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,
curling up on a side,
tied to a nearby object,
that 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 become the nightmare
i had when i was just four?)

© Sanna Wren

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

Summer night

It’s a summer night,
and i am 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 about 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)

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

Circle of hollow lives

there’s an old woman sitting by the lonely window. it’s foggy, and everything is getting blurred. her face is wrinkling into eternal darkness. her pace is very slow as there’s no butterfly to chase. her only daughter rests in heaven, and her only son is across the sea. names of her grand children are gibberish, and their tales look like myths. now i must tell you that she is a hollow stranger, rippling hollow poems.

and there’s a young mother hustling here and there and mumbling with never-ending chores. her spine is heavy, and her eyes are sore for her child is spoiled with bookish knowledge, for her child is skinny and unattractive to love and lust, for her child is an admirer of singing birds, for her child is against the bullshit religious dramas. and she spends her day and night with rosary beads, counting her child’s flaws, unmindful of her own life and its meaning, unmindful of her narrow head. now i must tell you that she’s a hollow woman , rippling hollow poems.

and there’s this young girl with dishevelled hair and baggy clothes and eyes. sitting in dark room, wishing to disappear into abyss. her head is wide and wild but her life is narrow. her heart is brutality attacked with norms. she’s forced to follow the circle of hollow lives. now i must tell you that she’s a hollow poet, rippling hollow poems

© Sanna Wren

Image credit goes to the respective artist. Sad old lady by kweenofklubs on DeviantArt

Hollow birthday

tonight i am gonna be twenty two,

hollow, dark, drunk,
bruised and poisoned.

tonight i am gonna be twenty two,

with no wishes to count on,
but only to cut off –

tonight i am gonna be twenty two,

and i will know my friends
and fun are myths..

tonight i am gonna be twenty two,

and i will write elegies after
elegies for my dying self –
for i am a lonely girl even unfit
for a poor street poet’s poem.

( This poem is rhythm-less, isn’t my life? )

© Sanna Wren

(Image credit goes to the respective artist.. taken from Google)