Days keep coming back like waves on my feet.

I can save nothing from the foam of the sea.

I’m adrift in an ocean of shipwrecked keels;

and there’s nothing I can salvage from their treasuries.

No part of the sunset that appeals to me.

All of it merges in my memories; 

There’s only brown born from all the reds and greens.

Only, I drowned from swimming in the sea. 

(A/N: It’s been a while since I wrote poetry that rhymed (many months to be frank) and I was nervous about posting this at all so please tell me if I should try this again!)



Not in the clamor of the crowded street, not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng, but in ourselves, are triumph and defeat. – Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 


Where are our magic lamps?

Who put these fairytales in our heads? 

Who brainwashed us to think great? 

Who said that we’re unique;

Our lives are worth living;

That we gain more than we’re giving? 

I have a bone to pick with every last one of the people who said,

You’re perfect.

Because I’m not, 

And I’d prefer not to be falsely fed 


I have room to improve. 

And don’t we all as a race?

These fairytales mean naught

More than lies, beautiful lies,

There to stop reality driving us insane. 


(A/N: In response to someone who said that a magic lamp would do)

Blurred Vision

And I drive myself crazy, thinking everything’s about me. -Heavy, Linkin Park

It’s strange how much we make ourselves suffer. We bother ourselves, we pick fights, we desperately try to hold on to something that makes us look like we have it hard, we try to make it right by proving ourselves right. 

We thirst for sympathy. We label closure as catharsis and speak in labyrinthine riddles, hoping against hope there’ll be someone who can decipher them. Someone who’ll sit with us and figure out what we’re insinuating when, or even if we are, anything at all. Spiralling down underground, secretly hoping there’ll be someone who follows us. Dancing just out of reach when someone pulls us close. Walking away, expecting yourself to be found. 

Thinking that our blurred vision gives our words definition. 



I always wanted to be somebody, but I guess I should’ve been more specific.

If we’re made of the same skin and bones as everybody else, what is it that really makes us different? 

It’s a question that haunted every empty second of my life, for as long as I can remember. It’s something that I ponder over and something I get frustrated over. If we’re all going to end up as dust, returned to the Earth, sounding the melodies it sounds, where do our symphonies stand? Interred with our bones? Dead, like the wood of our coffins?

All I know is that I can’t be a pile of organic waste in some catacombs. All I know is that whatever it is that makes us different, I want it. I want to make a difference. I want to be remembered. I want to wrest something out of my life that is worth remembering. 

And what if I lose my soul in the process? It worries me that despite the price, I’m willing to do it. Bukowski comes to aid, “If you’re losing your soul and you know it, then you’ve still got a soul left to lose.” I cling onto it like my last straw and hope against hope that Bukowski is right, and he meant what he wrote rather than just stringing words together to play upon the fears of those who read them, inevitably remembering him.

So what does set us apart? Albus Dumbledore offers an answer -“It is our choices that make us who we are, Harry, far more than our abilities.” 

And logic interferes. 

How many seafarers were chosen to explore fresh sea routes? How many discovered the New World, and hence how many are remembered? One. 

How many men entered Alladin’s cave and touched the gold, only to die before they ever got to the lamp? How many people is that cave now named after? 

Humans have a memory capacity, and making it there means setting yourself apart from 98 billion humans who have ever lived on Earth. I want to be a somebody in this numerical, but I need to be more specific.