Who loves me, a torrent?

Okay. There’s a lot going on right now – the eclipse of changes coming to an end, I can’t be fucking bothered with. I don’t know where to start. In fact, I’m not going to because it’s putrid unavailing. Really. One moment, I feel like an overgrown, terrorized, pleasing child and the next day. Well, the next day, I feel sixty years ahead plummeting into a bottomless well, one- leg-shackled, just to keep the humor for someone to pull me up and let me feel all in reverse. I don’t like my face in the mirror, no matter how many times a day I convince myself to look at it. I can’t get hold of my shit together. I’m somewhere between the verge of tears and a bravado entrepreneur wanting to travel to places. I want to binge and purge, binge drink and binge watch. But, I can’t be bothered with. I feel like my body parts are mixed up, like they don’t belong where they’re supposed to; out of place, out of magnitude, size and everything. Not right. Not physical. Not spiritual. I’m an enigma of thoughtless reverie, arbitrary emotions and nothingness. A water puddle that disappears when the season is over, disturbing tranquility precedes. Tranquility is good, not the calm before the storm.

Some nights, I want to crawl up my  bedroom wall just to see if I have spider DNA or the ghost living in my room would hold me close enough to fill me with warmth. You don’t believe me? I feel it all over my skin, things fall from here and there and you hear sorts of sound like water running, footsteps, screeching, moving furniture and sometimes a nice singing voice. It’s got to be a beautiful man or woman. I don’t know where I’m getting at, honestly. Pardon my absence of normality.  I’m never ordinary. I’m torrential.

Let me make it simpler.


[Play this right now before you start reading the poem, one of my fav pieces from Golden Time – I want to fall in love]


Shriveled, nut

In camouflage, crafty chameleon 

Self-induced retrospection gauge

Blue, Blue

The water kindles a ghost who lives by my feel

Who sings, runs to avert my attention

My bedroom wall, I want to crawl

Out of ordinary, inhibit bravado

Extraordinary malfunction, I harbor

I want to be beautiful

I want to ride the plummet

Down the bottomless well

Enigma of thoughtless reverie, eliminated

Tranquility exhibited


Pamper me

Tell me I’m alright 

That binge and purge should only mean so much

Tears don’t wipe your body parts

Back to its position

Spirituality lies in the physical shadows

You deny 

When you trace your hand across your stomach

And the mirror looks at you saddened

This emotion, this contenance you see

Is witness you’re alive

That you’re all torn and ashes

But you’re alive

Scars leave

They do.

When you paint them with color

They become art, master pieces

What revolting disturbances you have

I love you so much, I do

How can I not love me?

I should, I should.


Ashamed, I affirmed

Who loves me, a torrent? 


[Close your eyes for a few moments and feel the music. I play this when I’m down, it helps you cry as the song’s all about longing to love someone, aching to keep them by your side]

Look what I did there, I did poetry. It’s so much easier and shorter to tell. It can have endless meanings yet it means one to me. Something to you. I play with words, like I own them, It’s amazing to write poetry. I want to write so much that I don’t write at all.

This isn’t the best of my work, but this is what poetry means to me, I can talk about my feelings without talking about them.

I can write letters and they’ll still guess who it addresses.

It’s magical, isn’t it? You know, if you write poetry, you definitely feel the same.

4 thoughts on “Who loves me, a torrent?

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