#original poem
Skin deep with reality - ishani
I wonder when
these fantasies
start living up
to reality …
… but this
is all of the
fatalities faced
by being an
escapist of this
reality too.
Time to heal the broken, it never does - ishani
Hello, and I am not sorry,
this is not a goodbye,
more like a salutation
of a farewell,
this is our little dark age
watch me find light in this
darkness, as I’m sat in the
air conditioned emergency
room, my eyes burning
with mint, wearing a mask
is worse when you chew gum.
Everyone is staring,
it makes me feel intimidated,
I’m used to being the
intimidating one,
the scary one who makes
their skin crawl.
I’m the youngest one here,
well minus that toddler who
has barely been alive for a
minute – he doesn’t count.
This place smells of bleach
and anti bac, and the all too
familiar stench of the oncology
wards all around, I remember you
here, with your
liquorice all sorts that
were disgusting by the way,
but I “liked” them still, only for you,
I hope you know that.
You probably do, you’re my
guardian angel, I believe you
still visit me every now and then,
maybe my clairvoyancy isn’t as
good as it should be, because I
miss you every day.
They say it gets easier as time
passes, but everyday passes
and it never gets easier,
instead it makes my heart
reach out to make me miss you more,
because du er et minne (you are
a memory) it’s time to let you go now,
instead of grasping onto
the smoke of my past,
you need your peace
and all I cause is chaos
all around me.
Pillow fort - ishani
let’s build a house
out of blankets and pillows
it seems like the perfect
place to hide away from the
world for just a second now,
but just wipe your feet at the
door before I let you in.
My perfect women is for you too - ishani
Dear Michelangelo,
I’m writing to ask you
if you could sculpt out my
dream appearance,
I’d like to start out
with my body shape,
a flat stomach and thin waist,
wide hips and muscled legs,
thin arms and less broad
shoulders and collar bones
as sharp as a knife.
I want to stay the same
height, not any taller than 5″2
it’s better that way,
because no one would
expect a pretty little thing
like me to fling a body
across the room - yet
there they are.
I would like to differ in
skin tone, as much as I
hate to admit - I want to be
white, because why in this
day and age, do people
see colour as a barrier to
“social norms”, what is it that
white people can do that
coloured people can’t?
I’d like to change my face
too, a button nose, similar
to mine now but with a slope
and no bump, plump lips too,
pretty pink, with a smile
that shows off a set of pearly
whites with a crocked tooth,
not perfectly straight.
I’d keep my thicker eyebrows,
and my hair too, but take
away the puffy eyes,
the chubby cheeks,
the undefined jaw,
replacing it with
defined cheekbones and
jawline sharp, and long eyelashes
and slow growing facial hair
that I don’t have to wax
every week.
Dear Michelangelo,
we have now designed my
perfect woman, tell me
how much she costs,
I’ll pay it all to be her,
because she is my perfect
and I am not.
To the daughters of this generation - ishani
Do you remember when your
mothers would say ‘this
is how girls end up dead’?
That I’ve been trying to
stay alive and not be killed
my whole life.
Maybe it’s time we fuck
the patriarchal society,
this man run world,
because this fucking queen
wants to walk alone at
night, with my hair
pulled back and headphones
in my ear, because
“I’m tired and angry but
somebody should be!”
pana ne vom intalni din nou - ishani
my skin is crawling,
my stomach clammy like
all things anxious,
like I’m about to throw up,
but instead I’m all funny,
maybe like bubbles blowing up,
in the epitome of my abdomen,
I’m not sure why,
this shit is vexing me,
it’s 11pm too,
seems like my new favourite time,
just to lie awake and do nothing,
close my eyes and try to drift away,
can’t think of nothing new,
so instead I wrote a poem;
It doesn’t have to be good,
but is poetry ever perfect?
More like a stream of
consciousness strung
together in sentence that
sound pretty, add in a rhyme or
two, like my story of
the old man who refused
to sell his lime to a boy
called dan; dan
didn’t have money,
well only two dimes,
but it seems I’m only
on a tangent now,
I’ll take this as my cue to go,
not forever,
it’s only a goodbye for now;
until we meet again, my friend.
maybe i’m a hypocrite that i want you to remember me when i forget you - ishani
Do you think about me the
way I think about you when I’m
lying on the floor, in my bra and
pajama bottoms, hair down?
Do you think about me the
way I think about you when I’m
lying on the floor, drunk and
alone, wine in my blood causing
a little bit of trouble?
Do you think about me the
way I think about you when I’m
lying on the floor, high and I
kind of wanna cry, because
I’m so fucking alone?
Do you think about me the
way I think about you when I’m
lying in my bed, and my head down
in the pillow, but I’m pretending it’s you?
Do you even think about me?
Do you even dream about me?
Do you even say my name in the back
of your mind, wishing that you hadn’t pin
pricked my heart with your finger before
licking the blood of the tips with a smile?
I hope you don’t notice my facade - ishani
I’ve suicide inside
of my body, hurting me,
yet I’m finding it hard to leave,
so when it continues hurting me,
these insecurities disconcerting me,
I like to disguise it down into the gutter,
spilling these feelings down like water,
flushing it down and throwing it out,
I hope you remember;
I still want you to believe in me,
even though I am trying to
deceive you, me too.
our platonic world dominantion - ishani
Sometimes i think that all
my friends hate me,
or maybe,
i hate myself too much
that I drive myself to
hate me hate them like
they hate me too.
But I wasn’t lying when
i told you i wanted to
rule the world with
them.
This isn’t what I usually do, at all - ishani
it’s 11pm and i’m all alone,
i’m no longer missing anyone or anything,
and it’s better that way,
but i’m staying up later then usual,
waiting for a boy to respond to me,
this isn’t like me, at all,
this isn’t like me, at all.
this isn’t what I do, at all.
Summertime sadness - ishani
I feel like it’s a known
fact, yes I’m depressed
but I don’t know why I
am stuck like this,
cursed in for a long time.
Yet these words seem to
spill out of my pen and
infecting the pages with
this ebony ink,
but if I wrote you a
poem or three,
would you like them too?
If you can’t say anything nice, then don’t say anything at all - ishani
I don’t think I was made
for this world, I don’t
think that I belong here.
Maybe it’s pathetic,
maybe it’s not,
maybe it’s useless,
but maybe it’s not.
All these “what if’s”
and all these “maybe’s”
but my mouth forever
tastes like all the things
I should have said,
but instead I bit
my tongue, swallowed
them down and watched
as I said everything else
instead.
Lavender - ishani
I undo and pick at my spine,
for no certified reason,
and I want to note that down as a point.
So I find myself asking why –
-why do I write this?
It’s like writing people
hoping that they’d come alive
and be my friends (they do
in ways you’ll never understand.)
but I write them down still,
to forget
the details in the poems
you sent me;
handpicked from
the rose bush
in the garden,
and the lavender bush,
you use to lure me into,
only to sting me
with your twisted
mind.
Can you fix the broken? - ishani
Could you still
love me even
though I am
a mess?
I promise
that the broken
can love you
the best?
I forgot you halfway through - ishani
I used to write
poetry – left right
and center
in the notes of
my phone,
so I can carry
them all around
in my pocket, so
weightless too.
But I stopped
because you’re
worthless to
me too.
And so I forget
my rhymes as
I forget you too.
“stagnant”
“was it all in my head” [edit]
‘It belongs to you’
Extract from my poem ‘Why?’