It All

Live because you can.
Fuck because you like your man.
Pull through because some people don't want you to.
Love because it makes you want to.
Hate yourself because you can't change.
Celebrate because that makes you strange.
Touch yourself to know you're alive.
Let him touch you to help you survive.
The warmth from your soul will warm your heart's cold,
If you imbibe the beauty of everything you hold.
Learn to need yourself more than others do,
Continue only if everything still seems new.
Swallow the wrath of everything you do wrong,
Con yourself into being true all along.
End everything when you devise a better plan and start again;
Bathe yourself in joy, and only just wear pain.
Watch your life being lived from afar;
It's not only in your galaxy that you're the brightest star. 
Let your mind run wilder than your body can,
Be your worst critic, and your most expressive fan.
Laugh at the end of every activity you complete
Find a place in the sky and only just float on your feet.
The canvas of your existence is clear;
Colour it with shades of everything you hold dear. 


Note: Published in my college magazine

He's just sitting around, living his life.

He's just sitting around, living his life.
Not a care about the impact his absence has on other people's life, blissfully unaware of the constant ache it causes, and certainly ignorant to the warmth his presence provides. He is blind to the amount of friendship and love he needs to display, and the shit he needs to appear to give to allow the people who care about him to continue to believe he is still in their lives, and so he expects his appearance two weeks ago to suffice in helping them to have faith in his dedication towards them. While his friends and I think of him and make excuses for his absence, he doesn't spare us an action. He may be thinking about us, so a thought may be being spared- and in my effort to make excuses for his behaviour I am obviously inclined to believe that- but he has done nothing to show it.
He's just sitting around, living his life.
He has heaps of work to complete, an education to receive, a well-off family to care for, a car to keep washed, a mind to keep calm, a body to keep fit, an existence to keep whole; from the melodramatic way that was said it may seem he is the only one who has those obligations, but upon close perusal it is obvious they are generic and a part of every normal teenager's life. I realise this. His friends do too. Yet they let him get away with thinking he's made us think he's busier than we are. And all this while, there has been no sudden apology driven movement on his part.
He's just sitting around, living his life.
His lack of initiative could be construed as heartlessness, and I wouldn't write off someone who came to that conclusion because it is a perfectly valid one to come to. He's cooped up in his cocooned world where interaction doesn't matter and communication survives effortlessly even in its own absence. Immersed in his mediocre acquisition of bookish knowledge and his myriad of music, far from the effects of intellectual stimulation, he's convinced that he has everything he needs within his four walls and that he faces no deficiency of anything. He envisages a life in the future where he will provide a wholesome life to himself and will do his existence justice. The foresight he thinks he has takes away from his present. We are his present, even though he isn't.
He's just sitting around living his life.
I sit here thinking of him, ruminating about his undeniable inconsideration, running away from the people who are waiting for me to reciprocate their initiative in trying to get my attention- they call themselves my friends, even though I call them so rarely. The disappointment I feel in the way he has allowed the 20 years of his life to culminate to this point has me distracted from the fact that I've spent the last 6 months of my 18 being disillusioned with his lacklustre, unfulfilling aura that is a waste on the potential I feel so proud in having observed. I yearn for the opportunity to convert this stored up brilliance into visible genius and my psychological and emotional prowess is thwarted whenever it is faces with his reluctance to allow his life to be lives the way it ought to be- well. While he stumbled across its different phases, maybe even came across one with energy in it, what have I been doing? I've just been sitting around, living my life.

Rip

I wanna buy a gun
I wanna kill someone
Who, you ask, and I have no reply
Because it's you I wish would die.
Not really, no, not completely true
This loathing isn't just for you
It's for that other guy in my life
Who didn't know how to treat his wife.


Everything little thing he said to her,
Everything little thing he did for her,
Achieved only one thing,
She began to hate everything about his being.
He talked and talked and talked 
And she just wished he'd walk
Away from her, and never return
To her, and their children.


Slowly he murdered her very soul,
She felt parts of her heart break from the whole,
Over the years she lost the ability,
To see situations and their solutions clearly.
His ridicule and mindless complications,
Had tormented her mind, fraction by fraction,

And now, here she was, hardly alive.
A human unable to function or survive.


"Help!" she says, and reaches out,
"Someone save me, get me out!"


"Oh, please!" I say, "It's your own mess,
You brought this upon yourself.
Agreed, your guy is quite the dick,
But, only because you allowed him to pick.
Grow a pair, woman, ask for what you desire!
Don't moan when your man takes out his ire,
On the gutless thrash-able commodity,
You've let yourself be." 


It'll be tough to get out of this web that's been made,
But, woman, just go for it, rip off the band-aid."

Smoke

Do you remember that woman you saw in the cinema hall? The one you couldn’t help looking at despite the fact that you were with your own? The woman who was the reason for an altercation between you and your girl in the intermission?

I know that woman.

Ah, of course, I also know another woman whom I think you know as well. Do you remember the woman whose hand was so delicate, so pristine, that you felt the urge to pretend to be a glove salesman just so you could touch her in some way- however civilised it may be?

Well, I knew her too.

Or rather, I know her. I know her right now, as of this moment. I know what she’s doing. I know what she’s thinking. I know whom, she wants. I know it isn’t you. I know all this because, as fate has it, I am her.

I’m Tasha. Tasha Smokerson. They call me Smoky behind my back. And not without reason- in my presence, talking seems like a wasteful activity for the mouth.

 Look, I have a way with words.

I’ll tell you to go to hell in a way that you’ll actually look forward to the trip.

When I open my mouth to speak, even if I’m dressed like a beggar, or smell like a skunk, you will want to be the one who goes home with me tonight.

I don’t remember the last time I walked into a room unnoticed. It just isn’t possible.

You could be a stud, you could be a wimp, you could be an intellectual, you could be a retard, you could be a manwhore, or you could be gay- as long as you’re a guy, I can make you want me if I want you to. Sadly for you, there are very few chances I’ll want you too.

That’s the real problem with ubiquitous desirability- the elimination process for possible candidates has to be strict as the Bible’s guardian.

Talking about things unholy, I’m Satan’s property. He guards me when he thinks I need it, or when he needs me- so don’t blame me for the handcuffs tied to my bed head or the whip in my closet- not that you would, you’d just feed off the idea. And not that I need a whip to get you whipped.

You are mine when I want you to be.

If you don’t fall for my porcelain skin as inviting as that of a Geisha, you will fall for my long, thick, red hair- all the better to grab onto, isn’t it? If you aren’t previously intoxicated by my inherently perfumed body, I’ll let my big, green eyes do the talking- or maybe even more.

You could be committed to Cleopatra for all I care! But, if I even hint that you have a shot with me… Well, let’s just say, in the heat of the moment, and in the heat of my presence, hormones are going to be a lot more binding than a wedding ring.

I’m the other woman. I’m your weakness. I’m your only vice. I’m the one you want to spend money on. I’m the one who makes you regret having taken those wedding vows. I’m the one who’ll make you want to join a gym. I’m the one all the men want. I’m the one all the women loathe. I am, however, the most popular- sigh, what people won’t do just to get a chance to talk to me!

It’s a pity, really.

It’s a pity I exist.
The world was so close to being imperfect.

Hit

The dining room is old and dusty, and sunlight is streaming in through the single window. The bars on the window are old and rusted, but strong as ever.


"Come and look out the window with me, honey."
"Why?"
"Because I want you to, Celine."
"Well, sometimes we don't get what we want."
"Is that any way to talk to your mother?!"
"No, it isn't. And that's why I'm talking to you like that."
I walked right into that one, I'm afraid. "How dare you! I am your mother and you'd be wise to know it!"
"No, you're not my mother."
"Well, kindly tell me who is then, dear."
"Dear, my mother is someone who-"
"Gave birth to you? Well, good luck finding her!"
"Well, that too, but my mother would be someone-"
"Who takes care of you? I believe the clothes you're wearing, and the food you eat, and the shoes you wear, and the books you read have been given to you by me."
"My mother is someone who makes me happy." And it sure isn't you, you old skank.
"Well, considering you don't have any friends or any family, other than me, your mother-"
"-ugh-"
"-I suggest you stop being so disrespectful and just appreciate what you have."
"The reason I don't have any friends is because you never let me out of this hellhole."
Stay calm, you can do this. "That's a lie and you know it, Celine! I let you out of here every single day! You play with your friends every evening! I even cry because of how eagerly you want to meet them but grimace at the thought of coming back to me!"
Silence.
"Quite a show, mother. I might even have believed you had the scars on my back from your merciless whipping not still be stinging. I might have believed you my stomach wasn't rumbling from the starvation you let me suffer day in and day out. I might have believed you, mother, if you hadn't spent my whole life telling me I was an ugly piece of junk who you were taking care of for a couple of years until I was old enough to become a whore and earn you back all the pennies you spent on ensuring my survival."
"Lies! Lies, I tell you!"
"Oh stop, won't you. Why isn't your cane out yet? My outbursts are usually followed by your strikes. Why am I not bleeding yet?"


The mother looked over at the one sided glass shield. She knew the man was looking at them through the glass. She decided the time had come to let Celine know that they were being watched. She hoped that would help calm her.


"You see? You see what I have to deal with Mr.Capri? This is the love she has for me!"
"Capri? Who's Capri? Are you going senile? And, for the record, I wouldn't call what I have for you, 'love', actually. Quite the opposite." You senile old witch, you.


A man came out of the adjacent room holding a clipboard and looking stern.


"I think I've seen quite enough, Mrs. Earl."
"You see? Do you see what she treats me like? I need someone to love me! I need care! I need money!"
"Would you like my agency to take her in, Mrs.Earl? We'll pay you good money for the body. The mind can be disposed of with enough time and energy."
Huh, scoffed Celine, she'll never let him take me. She awaits the day when I go and sell my body for her. She isn't going to let some agency have that pleasure. But, who in god's name is this man?
"Uh, no, Mr.Capri, she is still my daughter, and I love her, I just think we may need some money. I will need some way to get help. I know she's a lovely girl inside. I think it was her father's death that has made her this way."
Huh, skank! You killed him! You've threatened me saying you'll do it to me too! How can you lie to this man! 
"Ah, how tragic. But, didn't your husband die nearly 7 years ago? And in the report, uh, you claimed Celine had been giving you trouble for just, let me check, 'a few months'? Can you explain this discrepancy Mrs. Earl?"
HAHA! He did his homework! Answer that you old rag!
"She is a strong girl, Mr.Capri. It's no surprise it's taken so many years for it to sink in and have this impact. This gradual effect is no less than can be expected from her, Sir."
Aw, haell no! I knew she would wriggle her way out of it. The little worm!
"Yes, that sounds about right. Well, Mrs. Earl, I think I know enough now. Clearly, you have great love for your daughter, which, I'm afraid, is something she is unable to recirprocate. I will contact my agency for confirmation, but I'm quite sure I will be able to help you."
"Oh! Thank you! Thank you so much Mr.Capri! You've saved my life! Our life! Our life, ofcourse, our life, always together! Celine, say thank you to Mr.Capri!"
No effing way.
"Merely doing my job, Mrs. Earl."
"Ah, but you are doing it only too well! Perhaps there is some other way I could thank you?"


Mrs. Earl moved closer to Mr. Capri. Celine could only see Mrs.Earl's back now. She tip-toed a little and saw Mr.Capri's eyes widen. Coincidentally, it was around the same time that Mrs. Earl shifted the robe she was wearing. 
Oh, the whore. She's giving herself to him as well! John'd better hear about this! She needs to earn money so can stop offering herself as a sacrifice every time she has to pay for something! The milkman, the dry cleaner, she's a filthy whore, she is.I don't know why John sticks with her.
Mr. Capri had obviously seen enough. He walked out the door just as Mrs. Earl turned around.


"You're going to pay for your behaviour young lady."
"Oh, it's young lady now, is it? No more, daughter? God, you disgust me."
"Don't think you're too much of a treat for me either, you little rascal. You've had your say for the year. Now it's time to get back to reality. I'm going to get my favourite cane and you're going to be reminded why only the presence of a wealthy social worker will enable me to tolerate your few moments of outspokenness. Stay right there. You're going to regret ever saying anything in front of him."
"You sure about that, slut?"


Mrs. Earl stopped in her tracks.


"WHAT did you call me? Did you not hear me? I'm going to beat the living daylights out of you."
"I'd like to see you try." 
"Oh dear! I think you've got amnesia. Why else would you pointlessly refute all the many times I've done exactly that to you?"
"Because, bitch, I've got the stick."

"Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn."

It started off with my father shouting and me feeling guilty. He told me I was wrong for being inconsiderate about his feelings. He told me I was irresponsible. He told me I took him for granted, always expecting him to be available to come with me wherever I wanted to go, but never returning the favour. He said I never respected his privacy, walking into his room whenever I wanted, taking whatever I wanted, but still having the audacity to slam the door in anger if he ever dared to walk into mine unannounced. 


He told me I wasn't allowed to talk on the phone at night and I didn't, for I realised there was probably some meaning behind his many, many words. I respected the fact that he was so many years older than me, and that that had to hold for something, and there was no use denying it. I used to defend his innumerable, immeasurable lectures to my sister, who being much older had already reached that stage of mental independence and rebellion I now find myself in. 


I used to be able to justify his regular temper outbursts saying that he had reached an age where he deserved nothing but respect and understanding. I understood that I was meant to look past the way he was saying things, for it was sometimes oppressively unpleasant, and look instead at what he was saying, and try and gain something from it. I used to feel ashamed when he accused me of lying. I used to care when he said he thought I was a disappointment. My conscience used to creep up on me, you know? Well, I used to know. Used to.


Then, something happened.


I can't seem to put my finger on what it was, and I think that's because it wasn't the result of just one incident. It was a revelation, a building of opinions and a downward spiral of attitude.

Now it's like, "Oh Jesus, they're talking again. Mom's waving her arms again. Dad's giving me the 'I am disappointed in you' look. Sigh. Let's get some pizza, yes?"


They talk and talk and talk and I don't feel the need to listen. Alright, I may listen, for I am physically capable of doing that, but there is no emotional or mental effort on any level, to absorb what is being said.


I have a feeling I know who to blame for this paradigm shift in my level of giving a rat's ass.


Contrary to popular belief, it's not me. It's my sister.


See, my sister and I never used to talk much. Then, I started dating someone, and that changed, because now we had something to hide from the common enemy: our parents. They could not know about my boyfriend. God, I made the mistake of once mentioning to them that  this male friend of mine had become my best friend (though he was indeed my boyfriend) and they went completely berzerk; they brought his name up at every possible opportunity to prove how I'm wasting my life, and how they know nothing about my life (well, they were right about this one), and how I spent hours on the phone yapping at unimaginable speeds (this had to be pure assumption, because even thought it was true, they had no way of knowing that unless they skipped work and stalked me the whole day) about things that had no meaning or value of any sort. I think my parents are the kind who are going to assume I am going to remain a virgin till my wedding night. So, basically, there was no way in living daylight that I was going to tell them. 


My sister and I started talking about how we could avoid my parents from getting to know about him. This obviously involved very grueling planning and coordination. Not to mentioned innumerable instances of humour and mockery. So, we bonded.


One thing led to another and before you knew it, we were talking about everything- my friends, my school work, stuff on television, music, boys, my boy at the time, her friends' names, our parents and their oppression, how to deal with the pressure, her work life etc etc. We got on pretty well.


Don't think this means we're all hunky dory. We still fight. Mean, mean fights. Both of us can be pretty ruthless in our verbal tactics. We can break a rock. And against each other, it's hell on earth, it is. Before, people used to try and convince me the fighting we suffered was normal, but since it was the only communication my sister and I ever used to have, I couldn't help but disagree. Now, since it's part of so much more, it's tolerable.


Anyhow, the reason I brought her up, is because I have a sneaky feeling it's her influence that has made me so thick skinned when it comes to my parents, and rules in general. I no longer feel any concern or regard for my parents' ramblings. Somewhere, I guess I've just accepted that whatever I do, they will have a problem with it. And this theory has been proven right over and over again. Further, I think I've told myself that at the end of the day, they're parents like any other, so they should expect me to care just as much as other kids do, and not as much as I have my whole life, which has always seemed to be a bit more than normal. 


I probably sound so heartless.
But believe me when I say this.
Every moment that I laugh with them, every time my dad says he's proud of me, every time they give me a compliment (sparingly so; their excuse is that they don't want it to go to my head), it swells me with happiness.


But that doesn't happen very often. And most of the time, it's just torture, and lectures- which are rapidly becoming synonymous. And I can't help but turn a blind eye, and a deaf ear. It's inhuman to expect me survive if I let myself get affected every single time they try and tell me some other way of doing something.


So, I'm sorry that I'm such a problem, and I'm sorry I've disappointed you so much by being a pleasant, smart, funny, creative, caring, modest, humble daughter who turned bad merely because of circumstances and now find myself incapable of caring, but, "Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn."

Trust me, I'm lying.

It's true, you know.
I am lying.

As are we all.

I tell a lie every second of every minute of every hour of every day of my pathetic, undivine life.
That's just what I do.
And guess who makes me do it?

No, it's not me.
It's not my circumstances, it's not my lack of religion, it's not the absence of any sort of guiding force in my life, it's not even my absolute disregard for whatever little bit of my conscience I have left.

It's you. It's all you. It always has been, it always will be.

You make it so hard for me to be myself around you that I feel the urge to lie to cover up who I truly am. I've been doing this so much that I don't even remember who I was, what I was.

You ask me a question, and my mind goes into a whirl of thoughts I didn't even know I was capable of thinking. My creativity kicks in in ways I never wanted it to. I make excuses for things that are perfectly normal and understandable just the way they are.

You cloud my mind even when you've left, and when you've been gone for months and not shown me your face in decades. How would you care if I didn't see you? It's not like you know you have the power to tear my life to pieces. Gee, I wonder what would happen if you did.
Well, wonder no more.
I know exactly what would happen.
You wouldn't care one little bit more than you do now.

You think I'm exaggerating don't you?
Oh, I can just see your face twisting into that look of condescension you give so routinely. Almost every time I utter a word in your presence, the muscles in your face contort to show an emotion whose expression does to my power of feeling what an atomic bomb does to the Earth- destroy it to shreds so small it's hard to imagine it ever existed at all.

Who are you?



Well, you don't exist.

See? I told you I was lying.