ATONEMENT

It's a thing that I couldn't keep it for myself.

Someone trusted me,
somebody did tell me,
but I couldn't keep it for myself.
I couldn't apologize, years might have passed,
and neither couldn't atone to the action,

It's a long-forgotten one,
I chewed on it for a long time,
chomping on it for years
and I gradually internalized
the pain,
now I don't feel it,
the pain,
but instead I feel the void,
void of pure hopelessness,
something I would never be able to correct
or make it proper,
tidy up that friendship,
It was a pure one and an incomplete one.

I have shed tears a lot for,
nobody noticed; neither couldn’t
I gather the gut for,

I still, in that swampy water
rot like a corpse,
pig, coward, a nasty little shit,

I ruined it for nothing
I didn't know the pain until
he asked me not to
talk to me anymore;
neither didn’t he utter a word.

That moment, the sound I heard of
a glass heartbreaking.
Quaver with pain, rage, anger
on one, the voice echoed,
that I'm a fraud, trickster,
hoodwinker.

I proved I wasn't loyal.

Like a dried cup of coffee,
I still sit on the table
thinking of atonement,
I still haven't made up to my
dear friend.
The one person I could call one.

"A Sick Boy's Figment memory"

© 2018 Sreejith Jayachandran

13:12pm January 20th, 2017

these stereotypes, am already sad of my consideration- disqualification- you don't fit into the character- you choose- you want to be,  

My starboard side is broken- don't know where am heading- insecure enough to drown myself-

How many like for the next selfie- I call out the differences over the border disputes-

And am on repeat, a single song- and I dance-off to the weird noises-voices, inside my head-

Clap boy to the rhythm- to the self you see in the mirror without a vocal fold to shout- concern- bedtime stories that

I have never heard are in my dreams, These are my figments of memories these days,

The unconventional side wakes in me- like a sick boy- stands firm on his libs- open-

Make a call and remain connected- the utter darkness you see, when the windows are open- I can't

Handle your sense of entitlement- I'm spacing out, isolating from my life's worth-

I ask you for admiration- no criticism- pull me up- stop telling me am fine-

Or take it easy-peasy, I ain't no mistake, under these differences -I'm still breathing and prepared with

Strategies under the same roof- narcissism-

A disorder inflated by itself, just mingle with these different dispositions- do you like them-

they are my religion- an epitome of character assassinators- iron fist smashing the walls, headlamps they keep flashing- in a loop, This is not me-

I’m an obsession, don’t pucker your face, continue- kill them all- one after the other- a standing ovation to one who claims to burn my memoir,

All these figments, just break them, and takes a pause-

drift- travelling back to my memory archive, quiet room stacked up disks of electromagnetic tapes- fidgeting vigorously in shattered pieces- crushing me to my knees, it ain’t pretty-

I know it ain’t pretty anymore, these days of total blindness, I know I have to take it forward-

Am in love with this cliff side beach and these super dried and cracked-up concrete cells, which overlooks the sky and sea over the tree top and I know it’s green and I love the grey in between, the chilling wind and sunny January.

am happy after all these figments of perplexed reminiscence.

these are my faded floaty fragmented feelings for those fine fascinating fetish fantasies.

The Line

It is meant to be the way it is to be,
deeper it goes, better
cutting yourself with a butter knife, it hurts more,
I don’t want to breath up those things that i got wrong,
I turned on to the wrong pages,

and am stuck in that page itself looking,
somewhere in between the lines,
or the quotes,
or the verses,
that read, “I deserve not be hurt”.

I walked across those thousand pages,
for that line,
but never was it found in the paragraphs,
that never ended, continued with commas,
now I want to write it myself down, on it,

It is meant to be there.
maybe I’ll burn it, or let it go,
release the sickness, be free,
let it be what it is meant to be,
just let be, ride back home and sleep.

triangle

Am Fond of Him

learning to control

the fondness for little things that i share

with people, strangers though,

i got no rules, i got no limits.

everything is the same,

i could recognize a pattern,

am on repeat, the same song on the radio,

a million times,

like am addicted to being fond about,

like i make a fool out me,

i try to bring in my territory,

deserted inside four walls, frequent sand storms,

i rot, but my gut let ‘em in,

again,

am flooded, swept away with the ice cold water,

am wet now, wept off half of my face,

i bring it back again,

eerily out of reality, too much spaced-out,

am a fanatic for fondness, the madness,

and all that lavish fucks,

the time 23:23, fuck, it’s late,

late for my hands to please me,

my control is evicted, it’s ruined,

am in a drop, learning to be in my limits,

to bail out of this.. this...

triangle.

Birth

The year was 1977, when he was born.

Eighteen years, he lived for non.

He stabbed himself to dead, 

on twenty fourth of July, 1995.

Couple of days of sorrow and guilt, 

made him breath again as a human, 

on twenty sixth of July.

Now, Twenty-one longness of his existence,

The century seemed the same as before.

He is still the same as then.

Like if he traveled back and off time.

When will be the next, into the time ahead,

what lies ahead and hereafter, is a chance.

The fullness of time from the era he travelled from, 

widely in a vessel of hope, from time to time and millenniums to come, 

he have never found the perfect aeons to live.

In search, he travels decade to decade.

Of his destiny...

~Neil 

TROPICAL

Reflection by Gintaras Kasperionis

Probably the sun has hit the horizon,

That sparkling heat and calm whirling wind,

Have so much something hiding in ’em,

That energy, that passion burns my egos,

And wakes in the inner peace,

Am in a perfect sync,

With you,

And I feel tropical…

Hello

Image by Irving Penn

Hello, I said hello.

Through the microphone, i hear a voice resonate back,

A loudness,

A crunch between my toes like the bones of sparrows.

The cold numbness push on slips away as it's inside.

The heresy I believed in never could break down the back talk.

As you came like a piece of brack through, they call me a plague.

Why still it isn't hang up?

She on the other side with shotgun shells in her cheeks interviews my innocents.

i barely could follow the pulse.

the neighbour shouts, except the only abutting once.

the jumbling mess, no more i could stand up with the attitude.

saying goodbye, i disconnected.

[pause]

i burned the town and the neighbour.

the silence just before i lit them up with gasoline,

was terrifying and fearsome.

and the darkness and the ash flooded sky that came after,

was as peaceful as lying nude on the pristine beaches of Navagio.

i could feel that gush inside me,

free from the strifes and preachy clamourous disturbed people.

[sign]

hello, once again,

through the microphone, i hear a mushy voice...

Caly!