The Horrors Within

And what about whispers, hushed by myself?
Oh, I ask for it to slow down—
To go uncomfortably silent (is it not already?)
I’d rather hug a snake than hear my haunting fears while I’m already slow,
And I call it heightening cowardice.

Is it the extent of agony strangling me,
Leading me to bleed through words?
Or is it cowardice itself—
Speaking through the selfish act of voicing just my suffering?
As if my body is against me—betraying
The instigator,
Depriving me of the deserved sleep.
Or am I denying waking up—always protesting?
What am I? Tired?
Of what? Slacking?

How do I see myself on the edge and not pull back?
For what is the point of living so fiercely,
While I am dragged into fitting this world?
I wish I could miss it.
For the ecstasy that runs down my body—
The planet is huge, but I still find it so small.
The fact that it can’t fit me makes me ecstatic,
As I just don’t want to belong to it.

Also Read: Women and the Nature: Beyond Metaphors

We could be so much more than the world wants us to be.
For whatever it may matter to you,
For me, it will still be the euphoric curve on my lips.
Being under the cloud of calamity,
It’s pointless to try to break out of it—
Binding me in pity’s grip, drowning me in blame.
I despise it either way.
All my prayers are futile—
Or I have lost the right to pray.

When the night seems too long,
That unwelcome guilt already devours me.
And yet again, I was hushed.