This ink is all I have

To sustain this holey vessel of mine;

Imparting subtlety to a sunrise 

While making moon the victim of dead shrines.

Even Hope sprinted away 

From my Pandora’s jar….

‘Guess my soul was worth Nada

In the deal with the devil, afterall. 

I can preach peace

While waging a war

Between the shattered veins of my mind. 

For in the end, 

I’d be craving 

For the Winter to rest in pieces 

While forging my gratitude for its Demons

That made me feel alive. 

I can fall in love 

While ranting 

About the abysmal fallacy of

‘Unconditional’ affection. 

For, at the end of the day, 

These wrinkles of mine 

Are just laugh lines

Gone tired of playing pretend 

With the sunshine. 

I can show you my care

While living a psychopath’s picture perfect dream 

In all my bloody fantasies. 

For, following the curtain call,

Even familiar masks 

Seem to have donned

The faux skin of a human. 

There is no denying;

That this heart of mine

Is confined 

Within the frozen walls, 

Fabricated by my Demons;

It can beat, 

Pretend to breathe, 

Yet impelled to remain 

An eternal prisoner 

Behind these rails…. 

Just Forging weapons 

Of smoke and mirrors. 

I’m nothing more than a walking cadaver

Feeding on empty-emotioned drugs,

Thriving to lie in a sweet casket 

That awaits my presence 

In my pleasant graveyard

After a long, tired day

Of selling hollow excuses 

On ‘The reasons to feel alive’. 

I was taught 

To be a Rag Doll 

Controlled by the minds of

The rotten fleshes who knew nothing more 

Than how to cheer or make somebody a laughingstock. 

                                                 – JAISMINE K. 

my Bipolarity’s craftiness