Noctis Verses

“You never have to change anything you got up in the middle of the night to write.” ― Saul Bellow



Sad (?!)

He’d been sleeping more,
Crying into a pillow –
Water stains and cigarette butts
Empty glasses and alcohol stink

He’d been sadder,
A deep hue of blue –
Bloodless blade and needle
Hangman’s knot and metal peripherals

He’d not be sad anymore  


A November Farewell

How often
Does a sad person – have thoughts

Laying on the floor,
Staring at the fan –
Thinking of how jute would feel against the nape
Cold, bitter(?) – perhaps liberating

It was a refreshingly nostalgic feeling
One felt – time too many

A constant nag,
This too shall pass (?)
Didn’t seem to – stuck
“Stuck in reverse” (?)

This time it won’t last

On a breezy noon –
With high tides and sandy waves
A November farewell  


It’s been over a decade of days,
She’d been wailing —

Her pillow water stained;
Draining into a loop —
Of sadness and melancholy

Much like —
Someone with a broken heart,
;Lost muses
— sitting atop a stolen throne

Heartbreaks are hard (?)
Or so it seemed —
Love wasn’t lost, sadly
;The person though – was

Why’d you do this?

Dead men spoke no lie
Here it’d seem —
That won’t be the case

He’d died in his sleep —
With a friend (?) in his arm
While she—


“Patrice, are you alright?”
Ambre, je suis bien!

“But, but you’re bleeding”
Mon cœur prend une fuite, libérant l’excès

“And your eyes, so pale!”
Ambre, juste une phase. ils sont en déclin comme la lune d’hiver

“Patrice, did something happen?”
Pas vraiment, Evey gauche. me sous-évaluées pour la douche caviar potable

“Oh my! Are you serious? Evey left YOU!”
Ambre, oui, et ce coeur de la mine est de décharger les bagages et les souvenirs de son

“Patrice, everything will work out”
Il sera, il le fera. dès que je me perds dans la rose parsemée lit de mort

“Goodbye, Amber”
Patrice, non.


{Not Applicable}

She had friends –
(A few – close,
Much like family)
Ironic perhaps,
More than half of a sex
Not hers –
In generic terms of the opposite

 Of them also –
The one with tails,
She had one as a lover
And one who was her muse;
In her words –
“He was a beautiful muse”

Of those who’d become family,
A select few –
Could only make her happy (truly)
Other shared laughs and smile –
Not genuinely

Now that she’d been away –
A bunch of hours, really
Wondered –
If anyone missed a broken person
(A few did – she knew
But, mental illnesses were at work)

To her muse, love and all those in between,
Someone’s back on the front

To quote this person –
“Midnight is clichéd”

Off Grid

He’d realized –
He was broken,
From inside

Not the suicidal –
“I want to die”


Dang it!
“I am not worth it”

It felt liberating –
He knew it was sad

Feeling lost
Didn’t know what to do

Not just that

Wasted days, after days

Helpful (?), not –
Like, if he was to be true to himself
It was all, but a blur!

He felt like doing nothing
Not even – write, eat or anything else


Even though he shouldn’t feel this way –
It felt like no one cared

Much like a lonesome defeat
It stayed – meddling
Mood swings and constant mental breakdowns

The pillow had defined salt trails
Mentally mushed


To the world – he’d smile and say,
“Alive and kicking”

Not all that glitters is gold –
His life was glittery
Not gold


Left hanging –
In a pool of blood, a string attached
A few screams
Some sobs

That was how he ceased
In a jute garland
With slashes to complete the look

A half burnt cigarette,
Note in a tissue with snot
A wilted rose on the study
With a smile on the face

He had come to be –
With a smile
A journal left incomplete
With lost thoughts and tear stains

“Sadness reeks creativity”,
He’d say – with a smile
And the nonchalant dull eyes
No one seemed to notice

That was how he ceased –
With a jute garland and crimson wrist


Under the usual banter –
On one seemed to notice,
The swollen eyes and the smeared mascara
Smudge marks on the screen

The cheerful girl next door,
One with the hoodies and the cute shirts
Had a battlefield on her arms
Slashes and injection pores

All this was left unsaid
With no notices or appeals
Smirks and drooping grins
Way was weaved

(I was just under,
Pills and overdosed)

Lusted quiver

It had been many nights hence,
I’d been living –
Under the dim lit street lamps
Sleeping in a cardboard box
Sniffing – smell is as good as meal (?)
Being lost and now homeless
Running away –
It now seemed away not worth this
(Was it though?)

It’s been after years,
Years, and years of abuse
Of sexual profanity
By this person;
Apparently, supposed to shelter me –
Help me out – yet I ran
Was I right?
(It’s normal, I suppose – not)

Without anyone looking out anymore –
For lust or worse
This concrete my grave –
A box my coffin
(Dead drama?)
That’s at least better than being covered – white
Liquid not cloth
In frost not fingered touch

Die in hope – not a lusted quiver


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