Last Walls is a partnership between Thiscene Media and If Walls Could Talk. Every week, Melizarani T. Selva gives us one of her favorite poems from the last If Walls Could Talk and we put it up on the site.

This poem was performed at IF WALLS COULD TALK vol. 27 feat Marc Nair and Faliq Auri Trio, on Thursday, January 12, 2017. 


by Amanda Xavier, Najla Darwish and Roshinee Mookaiah


I stand before you,

as a vagabond poet

with deep anguish and misery in my fragile soul.

They tell me,

youth knows no pain! Youth befriends only the hedonistic!

Yet here I am, morose, and deeply disappointed in complexion.

Standing here at war with this dystopian society like a martyr.

Hear me now, my suffering is no façade, don’t dare say it is invalid.

Indeed, no! Nothing can compare.


Not even the suffering of Orpheus losing his lover to the underworld.

Not even the melancholy and loneliness spewed on Van Gogh’s starry night.

Nothing can compare

to the dark abyss that fills my withering soul,

when people leave comments on my Instagram but don’t press like.

How could my fellow brethren be so incapable of empathy?

What level of despair has driven humanity to this kind of insensitive madness?

Here, I lay before you, my dear audience,

defeated by cruelty of humankind,

with insufficient likes on this selfie which was taken with it—

my blood, sweat and tears over 50 times, 50 grueling times.

Now, I am suspended in the sempiternal stretch of space and time.

Engulfed! Engulfed by great uncertainty on whether to delete this depreciating evidence of my futile existence from the face of universe.

Oh, nothing.

Nothing can compare.


With the exception of… maybe,

When you follow someone, but they don’t follow back.

Has loyalty no purpose in their life?

Has a “mutual followback” become such a precious commodity to barter, like gold or diamond?

I thought we were friends, but you make me seem like your fan,

with your one way-amnesiac attitude towards my Instagram presence.

What horror you must have endured to live in the narcissistic delusion you possess now.


This is not the world that I want to inhabit,

this is not the world that I could leave behind for my mortal offspring.

My spiritual being cannot rest in a place

where you can’t even edit a simple tweet.

All those well-strung sentences that sufficed so gracefully in 140 characters

made invalid simply because of one micro spelling or grammatical error.

And before I can even take a breath,

the grammar nazi comes to stab a knife through my virtual soul,

and shower me in shame.

Oh, I’d rather have my head shaved!  


And who have I become? Don’t make me live my mistakes, Twitter.

Don’t remind me of my failures, for I have not forgotten them.

They caress me to bed at night with their lullabies filled with mockery.

So here I go, yet again, removing yet another linguistic offspring to hide my disappointments.

Some say ignorance is bliss, but I disagree, I refute that wholeheartedly.

For every fibre of my being, every fiber of my soul, every fibre of my existence,

shivers and drivels in absolute humiliation,

when someone retweets my tweet,

only for me then to realise that I had a typo in it all along.

What would have been pride and supreme validation

is just as quickly replaced by the highest degree of disgrace and dishonor.

And as it remains there, retweeted,

I am left helpless, like a newborn child brought into the cold and heartless world,

helpless as I am now left having to live with my own public indignity of internet existence.


But I persist, I resist to be defeated, for I have grown accustomed

to Mortification, who is now my new best friend, my lover.

It is a long lasting friendship that has left me desensitised to the kind of atrocities,

that my relatives commit on me on my Facebook timeline.

Oh Mother, how did it come this,

how could you betray your own creation,

by posting that embarrassingly nude baby picture of me on your page for the world as its witness.

And for goodness sake, Uncle Raju, you don’t have to comment on every single post of mine.

Why do you do this to me, you make a villain out of me that I don’t want to be

every time you ask me to send your regards to my parents.

Obviously I could not be bothered, but I lie anyways that I will,

to subdue you, to humor you, from your otherwise meaningless life,

heading in an inevitable direction towards death and nothingness.

Can you live with the deceitful monster you have curated within me,

are you willing to take responsibility? Of course not,

for you are too busy condemning gays to damnation through your irrelevant FB shares.


And yet, here I am,

my mind, soul and body plundered away

by these damned social media.


I can’t let go,

it is a merciless kind of love,

a love story poisoned by an addiction I must endure.

And yet, they say, youth knows no pain.

What do they know,

who are they to judge

our plight in this unforgiving kind of love.

Youth… knows no pain.

But I am youth, and I am pain.





If Walls Could Talk is a live poetry night at Gaslight Cafe, Plaza Damansara, every second Thursday of the month.