a time when I was thinking
I was then thinking of writing but then I let the thought subside
I have meek priorities because the tea in my cup is more than in hers
and I must level the quantity cause it weights on me
like the sight of my beard which makes me look ugly
and mother said it’s for cleanliness that we must look good
but why doesn’t that make sense to me when it’s something natural it shouldn’t be dirtying anyone’s view
but now it does mine and I can’t think any other way so I go sit in the balcony, made into a symbol of tragedy by years of writing
oh! but I know only one example and I’ll quote it forever because for me to believe I need to impose it on other,
oh wait! that’s not me that’s someone else I was projecting right now
it’s difficult to draw lines but the balcony is an inch lower than the the rest of the house,
by lines of some measure totalling an inch I am lower
but inside the house I am so much more lower, I am smallest in the house
because I never grew I am the same as was born and that makes me a non-living
that’s why my mother feels ashamed of me but these days she pretends not to feel so, maybe she has googled some answers to have a “normal child”
I drink the tea in one go,
I like when the tea is cold it makes me hesitate less for once
I see people on the road and I see a civilisation I see technology and a dog
they are all so good at being what they are at being civilised, at being technological and at being a dog
and now I know how this will go
they’ll rise from the ground and float above balcony
– they have the right to exist ’cause they’re good at what they do,
they fulfill this empty life of theirs with the motive of being right there on the road in front of me which is now at my eyes’ level,
they are rightful of their existence, of being in the adjective of the noun that they were created for the very first time,
they don’t want to be anything else and that is how they’re the purest form of beings,
the road with these “nouns” has risen above my head and now this balcony I must leave and shave my beard,
discover other nouns some on the ground still others floating already on words and air because no one would come to me and try to level the quantity of tea in this wretched cup, the fragility of which makes me want to throw it on the floor, it doesn’t matter whether I have less or more
but this fever of not having written my sick thoughts of that one time when I was thinking of writing is now a little less and now i am obliged to laugh