Author

Thai Youth Express

they say

that when death comes

the soul borne away with the air

traps itself in reflective surfaces.

is it because

humanity fades into existing

whilst refraining from

allowing their truths 

to seep into reality?

is it because 

we glimpse at living

through a depleted surface

of pretence?

or that

we allow not our capabilities

to invade our very mind-frame,

bleed into our deepest secrets

and reveal our ignorance?

why then,

do those mourning souls

hold on to the living,

straining for every fibre

that reflects blissful being,

yet being unable to pass

through that barrier of death,

into the nation of lies and secrecy –

into the waves of sanity,

away from insanity 

and far from terrifying reality?

someone once said

the difference between tragedy and terror

lies in how it is terror that exists

when humans realise 

What they are truly capable of [1] 

stories hang in this midst of a crowd,

waves of emotions 

and unfathomable existence.

in the after

is when these tangible imposters

wash away with the wishes of the fallen –

and are borne away from

the opposite land of what we call

blissful ignorance. 

[1] A quote by Joseph Brosky – a Russian-American Poet.

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Varanasi

by Thai Youth Express

Inside the sari shop we are sitting.

Touching and talking to the vibrant stitchings

Of fabrics long -stretched – as if to the River and back,

With which my hands make contact, 

And I feel myself come alive.

Of every colour I see, the next one is better;

Canary-mint with an explosion of heather,

Black-blood with the scent of bitter-sweet paan,

Sangria-grey like an old woman’s last days –

When all that exists has been sought

And gracefully washed away.

Designs and demonstrations of Banaras’ history.

The people can be seen singing and dancing

To rhythmic melodies of their rich, old stories

Of a time when the country came to a beginning;

When my father was yet to be born,

And my mother, yet to be living.

In another moment, I live elsewhere.

Back home in the city of the faraway me,

Sitting and talking to all the distant things,

Feeling out of place in a country I was born in.

But in this shop, I am sitting.

Playing with the cousins for a long time I won’t see.

The marriage is tomorrow, the reception the day after –

And here I sit with my sister, choosing my mother’s sari.

I will travel around Varanasi, breathing in its air

While the temples and drivers surrender to their prayers.

I will search the world and seek wonderful things,

But nothing as eye -opening as what has come to define me

Here: in my mother’s city – Varanasi. 

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When I approach your doors,

Greet me not with finality

Nor pressure me to sleep,

Have me not chained and begging

For you to lend me peace –

For I will come prepared,

Ready to accept your hand,

And I will treat you faithfully,

Hoping life doesn’t end with me.

When I cry myself to reality,

And say goodbye to family,

Find it in your heart

To not take me so suddenly,

Nor lend me your helping hand

When I have yet to surrender only.

When you disturb my thoughts,

The way you do so daily,

I ask for understanding

In my faithful imagining

Of yourself being so graceful,

So tender just like sleeping.

Let me fall not so suddenly,

Nor let me leave entirely empty;

Let me have the satisfaction

Of saving my gentle memory.

For even now I am hoping

You are more than my ending –

And when the time comes, 

You bring a new beginning.

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I feel empty.

when the day comes, there is no light.

there is a gaping wound in my chest

being slowly carved into a second face.

the demonic hand grips me with its talons

and pushes everything inside me all at once.

overwhelming, it makes me feel.

yet at once a smile appears

on my face in which people see –

nothing but me, and only a version of me. 

but when darkness ascends, there is a spark.

it speaks to me, it is my friend –

a safe haven, all troubles put aside,

it invites me into this beautiful den

in which no explanation, no proof need be:

just me and what Ii need to be.

me and my heart, we don’t have to beat.

this hollowness that stands before me –

its fulfillment expands into wonderful things.

come another day, my troubles are past.

remembering back, the hallucinations don’t last.

a brief moment of weakness, it was.

a glimpse of what happens when emotions take over;

not by fear, but by hope itself –

the possibilities and all it entails.

but what if that hope doesn’t last,

and yet again we fall into this pit of heavenly hell?

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Heavenly Hell

I feel empty.

when the day comes, there is no light.

there is a gaping wound in my chest

being slowly carved into a second face.

the demonic hand grips me with its talons

and pushes everything inside me all at once.

overwhelming, it makes me feel.

yet at once a smile appears

on my face in which people see –

nothing but me, and only a version of me. 

but when darkness ascends, there is a spark.

it speaks to me, it is my friend –

a safe haven, all troubles put aside,

it invites me into this beautiful den

in which no explanation, no proof need be:

just me and what Ii need to be.

me and my heart, we don’t have to beat.

this hollowness that stands before me –

its fulfillment expands into wonderful things.

come another day, my troubles are past.

remembering back, the hallucinations don’t last.

a brief moment of weakness, it was.

a glimpse of what happens when emotions take over;

not by fear, but by hope itself –

the possibilities and all it entails.

but what if that hope doesn’t last,

and yet again we fall into this pit of heavenly hell?

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