POP☆STAR

bc im a pop star?

[popstarpoetry]

Heyy! Guess who made more poetry? Me!

In my own opinion, I love everything I wrote. Now, does that mean you are also going to love it? Well I don't know, so I think it's easier for both of us if you just read it!

Thank you for your time,

Ladies, Gentlemen, Theys, and Thems!

POP☆STAR !!!

- @rayhan-is-better

(Rayhan, aka the pop star)

[popstarpoetry]

1. Does She Know You Like Me?

...

"Does your mom know you're a whore?"

Thats what she texted you,

last Christmas, just three of us,

sitting under the mistletoe and pretending

to kiss.

Does she really know you like me?

Because when it was just us three,

cutting cookies under the Christmas tree,

I knew she didn't want you like me.

"What's wrong?"

That's what you texted me,

this chrismas, just you two.

Kissing under the mistletoe while I puked.

She doesn't really know you like me.

How you know I'd gag at Christmas snow,

or whatever you wanna call it, I know you know.

I know you don't want her like you want me.

"Nothing."

That's what I'm gonna text you,

next Christmas, just this once.

I'll let you know you can't go from a housewife to a hoe.

Then maybe I won't have to gag at Christmas snow, under the mistletoe.

Do you think she knows you like me?

If this is the end of us,

what's with the rucksack?

It's all full of your clothes,

all your living stuffs.

I guess she doesn't know you like me,

huh?

[popstarpoetry]

2. Back to The Old House

...

Back to the old house,

that's just where I wanna go.

Sit on the kitchen counter, on the telephone.

Spoke to my mother and...

she forgot my name;

my dad doesn't like me very much,

he says that I'm a pain.

There were times when

I couldn't care less.

Who could care a whole lot

for people who won't miss them?

Rotted, revised, rehearsed my face,

applied makeup to all the spaces,

till it made me complacent.

I don't sing like I used to do.

Used to watch the telly in the living room.

Back in the old house,

I really tried to hold back

all of the crippling doubt,

before it made a hole in my heart.

I just wanted to be a part of a family,

but now I can only hope it doesn't fall apart.

Yet, I could end the guest room nervous

chills down my spine.

Redirect the guilty conscience who never gives me time

to the old garden for some aromatherapy

(mumble something about circles of control at the forest fairies).

The disrespect for the place is beyond me,

and if I had it my way, I'd never leave.

The old house will always be broken in ways,

maybe I'm a sentimental mess,

but I'd never ask it to change.

The new house is better, more refurbished, no violent history...

But damn, I wanna go back to the old house,

just to try changing the memory.

[popstarpoetry]

3. Loveworms

...

When the loveworms find the necropolis to seep into my grave,

they will chew into my well-doer brain.

They will savour your sweet lulls

from before you became bitter.

When they consume my emaciated corpse,

they'll squander days scouring

for taste that'll never last.

Hence, they will consolidate a consensus:

the atypical taste of my heart,

(mixed with coarse dirt),

is infested with saccharine lies.

When they abrade into my bones,

they will bite; broken bones

will foist yearning back into their core.

They will hone the inorganic minerals,

and chomp and carve and cut my throat.

Your bitter fragments of words

solemnly slipping out,

(finally),

seeking candecence.

When they melt into my carcass,

burning the midnight oil,

they will domesticate my chewed eyes.

They will see your honest lies

(how they were incongruous to my euphonic life).

When the loveworms grovel my empty eyesockets,

they will commiserate together

(sob sorrows so I don't sob alone).

They will tangle in my mouth.

Your obsolete pathos tricks

consisting of psychomaniacal misogyny,

(which I took for myth),

will rot with all my rotting flesh,

once and for all.

When the loveworms have seeped into my grave,

they will have suffered my fate.

They won't delight to consume my remains.

Mindlessly chewing away,

they will find comfort and embed in my rements.

They will hold me in their chewing embrace,

they will imprecate and affront you (how you're indubitably a Hyde).

They will spit your sweet lulls

and swallow your virile lies.

(I wish hell could freeze over with you trapped within.

I've circumlocuted,

but what kind of consort were you?

For someone so feverent as myself...

I stagnated.)

[popstarpoetry]

4. Emery

...

Stranger rests their leg on me,

and all around the room pity

has settled in.

In their faces, cold abrasive

like gruff emery.

Put away the empty ice glass of nibū water,

and sigh half a دعا.

Mourn this cold-blooded slaughter

of an émigré, by disease,

with whom I share no bloodtie.

The ceiling fan's gnarl is esoteric.

Nobody here is histerical,

but in their faces is a gloom.

Prayer with the prayer beads,

as they sit and pray فاتحہ

in the prayer room.

The discourse of everyone in the place,

سب کو افسوس ہے.

It's a source of thoughts to contemplate

(it's a place to feel remorse).

In their faces, cold abrasive,

like they've never lost before;

the pity that they hold so dear,

is like emery: gruff and worn.

Now walking through the back alleyways

of the streets of پاکستان,

everyone's faces are like emery again.

In their faces, cold abrasive,

cold and not riddled with dismay.

Just shivery rough and gruffy cold,

cold as emery.

[popstarpoetry]

5. Night Drive

...

Don't let me camp here in your hippocampus.

Stranger as I am,

I lay fresh and heavy in your unfree head.

You can't reverberate my voice,

only my passing peices of low lullaby hums, hushed and soft like sighs.

Can't you drive past a passerby

and not fix them in your unfaithful memory,

merely due to their similarly shameful eyes?

Can't you sleep a single non-homo night,

without dragging me into a dream

and subjecting sensuallity as means to survive?

You jumped with joy when you grasped his gaze for a split second;

you deny ever lingering with a longing demeanour.

And still, you subject me to stalk your skull like a preferred perfume.

Don't you know, you can't keep spraying scent on?

It will run out.

You will buy more.

Your wallet will run dry,

and not from that gold-digger girl you promise to propose to.

Don't you know? That woman will be your wife.

"But I feel celestial!"

You aren't still servicing this facade?

When you slink into the white moon's freedom,

slip out the sheets where your wife sleeps

(for a night drive),

you won't pass my lookalike with whom you went for lunch.

No, no you marry a man in your mind

and are with wife in the rudest reality.

That's a liar life.

[popstarpoetry]

6. Turnaround

...

I'd like to turnaround this smudged artistry,

strip it from magazine covers

and wash its canvas bare.

With the masterpieces, I want to reconsider:

if in my "masterpeices" ernest was ever there?

I overcame each dysphoria,

waged repare on my warping mind.

So can I turnaround these peices of art

that no longer represent what's mine?

Can I bundle them?

Bind them into pages of comic fiction?

I'd like to make humor of them,

laugh at them.

I never wanted to hurt.

I never wanted to ache.

I wanted to be.

I'd taint mysef with chemicals, be unfair to my depricated body.

I didn’t care, I didn't care.

It guided my pen

and stained my speeches.

So, they became speeches of heroism,

about the idea of saving myself.

Poems about how to turnaround.

In the arts, I fell.

I crashed into the crater of critical state,

conscience bleeding, making me cry.

I felt the urge to be new as a bestseller.

I had to become a prized possession,

an heirloom,

a masterpeice,

art.

I became able to cleverly structure compliments,

so I could take pride in

keeping others in mental submission.

Then I'd accepted that reality,

pretending I could reign free.

In the artists courtroom:

they pled my mannerisms made my art guilty.

Pledged me to requiem rebranded into federal punishment.

So if I turned to finally apologise,

at the edge of my knowingness,

the verge of tears,

the final guilty plea.

I'd mumble a yes.

To try to say sorry,

but admit I am guilty,

and admit guilt was all I lived for.

The truth I tried to honor,

showed lies ticketed all over my face.

Trying to become what mattered

became the only thing that mattered.

The only option was to turnaround,

correct the smudges, admit they were mistakes

(and not some artistic intent).

A fall from grace,

all to fail the centuries turnaround.

The crumbling bridge to change how I'm perceived, could proved to be hellbent,

and I couldn't make it.

[popstarpoetry]

7. Dubiwe's Moor

...

A shame Dubiwe is on the moor.

Again, waiting for someone to follow her spoor,

maybe a man, maybe a boar.

Yet she speaks clearly without rancour,

she's unlike any other whore. She's so mature,

and because of all the men, so impure.

Dubiwe shouldn't wait for the boar,

men like that will make her impure;

they will fill her with rancour.

A girl, a whore, who is so mature

should not wait out on the moor,

just for men to follow her spoor.

Dubiwe's body is filthy with rancour,

she is a filthy whore, a boar.

Why blame the men on her spoor?

Why blame the men of the moor?

She is a girl, she is mature.

She shouldn't make herself impure.

"Dubiwe sleeps around! She's impure!"

That is the gossip on the moor.

"What a whore, isn't she mature!"

She stutters, not wanting to be rancour,

she never wanted to be a boar;

men still hurry onto her spoor.

Predators stalk Dubiwe's spoor;

they hunt her out like a wild boar.

Predators don't care if she isn't mature.

They all say she's impure,

but they hunt girls on the moor.

They stink, filthy with rancour.

Dubiwe breaks; she admits she was never mature.

However, her stench of rancour

leads in predators. They cling to her spoor.

They shoot into her, like she's a wild boar.

They brand her a whore: filthy and impure.

She is branded the whore of the moor.

She wasn't mature; she wasn't a boar.

She stinks of rancour, from all the men who clawed at her spoor.

However, she was not a whore and not impure. She was just vulnerable Dubiwe of the moor.

[popstarpoetry]

8. My Broken Soldier

...

With your intimacy,

(the colour of your voice:

emerald, sapphire, ruby),

the old war memorials

and the hills are silenced and gasping,

insinuating they feel a sort of deja-vu.

Consolingly,

the words: "hello, come home."

drift on the wind;

I wander still staying up,

time ticking in your watch,

for the broken youth,

who became fond of the bitter taste of war.

In the house:

all the drawers are filled

with greyish grubbins I'll never use.

There's rubbish tarnishing your room.

Your lighter lays on the bedside,

a packet of cigarettes from before the calamity, calmly sonder.

Your ultimate absences is present all over the place for miles,

and piles of ashy grey wither your house.

Remeber how I told you not to go?

How I urged you not to be a patriot,

then prayed you weren't a patient.

When they found you, they drilled into your remains,

a surgery smelling like gunshot wounds,

to retrieve buried bullets baring their teeth in your lungs.

In the hospital:

all the beds are filled

with faces that drip colour, useless to war.

There's silence tarnishing me.

Your lighter lays on the bedside,

the packet of cigarettes from before solemnly ponder.

Your ultimate absences urges tears all over my face,

and piles of ashy grey wither my broken soldier.

[popstarpoetry]

9. a letter now that im sixteen

...

We've started over (again).

Our new reality that comes with age

will open new memories.

Our computer brain keeps making beeping distress sounds,

it clearly is distressed.

We have two options:

to have no sympathy,

or to comfort it.

No wonder we can't sleep,

we're human after all...

We're expanding our mind,

and we'll get it right this time,

but what the absolute fuck is going on?