moved to www.realitycheat.com

i write like i breathe. all work on here is original, please be respectful. thank you. click "archive" for all posts. bring your love. xoxo

[byrealitycheat]

thank you

i will continue to use this tumblr as a source of communication and inspiration, however this will be my last entry. head on over to www.realitycheat.com to see what i’m upto post 2016. xoxo

[byrealitycheat]

an undecided homecoming heartbreak is a white devil. there will be hell and there will be heaven; your home is between the two.

white sands of lombok, grey skies of july. a germ, a blush, a nail in our back. wind on my wristwatch, a blooded mess by your eye. breakfast by clear blue, purple rain on your parade.

tell me, are you happy now? i was shaping you stars when you started searching for space at least tell me you are happy now.

cut your hair. don't call me later. dark wombs and darkrooms; your home is between the two. tell me, do they kiss you warm? do they kiss you when it's cold? will she be there in the morning like i would?

this piece began in august, and now we’re in october. you know i live for the stranger things, i never anticipated it ever meaning us. and baby, i'm the realist.

i woke from my sleep, and thought of you again. 12 long weeks like twisted fingers in my spine that remind me of you, and us.

do you wanna get off? does it sting a lottle? let me see your neck. you keep drinking from bottles.

dirty hippie, you will always be the boy with the orange in his pocket, and i will always be. home is between the two.

[byrealitycheat]

Headline: Local News. Newsflash: It’s You. What’s on your TV screen tonight? Who’s telling the story? What’s on your plate tonight? Who’s feeding the story?

Stand up, look at yourself. Veins, coffee-stains, and star-dust. You made it. Stand up, look at yourself. Veins, coffee-stains, and star-dust. You’re making it. Little pieces of magic, and you’re holding the rabbit. You’re working the lights tonight, and the curtain.  You are hero, and anti-hero. You are David, and Goliath. You are id, and ego. But you, are Hero. What’s on your TV screen tonight? Local News. Who’s telling the story? Newsflash: It’s You. 6am: still here. 6pm: still here. Be your’s. Be their’s. Take care of your soul. With your soft hands, and your warm heart. With your bright eyes, dressed the part.  Be your’s. Be their’s. Take care of your soul. With your patience, and your pen. With your laughter, and your friends. Be your’s. Be their’s.  Take care of your soul. With your sweet smile, and your poetry. Be your’s. Be their’s. Take care of your soul. Be your’s. Be their’s. Hero. Hero. Veins, coffee-stains, and star-dust. You made it. You’re making it. You hold the pen. You turn the key.  Who’s telling the story?

Headline: Local News. Newsflash: It’s You.

[byrealitycheat]

journals // 07121101 // 201516.

[byrealitycheat]

journals // 0911 // 2015.

[byrealitycheat]

YDA. you're separating salt from water every time you throw me hands, and then pull back.

my blood is singing because of you.

don't ask me when i close the windows, because i get cold too, sometimes. even when i am burning blue, i get cold too, sometimes.

you don't mean this. you don't mean this. you're in searching, but you are blind.

i have a song that smells like you.

are you still scratching at your chest? did i scar you?

i have 72 songs that smell like you. and some others i forget the names of. do you remember them all? don't answer.

you don't answer.

i spat in my drink and thought of you, left it by my bedside and thought of you.

you used to be so warm, and now you're sitting in the sun with a skin of ice that refuses to melt.

don't tempt me.

you are on the other side of choking on dust. use your thumb as a stump and block the sound of my screaming. it is easier for you.

run back. run back, to what i left on your paper. you write good words but actions speak louder, and silence is the loudest. killer.

i want to tell you i hate you, but we only say “i hate you” to the people we love and i am so tired of telling you things that your lostness cannot hear.

save yourself. you will hurt too, sometimes.

don't tempt me. the female phoenix is my role model and i will set you alight if you let me, and i will set you alight if you don't.

[byrealitycheat]

i wrote a(n almost rap) poem about you and it made me feel hardcore for a solid minute.

late night, studying, papers i got, i’m stuttering, on you, i’m fumbling. this signal- unreliable, these wires- are down under your intentions, they’re there, but your hands, they’re not, so when i think about us,   i don’t know what we’ve got. cos you tell me you love me, i know you mean what you say, but my words are too shaky, i could never ask you to stay. so now i’m picking memories and moments and you’re picking fruits, and some people pick games,   but i don’t- i mean, i won’t- do that to you. so tell me how you really feel,   i mean, really, really feel, tell me if your mind plays over moments   like a broken tv reel, tell me if your dreams cash in on us,   a fucking record deal, tell me if your heart spins on hope, that, what’s it called, wheel? of fortune- miss fortune,   workin on the “mrs” though. only been 4 u, been about you since you walked in the door. from the jump,   director’s cut,   kept it 100,   you know that’s love. you know what’s up. that 90’s rnb shit,   frankie and benny’s,   then ben and jerry’s   and some sweet kick. see, you got me reminiscing,   and i get so sentimental, protective of my heart,   i don’t give this thing like rental. so i’m sitting over here,   can of red bull to my left, hit 5am, and my bed still bereft. stayin up, thinkin bout you, now i’m just being frank   ocean in my room, got these tears to thank. hope you appreciate that. been tryna stay lowkey bout highkey feelings   and it’s whack. you’re still young,   but a caveman with technology, bout to google this   new internet slang,   then something bout girls who study poetry and psychology. yeah, bryson tiller got me in my drake type feelings, and it’s whack, been a minute since this hotline bling’d so we’re due a chat. what would i say?   man, where would i start? “screw you” or “screw this” russian roulette with my heart. or “screw me some more”   it’s good for my art. you’re a bad paint-job,   a dog-toothed edge, forget about eton,   you’re a london mess. my favourite headache,   sunshine on a plate. now you’re living in yellow,   i’m living in blue, i need some   andre 3000   green light tune. and i’ll admit it,   sometimes i keep talking, and i don’t know when to quit it, but i’m talking for the both of us, to god looking over us. so tell me, what would you say?   where would you start? you said you’ve been writing, now give me your part.

[byrealitycheat]

We are God’s Spoken Word. For: twin. chummy. silly pug.        brother. friend. jhadder.        you are the most. God speaks to you through people, He puts a light in their eyes. Rich in soul, full exposure, but behind translucent windows. These are the people you meet in heaven. These people bring you lessons, these people bring you love, these people bring you both. These people are like poetry, heavy breathing hearts, beating rhythms of life. These are the people you want to share your after with- after love, after heartbreak, after dinner, after eight, after party, afterwards, after life, ever after. These people remind you, you are human, and that is enough. Make you feel more than human, in sync with God’s touch. We, are the similes, the metaphors, the alliteration, abbreviation, punctuation, capitalisation, of God’s spoken word. We collide, and touch fingers, open our curtains every morning. Some nights we never really draw them in. We are, speech bubbles, monologues, sometimes silent movies. We, are art, when we let it be. We, are meat masses, meat matters, floating through space. We, are sound waves, from the first floor of heaven, to the centre of the Earth. We, are extraordinary beings, with a tendency to forget. We are the laughter at 4am that strings stars in the sky, We are the tears of every mother and father given their first miracle, We are the pen-marks on the left hand of every writer, We are the second chance telling you to love again, We are the doing, being, breathing, beating, happening. We make war with our monsters and talk at our reflections, We write love-notes inside our eyelids and speak prayers in our sighs, We, are the similes, the metaphors, the alliteration, abbreviation, punctuation, capitalisation of God's spoken word. When we find each other, we know. We know. To hold on, to be true, to be present. Nothing is effort. Souls from heaven. We know, everything we ever need is already inside of us. We know, we just have to be willing to open the book. We are God's spoken word.

[byrealitycheat]

we were adults about it. i sit in the flames of missing you, and my iris burns red. cigarette smoke kisses bite my eyes and i wonder if your missing me is any more beautiful. i don't question if your mind travels to thoughts of me. only quizzical of frequency and intensity. how often is often and how true is true? my journal found grace in conversion to a prayer book. there are train-lines and lip-balm prints on throwaway coffee-cups that remember the trace of your collar-bones, the blue veins in your forearms. i carry memories and flashbacks on my back, in my fingertips, on my tongue like a donkey in the sun and as hard as i try to walk straight, no trips, no stumbles, i fall regularly and spill sentences on innocent bystanders. people just want hellos and goodbyes and small-talk. not you. never you. 

you wanted to know everything. even now. we try to package big-talk into 10 and 20 minute bursts of fleeting, transient conversation. “missing you as always.” “never not missing u” “speak soon miss you like the sun misses the moon. Xx” we are disgusting. we said it ourselves. nauseating, and we love it. we said it ourselves.  i write about you like i’m getting paid. generation y not make a career out of pain. i miss you so much my heart hurts my eyes are sad. 21st century fossil fuel desperation, set fire to my feelings and make your money’s worth. facebook love and whatsapp life, it’s never enough but we’re paying the price. 

we could not have been more clear, transparent windows to the internal. it was decided. we were adults about it. mature minds and romantic hearts. purgatory is a place for sinners, and i don’t believe in horoscopes. but cancer and libra sound wonderful together. you and i, who would’ve thought?  cracked whispers on sunday afternoons are one thing and signing dotted-lines are another. we did one of two. we were adults about it. mature minds and romantic hearts.  atlas’ map distance and clocks hand time and 6 degrees of separation says you’re still mine. but that’s just a theory. you’re better at those than i am.  say it again: “from a far away land xxx” i’ll tell you again: “never too far, our souls are aligned.” we are disgusting. we said it ourselves. nauseating, and we love it. we said it ourselves. 

[byrealitycheat]

African Sun and My Axis             How sweet I roamed from field to field            And tasted all the summer’s pride                                                                   - William Blake, “Song” You lost some love I lost some life We both find solace in each other’s eyes.  Conjoined, placenta burst, safety-blanket burnt. All we have is each other, and this universal human condition, of loss and love and the in-betweens of what was. The radio sings of, “summertime sadness” and I try to, “hold back the river.” I think about the previous night, where we spent our time making pretzels from our arms, and glue from our hands. You traced, “compassion” onto my palm, and your lips onto my cheek. You were the African Sun, and I caught the heat. Now, I look around for you. Your green eyes, your tanned skin, your voice. Every thing out of your mouth sounds like sex. The scent of your cigarettes spiral my subconscious, and you ask, “have you dreamt of me yet?” We hold hands at every chance, and eyes at every glance. You leave me left-handed love-notes on my legs. “I’m lost in your words” printed on my thigh. You mention, “serendipity”, I reply with, “absolute”, and the sky between the tree-branches becomes our favourite view. You carved our initials into bark, and the trees around the city became our TradeMark. The grass- my bed, your chest- my pillow. Our routine each evening, welcomed change between the seasons. Silent twilight, and the sun goes down, the World is here, but nobody is around. You ask questions about my mother, I ask, “what happens when we get home?” “The greatest, She.” “An entire weekend.” “We speak on the phone.” “I’ll send you poetry.” We exchange thoughts, and sighs, and late-night taxi-rides. It takes a celebration of the life of a friend, for our lips to meet, and our kiss to stem. We drown the noise of party people with the sounds of our breathing, and they watch from a distance. The next morning, I hear whispers in the rain, and spend all afternoon avoiding your gaze. I let you in without a fight; voices around me question if it was right. We bring all our words to the table, but we sit in silence. The tension is almost too much to bare, my ink burns through paper, as I realise I’m looking for a page we can both meet on. The evening brings showers and apologies, we empty all our pockets, we unfold every crease within our souls, and we lay them on the table before us. Honesty is a practise, and this we can manage. We cross bridges to art galleries, and take secret photographs around corners. We cut corners, and kiss through cake, we sit together at love’s table, and we, are comfortable, we are safe. Nights bring us closer, as we synchronise sleep. You press stars onto my body, your finger-tips at my neck, eyes turn shut, we both hold breath. Explosions in the sky, and in our bed, a little death. Nights bring us closer, as you sleep by my side. I pen deliveries for dawn on your right arm, and kiss you goodnight. We hold each other, as our bodies become blankets in flight. Through clouds and cultures, through waiting in line and departure times, this is only, “see you later” this is not, “goodbye.“

[byrealitycheat]

(White)

The ringing in your ear at 3am when the lights are down and the city is dead, And it’s nothing, it’s nothing, it’s nothing, stop- to hear the silence in a crowded room, when everyone is talking in greens and yellows and blues stop- to think about what you really have to say before the blue hits the page and eats the space away. It is everything and nothing and it weaves in-between patches of sky on a Monday morning and it sits in-between lines and rulings on your virgin paper and it trickles in-between cracks in tiles on the kitchen floor and you spilled the fucking milk.

[byrealitycheat]

habits of my HomELanD ‘Thalaya’ my foreign name. silent, ‘h’ like history his story is her story and you don’t even wanna pick up the book. history like family, birthed and hereditary. my foreign name on your native tongue holding heavy phonetics you weren’t taught to pronounce in school. this alphabet so Alien so Bold so Cutting so Deeply Exotic. Finds Greatness Hidden Inside Jaded Kashmiri Legacies. you will learn more about culture in the womb than you will in the classroom. habits of your Abu’s sweet tooth, Grandmother’s Mother and samosa pastry and glue. you will hear your mother sing stories of her youth, nurturing nature, mothering jasmine, sunflowers, and the heaven beneath her feet. lullabies in Urdu, Punjabi and English too. prayers in Arabic, supplication to your Lord. you have 20 years lived now, and living your 21st, and She, your Mother remains your best teacher through it all, her broken English so many years ago laid the bricks that made this house a home. you acknowledge you wouldn’t know warmth so well, or a fridge so full, if it wasn’t for your Father. your Father. Abu. Dad. a sweet and sharp mix of dry humour, burrowed brows and one too many cups of chai. living my 21st, but my 1st began when my culture was cultivated before i left my Mother’s belly, and now i see, the world outside isn’t as welcoming. stop harvesting your heart brown girl, walk in the direction of love. this space is yours too, brown has always been beautiful. before it was bottled, packaged and sold for a price. before it was for blonde haired, blue eyed, bronzed becky. brown has always been beautiful. don’t hold your tongue in letting them know. live truly, live unapologetically, live absolute. this space is yours too.

[byrealitycheat]

03:40am

you will wake up tomorrow and ask me how i am, and i’ll tell you, i’m “fine” and, i’m “good” and i am, except i couldn’t sleep because my mind and i were tripping over candy-laces you dropped at my feet and goddamn, i miss you. i’ve missed people before, of course i have, i know what it feels like but this is something else, you are something else. i miss you like seconds and minutes and when water-droplets form on a cold surface we call it, “condensation” everything is a cold surface, my brain is an ocean, and my thoughts are on fire. it’s not like i haven’t been here before, i’m not a stranger to hot showers and salty cheeks camouflaged mornings between the sheets. you did this to me last time. every time i leave you take a piece of me, except this time, this time it feels like you took the whole thing. we knew this would happen, and we went along with it anyway. on good days i tell the world, “he makes me feel whole” on days like this i turn into myself to try and find you and i do, i do, i see you but you’re so far away, our arms out-stretched; it’s just too much. one of us is in the wrong place. our arms out-stretched; it’s just too much. land and sea. how do you do it?! you make me: vulnerable, scared but not. you make me: crazy, high and hot. they say: when an artist falls in love with you, you can never die. when an addict falls in love with you, you become the high. but this girl, writes like she’s an artist, and loves like she’s an addict... and this, this is mayhem.

[byrealitycheat]

Caution: don’t fall

give it up, give it all, drop the weight, feel the fall, loosen your shoulders, unclench your fists, change your perspective, sink into this- Life, is a melting pot, of moments and breaths and smiles and tears, and dust particles and shooting stars and burnt tongues and broken hearts and grazed knees and coffee stains, and that one person who stays, when nothing else remains.

that tuesday night- home cooked meal, trying to replicate your mother’s feel. But she prays with those hands, and you write wars, she speaks of open hearts, and you close doors. you sit inside with all the lights turned off, there’s a fire behind your walls, but your windows are locked. you tell me you understand, you probably do- knot, in my throat when i look at you. i know you mean well, you always have, but that seed of fear is now a plant. and it settles… inside your bones, Tell me you feel it, when the blood turns to stone, Tell me you feel it, when the night turns so cold, blood turns to stone, and living gets old- wounds- open- neck to an esophagus, one million thoughts and your body going backwards. Disillusioned. Dissociated. Disconnected. mind like an indoor swimming pool- restless. Caution: slippery surface. Caution: mind the step. Caution: don’t trip.

“We are going to go around the room and introduce ourselves. Why don’t you tell us something about you?” "Me?" I am, I am... I am, Too feel too much, to think too much, to be Haunting myself, my mind, my shadow left and right, Always curious, always wondering, always Learning to be. student of life, up all night, And up all day. pen and paper kisses, Yesterday’s checklist, today’s, 'to-do' And, forever me. Always you.

you exchange laughter lines for battle scars and realise receipts are non-refundable when you’re selling to yourself, so you hide faulty parts up on the top-shelf. Mornings become mournings, and Days off become days off. working for the sake of working. waiting on: those extra hours, that graveyard shift, family dinners at 6, that pay slip. and in the midst of it all, not quite sure when, you realise: old habits die hard, or they don’t die at all, drop the weight, feel the fall.

[byrealitycheat]

I am a seagull

It’s the little things, like a photograph or an old text, Memories washed up on shore, and I, am a seagull, I pick at them.

You’re at the beach, with a cone of chips, and I pick at them. Something is wrong, you drizzle vinegar, but not enough. My taste-buds sting in confusion, The saline tears from my eyes try to cure them, but it’s not enough. These chips are sour, and I pick at them, Not sour enough to make us bitter- I still pick at them.

Every thought crashes against my skull like tidal waves, I am a seagull, and I am asking you, to be sour and bitter and make this easier. Make it easier for us, to pick out what went wrong- where is the vinegar?

The calm and comfort that once washed over us, slowly backs away, like waves retreating from the seafront. And we lie. We are liars. We pretend not to see. I am a seagull, with my head in the clouds. I lie to you, you lie to me. “It’s okay, it’s okay. I understand” But it’s not enough.

Something is wrong, and we cover it up. Like being caught in a storm when the weatherman promised sun, where every drop of rain taunts you as it makes it’s way to the ground. And as it hits the concrete, it screams sounds of our past.

We are birds, afraid to face the winter, afraid to face each other, You stay West I’ll go further South.

[byrealitycheat]

Modern Times Remember when you were 6 and could play in the front door without your mother worrying? Remember when you were 8 and the only thing you really cared about was if you could ride your bike when you got home from school? I remember it too; the casual comfort of youth, rest in peace, gone too soon. I hear it so often my brain learned to switch the channel, the, "back in my day" and, "when I was young" sit only in my mind for as long as I can hold small talk and side-smiles. See, the past is the past. We look back and cover up the mishaps and the mismatches with rose-tinted glasses, but the prescription is wrong, and the sun is in my eyes, and it's not like when the lights so strong you close your eyes and see hues of yellows and reds and oranges, it's more like when the lights so strong your eyes get fuzzy and everything is out of focus, so your mind makes up for what it can't make out. Some type of dark magic, hocus pocus. And the past, it always seems better than it was, We all smiled on, "1, 2, 3, cheese!" and yeah, sometimes we were happy, and sometimes we were not, but we printed a lie into a photograph, and looking back, we forgot. The past, it always seems better than it was, but I won't apologise for these Modern Times. Yeah, we might have less trees, but we've got that selfie nature, and we might have lost the art of letter writing, but we've birthed competitive typing, and we might be the generation of keyboard warriors, and, "I don't give a fuck" teens, but I won't apologise for these Modern Times. Me and you, you and I... we're all the same. We all messed up, and we all played games. But don't worry about us, we don't lack anything.  We still have drive; we just found different things to make us feel alive. You died for the cause, and we're still dying. So we won't apologise for these Modern Times, 'cause lord knows, we're still trying.

[byrealitycheat]

60 plus years people, definition: (noun) human beings in general or considered collectively. the members of a particular nation, community, or ethnic group. as people we like to throw around the words, "karma" and, "justice" and, "equality" we also like to throw around bombs, white phosphorus and missiles as if we're playing with harmless feathers in pillow-fights, and when innocent children are missing mothers and fathers we turn our cheeks as if we are being gracious in letting them continue a game of hide-and-seek, and when neighbours carry neighbours on their backs to the hospital we carry on with our lives as if we know what it's like because we've all played, "doctor doctor" except, this isn't a game, or a comic, or a puzzle piece. it's not a best-selling fiction you'll discuss over dinner. it's not a summer blockbuster you're all dying to see. it's not anything to you, it's not anything to me. why should we care, as long as we are happy? oh people of Palestine, stop wasting my time. 60 plus years you've been crying at me, that's long enough for the entire world to forget, but what do you expect in this digital age? life moves so fast, i need to stick with the pace. don't blame me for scrolling past, or clicking away, i have food that needs eating and bills to pay. i get it though, i totally do. i don't like people taking my things without asking either, like seriously, that's so rude. so yeah, i get it. i know omg, it must suck but idk guys it's kinda like so what? everyone has bad luck... ? as people we like to throw around the words, "karma" and, "justice" and, "equality" and no, i'm not delusional, of course i know what they mean, yes, i have read a book. i got the definition straight out of the oxford dictionary actually, look it up. human, defintion: (adjective) relating to or characteristic of humankind. (noun) a human being.