THE EDEN PROJECT - AUDIO FILES

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South Asian Writer Focusing on Free Verse - Psychological Thrilller & Religious Poetry edenexempt.substack.com

Episodes

  1. May 9

    what wont ever stay

    if this reaches you, subscribe for more at edenexempt.substack.com - it’s free My fingertips breach the sandCastles built on this beach dissolvedin the absence of you I reshape the soil until it resembles the artand bury my face in its mimicryi breathe it in to be with you fingers running through sandearth escaping between the spaceswhere i brushed your hair the sand sticks to my skinas if even the earth wont let go of you my mind keeps shaping what wont ever staythe tide crept in and dissolved your vicesand left you untouchedI’m stranded here without you to counterthe waves erasing what we once built together I pluck shells from the groundand arrange themin your beautyand line the edges to the tide the sand grits against my eyes Get full access to THE EDEN PROJECT at edenexempt.substack.com/subscribe

    1 min

  2. May 8

    Amphetamines for the Nervous System (Sleep Won the Battle) - Audio File

    I have always treated sleep like surrender. This poem came from the point where exhaustion becomes ideology. Sleep will loom like a shadow Screaming about my abandonment Sleep will lurk and cast dreams over my daylight It will take what it cannot get back I will always refuse My body crumbles It’ll lower the light Without asking its master I’ll give sloth a solution Replace it with precision Install a needle into my ecosystem That votes amphetamines for me Every few hours Stimulate instead of surrender I will lie down once a week In a sarcophagus and pretend to be forgotten The rest of it’s cycle My casket shall remain open Students once tried to evict sleepfrom its very genome They brought their own gears and tools small enough to fit into a pencil important enough to alter the future they were told this is not medicine It is ideology They were the ones evicted instead Sleep won the battle And I still have to negotiate with my nervous system Sloth will call my unwavering obligation Compliance Thank you for reading nocturne - this was rejected by a poetry publication. What do you think? Get full access to THE EDEN PROJECT at edenexempt.substack.com/subscribe

    1 min

  3. May 4

    If They're Well Enough - Audio

    We ripped the cake apart with our bare hands. The clock struck a soft 7pm on Sunday and there were dozens of us hunched over a cafeteria table. Grit clinging to the edges of the metal folds of the folding chairs we used to sit on during therapy. I was the youngest there. 17 in a place made for people in their 30s. And now it was my birthday. I was becoming an adult. The gravity of it would hit me that night, and with that, the tears would too. A soft sob caught in my throat while I tried to grasp what was so fundamentally wrong about my existence in that cell. Alone. Rooms that stunk of vomit and human waste. The smell barged into your nose like an unwanted guest. The worst part is that I knew who it belonged to by name. I’d have lunch with them that day - if they were well enough. We asked for a knife to cut the cake. A brief look of confusion washed over us before we remembered where we were. We dug our fists in instead. Tearing chunks of the creamy chocolate dessert and jamming them onto plates. We didn’t care much for hygiene. We were all well acquainted with each other - and what disgusts most people doesn’t disgust you quite the same when you live in a building where the smell of urine, feces and vomit mix into an omnipotent presence. I snapped back into my seat when a hand slapped down on my shoulder. Beanie. That’s what we called him. A man in his 30s who was addicted to more pills than there were letters in the English language. I don’t know a substance he hadn’t tried. Here’s the thing they don’t tell you when you enter rehab - you don’t talk less about drugs. You trade information like they’re Pokémon cards. Everyone has a story and everyone has different experiences. When I entered rehab I was a rookie. By the time I left, I knew how to find a cannabis dealer in my area by the type of car they drove and the location they’d park it. Beanie was a kind of smart you’d only find at the bottom of a pill bottle. He was witty, funny - but the pills had hijacked his mind and taken his soul from right under him. He was a junkie but he was a good person. Beanie clutched my shoulder. “Smile more dude. It’s your birthday.”“I don’t feel like celebrating. I feel like s**t in this hell hole.” He was optimistic for a guy dealing with withdrawals. “We all feel like s**t — but hey, you’re getting out in 10 days. I’m leaving in 5. Don’t worry, I’ll bring everyone takeout from the outside.” That turned out to be a lie. You feel so happy about leaving rehab. And when you finally do, you realize being outside after 3 months inside is more restricting than your time inside. It’s painful to realise you’re being monitored. They don’t want you to talk to active rehab members once you leave - a rule enforced to ensure no one shares information about drugs, to reduce relapse occurrences. It never worked. That night I crawled into my sheets and thought about everything that led me to where I was. I didn’t know it yet, but I wouldn’t be able to talk to my girlfriend after rehab for another 7 months. It was a long distance relationship. When I returned, she was gone. I lost someone I had known for 4 years because they thought I had abandoned them or died - I’m not sure which one. I never got closure. I remember the pain I caused the people that led me to rehab. I had the letters they wrote me on my desk. In a pink bag my younger sister made. It hurt to read them. I was guilty - even though I pretended not to feel bad for my actions. I needed to act strong. It’s how I survived. I had a journal with notes from therapy. I wrote my first poems in that until I lost the original copy. I wasn’t a good writer back then but I had a passion for it. The night wrapped around me like nocturne - swept down and kissed my eyelids. I was a child. I didn’t need to be there. But I was. And I did. The only thing keeping me out of the grave was myself and it scared me. I had nothing to live for at 17. I cried like I had never cried before. A sob I had long forgotten - tears soaking my pillow, my heart wrenching like I had just died temporarily. I was a kid. A bad one. Authors note: If this reached you, chapter two is coming soon. Subscribe free to follow the memoir as it's written. Get full access to THE EDEN PROJECT at edenexempt.substack.com/subscribe

    3 min

  4. May 3

    Never Forget Who You Are - Podcast Version

    Never Forget Who You Are the boy with a knife clutched in his handscursing happiness through the doorway Never Forget Who You Were at 17 the boy who crushed pills - a sharp inhale - amphetamines brokewhen the sleep medicines could not sleep has teeth Never Forget Who You Are, Icarus a man with too much ashand no roads left to scatter themand your neck bentin silent worship of the sun Never Forget Who You Are, Bubble your father’s prideuntil the disease brokeandbubblestartedsoundingalittlelesslikeyou never forget who you are, tho tho “tho tho ma raza”the notes rung until they stuckgrandparents sing for youin a living room full of old leather chairsin a house you’ll never return tountil “ma raza” becomes true never forget who you are, edenexempt A writer with a pen clutched tightly in his teeth Authors note: This is a non fictional poem carrying references to my culture, ethnicity and background. if you enjoyed this poem and want more like it, consider liking the post and leaving a comment - Icarus/Edenexempt this page is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Get full access to THE EDEN PROJECT at edenexempt.substack.com/subscribe

    1 min

  5. May 2

    Manifestation of Sin — A Slam Poetry Piece on Guilt & Existence - AUDIO

    I BREATHE LIES AND DECEIT LIKE THEY’RE WOVEN INTO MY LUNGS Ⅰ. I BREATHE LIES AND DECEIT LIKE THEY’RE WOVEN INTO MY LUNGSI SHIFT THROUGH STREETS LIKE THERE’S POISON ON MY TONGUEEVERY TRUCE I’VE MADE BECAME A TRUCE UNSTRUNGI’LL POLLUTE THE WORLD UNTIL I CALL MY BODY TO ROPE Ⅱ.MY FINGERS BLOOM BRUISES INTO ANYTHING THEY TOUCH - YOUR SKINI CARRY A DIVINE VERDICT DEEP WITHINIF I DARE SPEAK, IT CORRODES, IF I REACH, IT’S DEFILEDI’LL TURN YOUR PURITY FILTHY BEFORE DISTANCE MEETS ENTROPY Ⅲ.I AM GUILTY OF BEING, OF BIRTH, OF BREATHA FRACTURE AND A FLAW IN YOUR PERFECT CIRCLE OF EARTHA MARTYR TO NOTHING, TO A ROOM OF HANGING CORPSESA CAUSE WITH NO MEANING, THE BELIEF SPLINTERS ON TOUCH Ⅳ.A VOICE WILL SCREAM AND I’LL BUCKLE AT YOUR ALTARIT ECHOES IN MY VOICE THAT I DONT KNOW ANYMOREI AM WRONG, I AM RUIN, I SHOULD NOT HAVE BEENA CHORUS WILL BLEED THAT CROWNS ME THE ORIGIN OF SIN Ⅴ.MY BODY STORES DAMAGE LIKE I’M BURIED ALIVEI’LL DARKEN THE NOOSE AND SUCK OUT THE LIGHTIF I’M HELD, I’LL CORRODE YOU UNTIL THERE’S NOTHING LEFTI’LL BLEED THROUGH YOUR DRESS WITH SHAME AND NEGLECT Ⅵ.I’LL SINK THROUGH YOU AND A WORLD THAT I’M SURE TO STAINWRAP DISTANCE AROUND MY THROAT AND START ANEW AGAINBETTER FORGOTTEN, UNTOUCHED, & UNSEENTHAN PROOF OF A SICKNESS THAT I SWEAR THAT I MEAN Ⅶ.MAY THE STRING FALL AND THE CONTRAPTION FEEL PURPOSENO MORE THAN I, IN THE BACK OF A HEARSEIN DEATH, MAY I BE RID OF MY UNHOLY CURSELET THE FLOWERS ON MY GRAVE BE THE ONLY THING THAT LIVES NEVER MISS A FUTURE POEM - SUBSCRIBE DOWNLOAD THE FULL POEM + ANIMATED VERSION (7 PARTS): * 7 GIF STANZAS * HD FULL POEM IMAGE Tip: Right-click → Download all for best quality. * IF YOU SHARE ANY PART OF THIS, TAG ME AND I’LL REPOST IT! Get full access to THE EDEN PROJECT at edenexempt.substack.com/subscribe

    2 min

  6. May 1

    I Am Him Again

    if this reaches you — subscribe for more. it’s free. my fingers grasp a picture in my galleryit belongs to my futureher face is blurryskin translucenta touch unknownbones that dont fit her face A family of apparitionsthey’re all i’d havei imagine her presencein every place i haven’t visitedin the words, i dont remembera language of ghosts with no grammarsomewhere in that placewith ghosts i have yet to embracei’m inlove with themwith hermy hands relaxedchasing something small and stupida laugh unravelling in my throatthe kind of laugh that doesn’t get silencedin every picture of me and my wifemy face contortsinto an expression unknowna smileglowingand i’m him againin this existence, i smile at the pointlessmy hands open, reachingi trust without reasonsuspicion ceases to existin this futurei wasn’t just a boyi was your boy and i am him again Get full access to THE EDEN PROJECT at edenexempt.substack.com/subscribe

    1 min

  7. Apr 30

    DRYWALL - SLAM POETRY - AUDIO

    SLAM POETRY AUTOBIOGRAPHY Head to the ground, heard god through the drywallash in my tray, blade steady at my pulse nowKid with a lighter, hid from the man of the houseprayed to a father but that word already yours now cigarette husks in my lungs when I breatheinnocence died in the cracks of my teethI didn’t know truth, I just learned how to break and kneellearned how to bleed without asking if what I was feeling was real scars don’t talk, they stare blank at my face backfaith got stripped, left me empty at the f*****g bank I am a problem but I am the proofBuilt from everything that you didn’t want me to beYou took my life away with no empathysilence screams from my hanging tree I sit on a throne made from rust & painbarbed wire like a halo cutting into my brainEveryone prays as they lie at my feetHands on the wounds but they weren’t from meIn my head, dead forever since that day Poison my decision, every choice that I makeMockery dressed up as destiny How do I confess at your altar when my lungs are full of watereven in submission, my voice will never falter Stab you in the back, silver tongue in my mouthJudas in spirit, I know what I am nowBrain full of ghosts that never shut upEvery echo screams “prove you’re worthy of love” They call me insane, cuffed in the pressFamily tree and my name is the messRead me my rights, I am ready to repent Get full access to THE EDEN PROJECT at edenexempt.substack.com/subscribe

    1 min

  8. Apr 29

    She Holds Her Photographs - Audio

    This poem is for my mother. And for yours. And for every woman who has ever been called only in relation to someone else. Women She holds her photographsthe way water slips through fingertipsknowing it’ll leaveher embraceonce again in it, she wore red, sometimes a soft bluecolors that never seemed to fit her skin againher sister laughs, beside the whole familythe way families dobefore life began disrupting them I watch her eyestravel to that placethe small laugh, deep sighthe way her breath followsto the edge of a timewhere I was not born yet she was thinner thenskinny wearing bones differentlyunaware of what they were yet to carryshe says she was more beautifuland then she turns to meand asks “Am I still pretty?” she waits for a answerI say “yes”the way sons dowhen the truth is too large to handle They taught girls earlyhow to devote themselvesmake themselvesinto a giftpink ribbon, and allwrap their voices in soft edgesuntil they fit in a drawerno one would ever open handed a measuring tapebefore she could speaktold her to hold it against herselfevery morningfor the rest of her life be good enough, be quiet enoughfit the space, they decided a woman should occupyshrink, become smaller firstspeak second, or not at all Her body borrowedfor childrenher future loanedto a societythat never learnedto appreciate her her name is still herstechnicallybut the light wraps differently around itwhen you’re a wife, mother, daughter in-lawcalled only in relationto someone else and yetshe stands there the woman that stood in the photographI see her sometimesin the way she laughswhen she forgetsthe world is watching in the way she singseven though her voice catches as if even her tonguehas been caughtin this borrowed future in the way the colors reach for heruntil she puts them back on a rackthen sometimeson the happy daysshe’ll take them home anyway They couldn’t stealwhat she never showed themshe kept it locked awayin a placewithout her husbandin a placeno silencecould ever legislate she grew up to realizeshe’d always fall short of proving herself she holds her photographsshe is mourning, yes but she recognizes someonewho is stillforeveralive Get full access to THE EDEN PROJECT at edenexempt.substack.com/subscribe

    3 min
  • 8 Episodes

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South Asian Writer Focusing on Free Verse - Psychological Thrilller & Religious Poetry edenexempt.substack.com

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