Beautiful bondage.

“I’m not a writer. I’m merely in bondage of the magic 

of words and the meaning 

they hold. 

I’m chained and bound to the mesmerising charm, 

of metaphors and rhymes, 

of twisted word-play 

and of simple quotes.

I’m only a victim of obsession 

and I’m only a helpless lover 

of everything that words are, 

the depth, the perspectives, 

and every little thing 

that leaves me in awe.

I’m simply in bondage, 

one that I don’t want to be delivered from. 

I’m a willing slave, I don’t want salvation from this beautiful burden 

of knowing and learning to express 

in a new way, with the same words, everyday. 

So when people ask my why

I don’t write everyday

I simply smile because 

my words are not my own.

They come from experiences.

The experiences I encounter 

in every little thing I do and I tell them this, 

“I only know one thing, that words 

are poetry, and poetry comes 

only from inspiration.

So the expectations of me, 

to write because I’m a writer, 

are unrealistic to me.

I cannot put my mind on paper

unless I have reason to.

Inspiration is the core of creation.”
Nothing else creates art. 

Art is not art, without a muse and so I will go onto the ends of the earth to find my muse 

and I will simply give ink to the musings of my wandering mind, 

until then, until I can,

I will not write 

but I will wait 

for my muse to come to me, 

or for me to find my muse.

-WANDERER // A r t & E x p e c t a t i o n 

Paradise is an illusion 

I took a walk down

paradise lane, 

the one that I created on my own.

I’m Stuck between fringes 

of lead paint. 

and I wish there was something more.
Rainbows of yesterday mistakes 

but I was colour blind to see.

I was dancing in the hurricane, 

in the eruption of you and me.
But I painted myself a forever that will last, 

on this white canvas that sets me free,

with colours of the ruins and of the past.

I’m simply captivated by my own belief -WANDERER // B e l i e f 

Grey? 

I like to think that the world is basically black and white and as much as we criticise our inability to destroy evil, and deem that the choice between good and bad has to be made, the choice cannot be made. 

I think the reason this world is bipolar, holding onto the existence of two extremes, is because it needs to.

Balance needs to be maintained in the energies. One cannot prevail. Imagine having a completely white worldor black for that matter. 

Nothing would make sense.

The dualities exist, perhaps for many reasons, yet to be discovered and comprehended 

but I like to think, that it is simply 

because as human we need to come to an understanding, that evil and good are two sides of one coin and one without the other, 

has no valour whatsoever.

Cages

“You are the only one that can imprison your mind. Whatever they say whatever they do can be rebelled against easily, those chains can be broken, but what about the chains you bind yourself with? What about the way you limit yourself with your own mind. The world is easy to break free from, if freedom is what you want then break free from the dungeons of your own mind. You are not your wrong doings. You are not your failures. Defining yourself by your past is like refusing to clean up after falling into a pit. Your past is not a place to be in, there is a reason it is in the past because it belongs there. There is much more ahead, much better ahead. Negativity binds you. If you want to break free then first unchain your mind. Think big, think fierce and think right. You are capable of exploring the universe and you alone are capable of changing the world, single handedly. Your mind and what you think is the only barrier in your way. Break free from the bondage of your own thoughts and the world will make way on its own for you to triumph and always remember, 

You are what you think you are, you become what you think you will become, so think wisely,  think carefully and never, never underestimate the power of the mind.”

-WANDERER // Marlyn Pereira

Black memories 

It did not feel taxing, 

the fourth time,

the way 

your hands 

went down

to parts 

of me

even 

I wasn’t 

acquainted with yet.

It did not 

scare me 

anymore, 

It did not 

make me 

want to 

leave 

this body.

I had left

already.

This, 

these hands and feet 

and these eyes 

were just

vacuum and skin.

I did not 

feel disgust 

the tenth time, 

in that corner 

in the dark.

I did not 

want 

to run away 

I was home.

I did not 

want to escape.

There 

was

none.

I did not 

feel the pain

the seventeenth time,

when 

my mouth 

slit open 

and bled 

from 

too much 

force.

I did not 

feel 

the need 

to wipe the blood 

off my 

thighs.
I did not 

feel the pain

or the sting 

of your nails 

cutting through 

inside me.

As a matter of fact 

I did not feel

anything at all.

Year

It’s going to last 31536000 seconds into an eternity. Time is just a measurement to satisfy our need to remain outside oblivion, 

so we measure, to our heart’s content, we measure all that we can and draw estimates of how long will forever be.

We’re all afraid of the unknown, the unfamiliar, the uncertainty. 

We want to know, or at least predict that we may know.

We don’t want to be floating in the universe of oblivion having no gravity to be steady,

but with you I’d like oblivion 

as long as all I know is you, and us.

-WANDERER // A y e a r a n d m o r e

Grandma.

In each of her freckle

there lies a story, 

something she has yet to tell me

something she has yet to unveil.

Her heavy eyes, have borne too many dreams 

too many to reckon

but not one she dreamt for herself.

Her grey and black pastel cascade, 

still as beautiful as her aged heart,

flow below her shoulders like a fairytale

that she tucks behind in bun

just like she keeps collected from the start

all the realities that weigh her down

forming a clog in her gentle heart.
She speaks to me of the days of her past,

and narrates to me everything that makes us smile, 

but seldom does she unravel the stories 

that caused her to cry.

I have a way with reading her lightened eyes

and a way with finding words 

through her resonating silence 

and she knows I do.

So she smiles weakly and opens up to me, all through.

A mother before any other, 

her heart has been to me.

She knows the language my silence speaks.

I have always found solace in her arms

feeble, even as they are like a feather 

inexplicably somehow, 

they hold all of me together