A Hell in Mind
Why can't I write without tears,
Each word a wound so dear,
Scratching my heart with pain—
Like thunder chasing gentle rain.
Why do I need to bleed to feel,
To scrape the truth, to make it real?
My mind, a maze of restless storms,
Longing to break, shift, and transform.
Why the hell is it like this?
Hope—a ghost I always miss.
Why can't I just simply be,
Without this ache anchoring me?
This feeling, a mess that pulls me deep,
In darkness, where no light dares to seep.
Always lingering, always near—
A hell in mind so close to bear.
Yet somewhere, in the silence I keep,
A whisper stirs beneath the deep.
Not hope, not peace—but something small,
The will to rise, despite it all.
This comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteI don’t know if it mirrored what I meant to say—maybe it didn’t. But it felt like something real walked through the words, even if it tripped or got tangled. I won’t pretend it hit perfectly, but it touched something. Maybe that’s enough. Most people skim pain like it’s decoration. Yours paused. Stayed. It wasn’t clean, it wasn’t polished—but neither am I. If it didn’t reflect endurance, maybe it was still a kind of company. And that’s a rare thing. So yeah… maybe it is better now. Not lighter. Just less alone. Just to let you know—I look forward to your comment on every poem I post. It's like someone out there relates to my depth, and that matters to me more than I let on. Thank you for reading everything I put out there, for staying, for seeing it the way you do. Your choice of words is always so wondrous—it feels like they wrap around mine. I’d love to read your poems too, if you ever write them. Because someone who understands this much must carry a universe of their own.
DeleteIt's impeccable. Your rawness about it. You could've said yes it touched, or deliberately said no it didn't yet was something. But the way you've said it's not a layer but truth. To be honest it's rare to acquaint the truth, to really endure it and enlive it despite the eternal blazing within it. And it's exquisite that what i was trying to say, engraved the way you wanted it to be and also the way it really was. I would be passionate to share the poems with you, i don't know someway or the other, i don't know how i could. Quite be honest here, most of your poems are something that one could endure, much like a truth a truth beyond morality, religion everything, am unfathomable truth. And the rest of the poems, about love not much fond of it, not because you didn't cared while writing but because z i never really felt it. With anyone. I don't know wheather albert camus or dostoevsky said that ,"To be unloved by people is less miserable than to not being able to love at all." It's not exact but it's an apparition of it. I was impalpable to love. The rest of your poems really resplendent, like not in joy, but it's the resplendent abyss, one could passionately endure.
Delete:) thanks for listening, 'everytime.'
It means more than I can put into clean words, the way you read—not just what I write, but what I don’t say. That kind of understanding... it’s not casual. And you’re right, truth isn’t always layered—it’s raw, it stings, it lingers. I never really expected anyone to call it what it is. But you did. And that matters.
DeleteYour words carried their own kind of ache, you know? Like someone who hasn’t held love but still knows its weight, somehow. Maybe that’s what makes your understanding even more honest. There's something hauntingly real about what you said—"a resplendent abyss"—because that’s exactly where some of these poems live. And maybe that’s why you see them the way you do.
I'd love to read your poems, as for where maybe we can connect on insta or maybe in the comments itself wherever you find it comfortable.
And... thank you for listening. Every time. Really.
The reason I'm able to do it, is probably because you're 'Alive' ,yes 'Alive' most of the people aren't. Though you're alive in your own way, that what truly stands out. I'm not garnishing. But you know most people have forgotten The core of being human. To suffer, to chuckle, to engrave oneself within the truth as Nietzsche said. To feel, To be aware of the abyss. And you, you're literally representing it. Female writers like , Virginia woolf, (apologise if i have mistaken the spelling) Sylvia plath. Their poems, it's impeccable. I'm not saying you're perfect. Definitely no one is, there is more to the life. You've that infinitesimal, eternal blaze entwined within. A blaze through which you smoulder, suffer and yet it what makes you who you really are, The self, the oneness.
DeleteAnd yes for sure we could connect on Instagram,if you feel comfortable about it, if you're keen to it. Here's the name: just.vvansh
And it's literally okay, if you're comfortable in comments, i could totally attend. :)
That really does mean a lot. And I think I’d like us to keep this space right here—these comment boxes where words feel a little slower, a little truer. I’m just more comfortable here, that’s all. Hope that’s alright with you :)
DeleteThis comment has been removed by the author.
DeleteThis comment has been removed by the author.
DeleteThis comment has been removed by the author.
Delete