A Mind’s Narrative Before the End

I see nothing but a closed door,

The people inside
have strangled me.

I regret not stabbing myself
the first time around
the forgettable fart
that I am

Oh, death
Come to me and hold my hand
Let’s go to your place
I know the walk of shame

My death will
sweep in more worthy life
There you go.
Open the door
I see the staff
Now, impale me
And let me exhale
all the death inside



This poem was first published on Invisible Illness and is part of a series called ‘The Suicide Diaries’.

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How to Medicate

Wherever I go,

Which ever passport I carry,

No matter which accent I speak with,

No matter what God I believe in,
I’m a sandnigger to people.


Stab me
I won’t hear the skin punctured
Hold me
The smog inside dulls my skin
Talk to me
The noise inside strains you to a drone
So bury me
Let me lie as I’ve lived
If you kiss me
Let me say:

I couldn’t feel your lips.

This poem was first published on the online publication Invisible Illness.

Posted in Poetry by minademian

Elegant and intelligent podcast footnotes

I started listening to the Longform Podcast today and I noticed that they had this section underneath the player.

It’s similar, in functionality, to what you can do on YouTube by linking to specific points in the video, but it takes it further by providing direct links. It’s footnotes for the Web and I think it’s an ingenious way to help a listener focus on the podcast.

For Two

There was a cruel cackle
and a raucous roar
as I slayed my winnowing, wailing child
for two, the broken and the lucid

There sounded a cruel cackle
and a raucous roar
as I burned a poor, pure man at the stake
for two, the broken and the lucid

There blew a cruel cackle
and a raucous roar
as I held myself haughty hostage
for two
I, the broken and I, the lucid

This poem appeared first on the online publication Invisible Illness.

I Live Here

Descend down the stairs
Keep to the right
The walls breathe rot
a broken lamp on the left

The geyser sputters ice
There is no shelter for visitors
There are no smiles for visitors
The heating’s cold

This is despair
I live here
Mind the gap
and don’t slip on my ice

This poem appeared first on the online publication Invisible Illness.

Welcome the Impact

“Writing becoming a weapon against your demons rather than anything else?” Dr Wakeley said, letting his tone droop.

His pen wearing down on his fingers, he stared at his messages to himself, interspersed with the same tired observations about Max, a stocky man in his 30’s. Max was the Tuesday morning punishment.

“Yes. I think in words and I daily hear in my mind responses or quips or one-liners that I will one day throw back at someone, yet I won’t write them down,” Max drawled to the floor. He looked up at the psychologist’s desk. Papers, whole files stacked. “I have directories on my computers and hard drives, full of them. But yet, I write so little.”

“Ava used to lament that she didn’t inspire me enough.”

Wakeley let his eyes gander at his daughter’s portrait on his desk, stuck in between patient reports and consultation notes. “She never understood that the bulk of my writing has come from my depression,” Max continued.

“What specific feelings drove you to write?” Wakeley replied. He stopped dead his thoughts. He was officially a banal therapist, speaking from an Internet meme.

“The, the, feeling destroyed! depressed, destroyed, fucked over, marginalized, hard done by. Those things have always fuelled my writing.”

It was Tuesday morning, so it meant another long tirade by Max about Ava, and his writings, and his feelings, but never why he’s still in therapy after years of torturing Dr Wakeley, and himself by not wanting to change his life. Wakeley let the words fill the cosy office like unavoidable exhaust from the douche truck driver in front of you. The words grew thicker and darker, as he saw his daughter Elise in the cloud staring at him, her face sullen.

Then, a tear fell from her eye, and ended up as a crater in his middle-class composure. He felt his temples shake. The tremors focused his sight on Max.

“Your work has fossilized over the past 4 years into a codification of the past: how you felt, what you went through, what you did, why you did, what you felt or felt what you did. You never captured you in the here-and-now.”

Max froze. He looked at Dr Wakeley as if he was naked and his body had become his naked mother’s. “Wait, how — how did you know that?”

“I, I picked it up from your train of thought, just working the trail, you know,” Wakeley said, to try to divert Max away from his sudden Freudian slip. The cloud was still there and Elise didn’t drop her stare.

“Could you give me a moment?”

“Is my hour up?”

“No… I just need to adjust the painting behind you.”

Max turned to check which one. “There isn’t one…”

Wakeley kept his gaze fixed on the cloud.



Justice, she looks tattered and battered, it seems

Her genitals ravaged by vice
Her eyes worn out from might

But she has a smile sown into her heart
That a scythe or tongue cant reach.
But she has a little fire stoked in a nook
That a prying eye cant breach.

Justice may be nude and appears forlorn
But she is fed by the random
And made strong by her captor’s hubris.