Dea Swasti

Pithole of pining

Will my dreams come true, or should I swallow

The pill that sits on the entrance of my throat?

Last time I took these drugs, they didn't show

Desired effects, just visions remote,

Of alternative futures that stung and left me

Deeper in this pithole of pining for pipe dreams.

This hole that I see,

Is it dug by my hands, or my heart's silent mining?

The shovel I wield– does it lay in my grip,

Or buried within where my secrets slip?

Will my desires breathe to life, or do they lie with me in this grave?

The last time I set out in search of answers,

A light flickered but in deep depths of a forest.

Is it that I didn't give enough, or was my enough not it?

I don't have much, but what I have I am ready to risk,

Is there any hope ready to show, come out of the mist?

In the mean time, I'll lay in the grave,

with my skeletons of covert, welding the shovel,

I'll use it as a shield to guard me from the inevitable.


Now that all this time has passed,

I question, was it really all my fault

and not just the way this world works?

could I blame it on the fate written in our stars,

or the deals we made with our playing cards?

Can I blame the forces of nature, the universe, the invisible string that once tied us together, snapping and repelling apart

Or truly, is the one to take the blame, me?

The Museum Within

I'm a museum too, just like so many others claim,

Within me reside, buried years, events, and names.

In the archive, hidden deep, lie fragments of my soul,

Shattered pieces I conceal, never whole.

The night manager resigned, and I closed the gates,

Guarding moments to die with, behind locked fates.

A mausoleum of memories, the pillars stand and take cover,

On days when it rains or the sea washes over,

The engravings on walls may erode but at least they guard the interior .

Statues of marble that will take to crumble with time,

Robust armour that will take to rust and set for life.

Rotting flesh, moths that kiss flickering lights,

They shall too stay and say goodbye

When the sun sets and I slip into perpetual slumber.

Gates remained closed to a museum that's submerged, surrendered.

Beneath The Surface

My surface shallow misguides you,

It shields me from tourists who only intend

To take a dip and leave their marks.

But who is willing to sink here with me?

To drown at sea, to explore the depths,

To swim through caves and stare at the corals,

Who is willing to untangle me from the trash,

The plastic wrappers and nets that keep me below?

Who will chart the maps of my deepest fears,

Navigate through storms, embrace the tears?

To find the pearls of wisdom in the sands,

And hold them gently in caring hands.

Who, if I let no one know the waves I've held?

How, if no one sees the hurricanes that meet my eyes?

Who, if I can't confess to currents only I've borne?

How, if I've cast out everyone and painted myself superficial?

Maybe I should drop the paintbrush dripping in lies,

Maybe the world should become kinder to those who try,

Or maybe for the rest of my life,

I'll keep gasping until someone puts out the light.

burn the map

Sit down by the fire, curl up on my lap

let go of desire, burn the map

passion is but a flame, it shall cool eventually

when it's ashes char and scatter, all shall be long buried

trust. trust. trust in me.

the soul will free from the chains of burden,

the soul will release from the need of purpose,

your desperate white knuckle dying grip will sore

the denial and struggle bear no fruit.

let go of desire, burn the map

when all that's left is ashes in the hearth,

all shall be long forgotten.

passion shall pass and if not, it shall kill the being.

Carved Bruises

The pit you carve in my stomach

does it give you the pleasure you seek?

A chance to live the apocryphal notion of seeing through me?

I am not proud that I have to play pretend with you just to breathe.

I am ashamed of the masks I need to wear whenever you are around.

The parts I have to act through, the dialogues I have to alter.

The bite marks on my tongue are getting too apparent.

The bruises on my knees are turning too permanent.

You hold the scalpel with such grip, afraid to let go.

Do you fear what I would do if it fell to my fingers?

And God, the audacity you still have, believing that we've made up

when you never took accountability.

Mother, the pit you carve in my stomach doesn't help me breathe.

I am suffocating from your strangle.

So please, just this once,

let me be free.

Three Words

Three words,

Empty, sorrowful, or false,

Three words

That show concern,

Provide enough hope

To either repair or restart.

But if you see it as bandage or break,

It won't mean the same.

Three words that could save someone's life,

Three words could start a chain reaction to make things right.

Three words, whether empty, sorrowful, or false,

Convey concern and confer comfort.

Three words that could brighten up the world.

And you may ask: How is it possible for words to hold such power?

How is it that something so simple remains undiscovered?

I'll tell you what it is, but just under cover.

People can be selfish and ashamed

To speak these simple words.

Regardless of how they are delivered,

They mean the same thing,

Just in different degrees of danger.

There’s so much three words could mean:

"I want you,"

"I need you,"

"I love you,"

"One more time,"

“One last time.”

But there's also a question:

"Are you fine?"

The Artist's Critique

If artists first point out the flaws in their creation,

And all humans are art,

Then it's clear our parents are the first to see our imperfections.

But when they blame the artwork itself,

Rather than the process, time, and care it took,

Or the poor tools they used,

That's when they truly fail.

Their critique gets out of hand,

And they fail to even try to understand.

Somehow, it's always the art that gets blamed yet again,

But not the smeared paint, tattered edges, fingerprints, footsteps, blood stains, or cuts on the canvas.

Unwilling to accept their own faults and take criticism,

To change for the better,

They'll get frustrated, then shine the spotlight right in your face and say, "Look, this is what you are worth."

When they try again

And don't improve their methods,

That's when they fail,

For the millionth time.

Glue/House that you call home

I was the glue of the walls and the roof,

this house you like to call home.

But when I sank low, so did the lights and tides;

the piles of lies came tumbling down.

When I lose my cool, this place loses its glue.

I kept all the bricks stuck together,

not a piece out of place.

So when they come to check,

you can hide me in the basement.

I’ll take the blame for the stink,

and you get to say that you win.

But just know this: it’s only as long as I play glue.

What happens when the stick loses hold?

What happens when the fix gets old?

You can say it expired, you can say it was time;

we all expected the collapse, one of a kind.

You could find another adhesive to take my place,

but don't make the mistake of thinking that I'd leave with grace.

I'm out of the ordinary, a master at staying buried.

I can play the fool, but what happens when I lose my cool?

Is there a glue that can hold me in place when I need it to?

I've been the one gripping the walls to the roof of this 'home'.

You can chant “for the kids,” you’ll keep it as it is;

you'll make it worse, then blame the child

that's been putting all its faith into a lost cause

just because you don't change.

These floors have seen more than you could imagine,

and I can't begin to explore all the ways I've been damaged.

I can pull the strings,

I can hammer in push pins,

I can play glue, I can come through.

But what if the building that's collapsing

has my name in bold, scarlet writing?

Am I to hold me too?

Can you see the ripping, can you see the pull?

When I split, will these glasses shatter?

When I lose, will these efforts matter?

I can play glue, I can play fool,

but what happens when I can't come through?

Who's holding these plastic branches in place

if my hands are broken, tied, and dazed?

This house you call home is simply a dwelling, simply a hoax.

As you take the credit and hand over the blame,

know that I'm the glue and my stick is bound to give out.

‘Bon voyage!’

Sinking under the weight of all the things I wished to say to you as it washes over me continuously in ripples, in waves, high and deep.

And I'll let you live, but it's your distance from me that decides the intensity of the next tide that hits and buries my head underwater all over again.

And the bubbles rise, the ships sink

My anchor is still bestowed below, deep within

I drown with the ship, my lungs full of water

I gasped for breath, but all I could hear was grateful sighs

My heart pulls me down with it

Heavy with hopes that faded and hurt

delayed by fears that hunted me down

they won't find my pale body floating lifeless in the waters

nor at the shore where we built those sandcastles

And you won't wonder, you won't ponder

you won't pine, you won't bother

there will be no search, just unexpressed relief

fake apologies will be sung, you'll kiss another bride at the altar

While my soul continues to suffer.

Broken Crayons

One of my biggest fears is that

what if all the strength I can hold before I break

is all the strength that I can ever bear? Because it is not nearly enough

for the girl I am, for the girl I am going to be and for the girl I want to be.

The life I see, has shown me colours

and then snatched it right back and handed me a wax crayon box with broken dreams and broken hearts.

The world turns black and white

as the colours drain into the river

and then they sink to deep depths I cannot fathom.

Years pass, the bird song changes,

but the colour doesn't visit for more than a season.

There are moments of paint splash, sure.

Moments of blooming colours,

that spread with great valour

and vanish the moment I wander into them.

I can see them, recognise them, know them, cherish them and die for them.

But alas, I cannot feel them.

Forever I search for more strength in these walls and empty benches.

Forever I search for love in these cold bedsheets and drawn curtains.

Colour may not return, but I stay.

Six feet under, with my eyes longing

And my heart shattered.

A sheep in Wolf's clothing

my mind is my enemy, my enemy has imprisoned me.

my thoughts soared through the sky, I restrict them, inhibit them, in order to civilize the girl they see.

I beg your greed to leave you be, but it's the air you breathe, the bread you eat.

the wine you drink is as sinful, if not more as my blood, spilled, dripping into the drain.

the voices command me to scream, to rebel, to make them bleed.

I sing to muffle them, pull my strings as some puppet's to sit, smile, nod and help.

they crowd me demandingly to see a show, they either see a ‘good girl’ or a fool.

all my harvest drowned in the pond, they pretend to gawk at the sight but relish in their delight.

I stand lone as a pale, dry tree among the lush green trees, as I once used to be.

atleast they are kind enough to let me believe I had a past as glorious (and inefficient) as a patriot.

they quarantine me and laugh, my failure must be a plague for the length it extends till and the way I cough.

I must be special in a needy way, but all they do is take, take, take.

the black dog barks loud, screeches and searches for answers to the questions asked and the ones I dare not ask.

bees buzz in my ear, crickets whisper and stay hidden in fear.

I refuse to move, the risk of being stung

I am but a writer, who wears the disguise of an intellect, a scholar, a student, a coward, a clown, a thug.

My lilies have dried up and wilted by dint of the heat, my sunflowers hide from their Sun, the very source of their bloom.

I wake at dawn, rest at dusk, stare into the sunset as the feeling of loss in me keeps sinking deeper and deeper and somehow, still, deeper.

what does the world have left for me?

For a sheep in Wolf's clothing.

every step panning carefully, while this job demands from me more than my capabilities can exert.

I stuck twigs on my limbs to replicate paws, they in turn prick me, as some sort of punishment.

I try to howl, to not get hunted down and cut to meat, they've come as far as wounding me gravely but then abandon me for I refuse to die by their claw.

I had ventured into the forest, I seem to have strayed too far.

the albatross roars through the skies my thoughts once roamed, I watch in silence as they spread their wings, as I look back down to my muddy feathers, on the ground.

A Grave To Grieve in

I have dug my own grave, made my own bed, built my pedestal assembled of sand and sunk in it fell from it into the void of my own thoughts to my own death.

Except I wasn't mine anymore, I was it's.

I belonged to the darkness I thought I was, I owned.

Instead, I had only engulfed in it, not embodied it.

I picked up the shovel, laid the bed covers.

I plunged the cutting edge into the soil, I set the duvet, I shoved aside the dirt,

I arranged the pillows I dug through, thorough and deep, I ironed the sheets, fluffed up the cushions till there was no crease left to be seen

I levelled the edges, ensured the corners had been tucked.

I closed my eyes, switched off the lights and clung for dear life.

Alas, it was me who made my bed to lie in it, made my grave to grieve in it.

And as the old lady visits the shrine, sounds her prayers and her cries.

I'm reminded of what once was, what could've been and what will not be.

Alas it was me, all me and not mine. Mine was only the damage, the fall and the doing, but not me.