"People Empty Me. I Have To Get Away To Refill."

I Tried

I tried to be brave, I tried to create. I tried to say, I wanted to convey. But I came out of my way, I had to delay, I had to behave. And then, In the end, I found myself writing all of it while hiding in my cave.

~ark

Her Loss

In the room full of familiar faces, She lay her head low, Trying to erase the memories, Which adulterated her soul. Everything she ever wanted, Never became her own. Covered in the cold snow, She shivered to see a ray of hope. The monotony once sowed, Sprouted in a plant, It was the only thing she could call her home. Frozen in the unknown frost, She tried to be known, in spite of being lost.

Banality grew like an old moss Covered by the shade of her loss Her life became a coin of toss She was now settled in her mind’s chaos.

I Must Be

I have to be relatable to be seen,

I must feel the same to be heard.

I have to be patient and listen to their empty words,

I must be caring to make them feel like home.

I must remain unknown to make them known.

I have to make them feel happy,

I must compliment their flaws.

Standing in the courtroom,

I must face a trial for breaking the laws.

I should have a bad memory,

Forgetting everything

And move on,

I must apologise for not becoming their lifeless doll.

~ark

The Changed Tables

The tables stood there,

Watching new faces every year.

The words unsaid,

Were written on them everywhere.

Tired minds laid,

The tables wiped the shed tears.

Handling the burden of books,

It was their duty,

That I couldn't share.

Years after, I visited them,

Venting out my fears.

The tables stood there,

Watching new faces every year.

But today they had changed,

Maybe I could've changed earlier.

~ark

Undefined

The noise of the world penetrated within, Settling deep inside,  Trying to stir the dead silence that hung,  Hiding beneath the mask of peace.

I never knew why but a sense of void grew, A hollow too stubborn to consume me and not contain me.

I remained indifferent, a way to run away, Forgetting, remembering, cherishing, regretting, Thoughts like water, flowing through my fingers, trying to cage them.

In this whirlwind of life, The feeling of being lost lingered, The fear of messing up,  The embarrassment of being monotonous,  Being too weak to overcome, being too stubborn to move on.

Forcing myself to understand everything, To make sense, to become understandable. Not being too loud, not too silent, Nothing extreme, to avoid attention.

I kept searching for definitions, A way to find meaning of something in my life, A way to define myself, But maybe,  I was fluid, changing itself with changing places.

Too difficult to be bound by boundaries, Yet too soluble, To completely dissolve in me to feel me To be with me was to be contaminated by me An existence, to be ignored for being a necessity; valued in scarcity, A shape, full, but never whole. A story remembered but never told.

~ark

And then, I found home in an unfamiliar voice, And peace in the familiar noise.

~ark

We used to be strangers,

Nothing was known, no memories.

I hope we had remained the same,

Because now nothing is left.

No bliss, no pain.

The Dictum

I chose to stay silent,

I chose to avoid violence.

I chose to be alone,

I chose to remain unknown.

I chose to accept them,

The people who hid behind the mask of a friend.

I let myself suffer,

Welcoming the troubles

I cried considering my unfaithful life,

A dictum.

But in all of this,

How was I the victim?

~ark

Identity

Who am I, if not a poet? What am I, if not a writer? What is my existence, And what is my purpose?

How do I relieve myself of these emotions, If not by bleeding myself on paper? How do I express myself to the world, If not by baring myself for everyone to see? What is my comfort, if not being vulnerable with words? Where do I go, if not to pen and paper? To whom do I share my happiness, sadness, My sorrows, and guilt? Where do I let out my anger, Before it turns me cold and sharp? Where do I pour out the storm, Before it drowns me? Tell me, what do I do, If not write?

Who am I, if not a poet? What am I, if not a writer? What is my existence, And what is my purpose?

©Pen_Pain_Poetry

Yes, I was late. But maybe, It was worth the wait. ~ark