A Break

a single manly tear rolls down my paper smooth skin yO MOMMA

I will be taking a break. From blogging that is (and just social media and writing and anything that brings me joy in general? except going biking at the local national park because ey monsoon’s here and everything is green–i saw a fawn playing with a baby monkey and a peacock dancing during a light drizzle and a turtle maybe communicating with a bird and okay so maybe I’m not giving up everything that brings me joy).

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Not that very many people would care or even notice but in case some poor unfortunate soul stumbles by for the first time in a couple months and wonders why there isn’t any recent stuff, this blog isn’t dead just resting. Feel free to click over to some of the older stuff while you’re deprived of any new content.

Not like doing this will even make any difference, seeing how normally I posted maybe once in two months anyway (barring the last couple recent stress-infused months).

But yeah I’m taking a break, albeit reluctantly, but I gotta keep reminding myself this is all in favour of achieving something I want to do. Which is to go to med school. Which I hopefully will next year if I work hard enough.
I’m taking a drop year to prepare for the pre-medical tests and I’ve been known to be distracted by this platform instead of studying so it is probably for the best, even if it will take some getting used to.

I won’t enjoy it but hey this something I want to do so gotta make sure I do end up doing it instead of, to quote internet sensation, faniel towell, “procrastinate on our one shot at existence”.

Whoop-de-do.

 

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Yours Truly,
Simran

p.s. rice has the prettiest of the plant scientific names: Oryza sativa, as does the sweet pea: Lathyrus odoratus 

p.p.s. rice + Arabidopsis thaliana were among the first plant genomes to be sequenced before the Human Genome Project.

p.p.p.s. carrots were originally purple.

And that concludes your botany lesson for today. Tune in same time next year for some juicy deets on the rich and famous from the sorta-journal I will maybe kinda hopefully keep while away.

in defence of bad art

I think words of longing.
of sand in all my pockets
and the creases of my jeans

of pale trees long gone:
portals to songs and shouts
and paper lights
on warm summer nights
spent fighting sleep

of dust on wooden bookshelves
burning eyes and lazy hands
and records
and records
and records
that serve no purpose
save a quiet joy
I press in between curling pages

of the sound of the earth turning,
and sitting on the cusp of winter

always on the cusp of winter

impossibly young.

 

Yours Truly,

S.C.C.O.P

Confessions of a Retiring Serial Metaphorist (Not To Be Confused With Metamorphist)

I wring out poetry
from used bandages left
by others who bleed poetry.

Words painted gold
painted
pink
purple
cerulean bold.

But I am sick of violets
growing beneath my eyes
they’re not, its skin,
I’m only tired and sleep-deprived.
an unexpected blood-stain
on sleep-heavy sheets
is not an ode to my strength
nor a sin for which to flog me,
it’s only biology.

There are no galaxies in my eyes,
no cosmic rivers in my veins,
at least, none that are not there in everybody else’s.
(Newsflash: The Big Dipper is not my copyright.)

I wring out poetry
from books that are falling apart on my shelf,
from flaky spines and too-sweet pages
that drip honey onto my lips

(But there are 15 of those I have still not read)

I wring out poetry
from flesh and skin
and people who don’t put sunscreen

But I am sick
of hair spun from gold,
of hands that trace lightning into my soul
of alternate realities that come to a standstill when I take a breath
of things that are not me,
or you,
things weighed down with an importance
that does not ring true.

I bleed poetry when I say
I like you,
and think:
this is the place to be.

(within walls that do not suffocate,
and paint that peels
and plants that never flower
but grow a deep green
and weeds that bloom with a defiance
blue
yellow
pink
in places they shouldn’t be.
here, there is poetry
and less of a pretense;
indoor voices unnecessary–

because we’re here too short
to play it cool;
we’re here too brief
to run ourselves hoarse
over things we don’t care about)

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Yours Truly,
S.C.C.O.P
(Simran Can’t Curse On Paper)

ps: I say retiring metaphorist but I mean forced metaphors. I can’t do away entirely with metaphors. An apple cannot simply be an apple, pfffffft where’s the fun in that? An apple is (has to be) cyanide, the death of innocence, the loss of paradise.
A vain hag’s final attempt at superficial relevance.

Every Story But Mine

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i am 23 and singing to a girl
who does not love me-
-but that’s not true i am only 18.
a pretentious witch
who has never fallen in love
but can pretend
and shamelessly exploit
the theoretical heartbreak anyway.

i am 48 and clawing at a nicotine noose
that only seems to cling closer-
-but that’s not true i am only 18.
and smoke may look good in black and white
but cigarettes make my eyes water.

i am 34 and burning the slippers
of a husband who left me-
-but that’s not true i am only 18.
and the burning plastic would
only serve to poison me.

i am 9 and aboard a train
and the man kisses my hand-
-but that’s not true i am 18.
and kindness can be a disguise.
 

yours truly,

[idk man do I even need to sign-off? why am I making this harder than it has to be]

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The blinking line stares back at me,

Waiting, waiting patiently,

For words that never seemed to be

Rooted in reality.

 

The opening and closing of countless doors

Echo into the words, creeping in silently,

Because despite the complex sentences and twisted metaphors,

I cannot hide that which refuses to tread lightly.

 

The tap-a-tap-tap of the keys,

The truth spilling out, hysterical,

In words no one else will possibly, truly see

Because for them, at most, it is fantastically lyrical.

And nothing more.