A fragile house

there’s a bleeding teen,
crawling like a snail
with period cramps.
what the fuck!
looking at the blood spot,
and cursing the god.

‘Reka, take this…
take that…’
her mother screams
amid the steam,
with burning spine,
bleeding like a pig.

and the grandma looks
at them with dozing eyes,
amid the darkness of
her wrinkles and freckles,
trying to stretch her
draining legs and hands.

and the father rushes in,
dinner… dinner…
he shakes the house –
what’s this?
no salt. and stale ?
he barks and growls.

© Sanna Wren

( picture is taken from Pinterest. ” A woman peeling vegetables ” by William Kay Blacklock )

Aunties

aunties are teachers.
don’t forget to bow down
before them, my dear friend.

aunties are scholars.
yes, they know the art
of gossiping.

they’ll teach you
how to inflate a baloon.
they’ll teach you
how to turn a word into novel.

they’ll teach you
how to fire a home.
they’ll teach you
how to fuel a wildfire.

aunties are scholars.
yes, they know the art
of backstabbing.

when they fill your plate
with rice and a lot of smiles,
smile back, a plastered
smile, my dear friend.

and when you’re about
to leave, and when the
door is shut, be cool
and just eavesdrop.

you’ll know what you
lack, my dear friend.
and next time you can judge
me behind my back.

© Sanna Wren

(the picture is taken from Pinterest. Credit goes to the respective artist.)

The saddest era (of technology)


rivalry between birds, sky fluffed with clouds, clouds wooled with blues. of course, the sun is 150.2 million kilometres away, but these clouds of blues are not. i am choking, and i can only see the spirals of plumes of blues and epiphanies. nobody knows me, or i have never been whole to anyone. a filtered piece of my life in south, another filtered piece of my life in north, another one in west, and east.

everyone is playing the same game, battling over the same illness, dying a hundred deaths a day, and frantically hoping for the god to toss a miracle card. we are islands and lagoons. we choose strangers. we feel more comfortable with strangers, with a partial or fully eclipsed person on the other side of globe than the ones who sit beside us. we stream down our blues onto their bowls. and the time is precious, it should not be wasted upon thoughts, bout the colours and patterns of these bowls.

and a thousand dozens of people, expert stalkers, wistful stalkers, love-starved stalkers. some are not just stalkers, but stalk-ards like drunkards. and sadly some love-starved stalk-ards leave this world like an unpublished author (without confessing). some don’t give a damn about shame, when the bowl of love is full, let it spill. some are cursed to be alone, rejected. some are destined to cling to illusions, the illusion that she is also being cared, or noticed, or followed, or loved. this is a kind of serious malady.

and there’s a sad song of racism, not of blacks and whites, not of Christians and Jews, but – of the idea of perfection and imperfect-thoughts. it exists only in the minds of those who choose to degrade themselves. no, they don’t choose to, but they’re preyed, by something, they say. this thought is poisonous. this thought is infectious. this thought is hell…

” she is more beautiful, more angelic but i am… he is hot, amazingly witty but i am… her collection of clothes and his table of food… their pictures of swirling around the globe…free and wild birds…happy faces…fairytale love… fictional life… and some striking artists with a lot of followers, love and applauses but i am... “

there are no pockets of gratitude, but only beads to count the curses. this feeling of nothingness is attached with the fear of rejection. “give it a try” they say, but it is impossible when the fear of rejection is so deep. fear is disquietude, crammed with sorrows, annoyance, remorse and many more bitter bitter thoughts. this fear of rejection leads to the thoughts of doom. and a pathetic death with empty hands. the end.

and a bunch of people, short tempered, and with the speed of jet planes. always swaying with the world’s madness, not giving it a second thought. if a person is vaguely labelled as a culprit, he is a culprit, not giving a Google search or time to unravel the case. it leads to the inflation of world of ignorance. if a thought is born inside his head, it is a full-born to post, not giving more time to be more specific. and it leads the heart to the suffocating room of regrets.

and the most popular game of this era is nothing but busying oneself with gadgets, busying oneself with the art of scrolling up and down (the screen). time is precious, it should not be wasted upon thoughts, about productivity. this art of scrolling up and down (the screen) leads to the art of laziness and unorganisation. and some fall into the darkest part of ocean or abyssdepression.

this is a generation of caged birds and sad songs. this is a generation of self doubts and fears. this is a century of maladies. this is a century of slippery paths. this is a cursed century. this is a colonised century. too many victims, but not even a single victory. – we are trapped. we are troubled. there is no exit, to the old green- fresh-big world.

© Sanna Wren

( pictures are taken from pinterest )

Who knows the ultimate truth?

to all those people who get confused between gods and the science and existence of hell and heaven.

i ain’t here to tell you there’s God.
i ain’t here to tell you Jesus is God / Allah is great.
i ain’t here to tell you there’s no afterlife.
i ain’t here to tell you science is true.

sadly most of us get confused ’cause our questions remain unanswered or we are lazy sloths to seek for answers after answer.

i must tell you that this world is full of answers, floating here and there, meadows, bowers, waves, tempest, wildfire, drizzle, hurricane, breeze…

i must tell you that this world is full of answers, floating here and there. and our task is to find, to seek for answers after answer.

why does it rain?
– to nourish the earth
why do they nourish the earth?
– for the seeds to germinate….

a man who seeks for answers after answer will continue his journey till his last breath, but he is always a thousand times better than those who choose to stay still at confusions or ignorance or one who blindly chooses to think he’s all right.

science may be true, but it has not yet unravelled many mysteries. religion may be false, but it is not a virgin (as it has been abused by impure and filthy interpretations for centuries, and it has even been colonised by earthly powers)

God is a poet, and his words are written in verses. you know i am a poet, but do you know how often i get disappointed when my readers misinterpret my rhymes.

or maybe one day the sky will be clear, and the god and science will meet, like a father and daughter who meet after decades.

who knows the ultimate truth?

a man who seeks for answers after answer will continue his journey till his last breath, but he is always a thousand times better than those who choose to stay still at confusions or ignorance or one who blindly chooses to think he’s all right.

© Sanna Wren

( image credit goes to the respective owner. according to google image, it is from science and religion | Wall Street International Magazine )

I don’t exist

this is not my life.
these are the pieces
of lives of people
around me.

this is not my decision.
these are the pieces
of opinions of people
around me.

i don’t exist.
do i exist?

© Sanna Wren

( image credit goes to the respective artist. According to google, this painting is called “The blurred image of humanity” by Jesus Leguizamo)

The nightmare

when i was four,
i had a nightmare
of a very cold night,
of thunder and lightning,
of storm swirling
the heavy rain.

i was all alone
or left alone
in the darkness,
in the midst of
angry clouds,
of god’s temper.

and i cried, mummy..
i cried, daddy…
but no one came,
and my voice
quivered to death
when thunder laughed
at its own victory.

i was half naked
in the doorstep,
shrinking into ball,
i was tied to
a nearby object,
cause i was playing
knotting-game before
the swirling of storm,
and i trapped myself.

and i cried, mummy..
i cried, daddy…
but no one came,
and my voice
quivered to death
when thunder laughed
at its own victory.

(little did i know
that my entire life
would be the nightmare
i had when i was just four?)

© Sanna Wren

(Image credit goes to the respective artist. Taken from Pinterest)

My Happy version

It’s a summer night,
and im looking at the stars.
thinking of another
universe out there.

there must be
a happy version of this girl,
shining like the moon,
dancing in the rain,
walking with chin up,
singing in the shower,
joking with friends.

partying with faraway
artists and poets.

love letters from readers,
and a doorstep of flowers
and window full of hopes.

and running,
running through the forest
with nobody to tell her
where to go and
when to come

and walking,
walking down the garden
with nobody to tell her
what to pluck
And what not to taste.

and sailing
happily sailing across
the ocean, with nobody
to tell her limits –

and sliding,
sliding down the rainbows
like a happy kid.

awe! i want to meet her
and kiss her,
but….

© Sanna Wren

(Image credit – Summer Night painting by Arthur Barnes)

A/N – Once upon a time, someone saw me in his dream, happily running through the Amazon like forest… I think he saw the other version of me living in other universe. Thank you 💖

Force

there’s nothing more painful than the word force. doing the things that you really don’t want to do. and when the ocean inside you overflows, all you can do is – shutting the door and clenching your fist, spilling some tears and silently screaming from so suffocating room, shrinking your whole body into ball and grinding your teeth. hurting yourself and cursing god. and looking at the window and wondering when on earth you’re going to reflect the sun.

I don’t know anything that’s more painful than the word force. you’ve only one life but you don’t get choices. you’ve only one life but you can’t live it.

©Sanna Wren

An empty life

i wake up so late,
my daddy scolds
and my mumma follows.
isn’t it a warm welcome?

and i walk here
and there
with disheveled hair
and baggy clothe.

and i sadly look
at my academic books,
things spilling out of
my procrastination lid

and i paint and
paint, only to
tear the pages
and cry.

and i write and
write, only to
stop it midway
as always.

and i go to my lazy
bed to sleep
and rescue, only
to wake up hungry

but i eat very
very little,
and drink only
when my body aches.

and i think
of this vast universe
but always end up
doing nothing

and when the night
is still, and when
everyone is in dreams.
i scroll up n down the screen.

scrolling to stop
at the faraway –
writers and artists
i love too much

and i wish i had
them beside me
to kiss and hug
all day and night.

and i go to bed
with a heart full of
aching poems
and hollow hands.

my heart is often
a violent ocean,
and it overflows
all over my body.

midnight is always
a battle time.
and i terribly swim
to grasp for my life.

© Sanna Wren

Image credit goes to the respective Instagram user