NaPoWriMo- Metaphor for Anxiety

/The joy of walking on old stairs, built on new stones and the fragrance of fresh paint is scintillating//

I am always happy to visit home
yet worried seeing it
The thought
that a place might be different
from what I think it will look like,
is devastating.
Even if a colour gets a little brighter
than what I had in my mind
causes panic 

Anxiety is like being stuck in past home while living in a new house.

I have moved on, I did,
atleast physically.
We have new flowers here
all are different
none of them belong here
or to each other
They seem distant.
Grass is greener here, too much green.
Abundance has  never been this shallow.

From my window
sunsets are blue,
Sky is pretty as always.
Sea is in harmony with the wind
But I’m worried of rain.
I am trying to adjust here
I eventually will.

Prompt: Metaphor for anxiety by Silverleafpoetry

Who really is living?

I am envious of street lights
for they see more than I
I wish it were possible to borrow another pair of eyes;
I’d love to end up in places
where my being
is not known;
A safe heaven
to wander alone.
Then again the thought of
“how do I live?”
And the weight of realization
that I already am doing that here;

//who’s living where?
Me in places or these places inside me?//

My feet run back to same roads
as if those paths
are inhaling me;
Am I here to see the world?
or the world is here
to see me!?

Paradox

I run into the world
though I say I hate it, everyday.
And romanticise this
zero-fucks-giving prude,
emotion less, pathetic generation
which is proud on our
“I don’t care anymore” attitude.
We leave our kin,
in the search of shelter,
ignore close ones and
look for ‘family’ in strangers.
You think you’re looking for compassion, but no!
You’re looking for pity,
for someone to feel sorry,
for someone, who is
more davestated than you.
If I ever try to push this
microscopic burden
out of my way, my hands
turn numb under the
realisations that in the end
It’s all me who will stay, but
But the longings take over reasons.
In this hope to feel better
about life, we turned
the world – home into disaster.

Anything but Human -a poem

We are birds that flock together.
Hunting worms, blind to the nature of the ones we’re dying to feed on. We follow each other while pretending to know it all and end up with a worm stuck in our throats. We are not choking, we are not okay either.
We are birds;
blind, foolish and hungry.

Other days, we are mice, wating for scampering feet of cats. Instead of running away or hiding, we’re waiting for trouble to knock on our doors. We are not happy or afraid but curious to see who will live, who will fight, who will give up and who will thrive!
We know what is happening but we are the generation of blind eye.
To pretend not to see is easier than to see and suffer.

We are the sailors of dead sea.
Instead of coming together we are waiting for the other boat to flip over or run out of hope, we are waiting for the sea to choose a winner;
for it’s easy to blame on time and circumstances.

We are everything but human, yet human.

A war of Poppies- a collaboration

How to suck color out a rainbow palette? Is it possible for humans?

They always suck the red out of wounds and then blame the flesh for not being enough.

Beauty lies beneath wounds. But humans scrape wounds off shamelessly instead.

If the sky was painted black will it shield the wounded hearts?

Once I saw a poppy field. I didn’t see the sky’s reflection in it. Did sky shield itself from the wounded, red poppies?

I can bring all the green of rainbow to the field, will the grass still be greener on the other side?

People manipulate what’s beautiful for them. If green is brought down, they’ll again scrape it off.

I think poppies are the women, in middle of war among themselves, pushed to be and do better while their  roots are stuck in filthy mud of  “you can’t”.

Red gushes through the field right now. Is it blood? What if poppies sucked blood. What if all this beauty was swathed in blood?

The bleeding hands/people make  half of this world. They defile pride because they bleed.
I wish the world was colorblind but women.

Pride! Pride is anything but woman.

I’ll wear a scarf that’d wrench me if I ever try to favour red with blood. Both are different.

All I think of is women. I’d love to bring Gods, to ask them for shelter but there are no Gods and maps are deviod of safe.

My new graveyard is a poppy field. It bleeds so the sky keeps away from it. No beauty, no God. Hence, oppressed and hence my home.

No matter who rules whom, they sow poppies to see them bleed.

Skies look blue just to prove beauty can’t be red.

Samyak introduced me to dialogue poetry and our rants turned into, this really close to my heart poem.

Image source: Pinterest

Dictionary

Life is a dictionary of things.
Most come and go.
Some make us home
others are at a distance,
But none of them are lost.
Like tears, they remain,
always a part of us.
With a few bold decisions
they say
“You can take anything you want.”
But, what about the things that
don’t belong to us?
Is it ethical to run and cry
for things?
Or do we just choose
“Suffering” and look for “sacrifice”?
What exactly is life? A collection of things? Or a thing?

30 of 60

Most foolish act is to break down a minute. Time seems to be the most visible truth, unbiased and irrational or it’s engulfed by the past yearning for tomorrow?
For half a second, I’ll let the grief leave and try to look for good, for they say, you find happiness when you look for it. It can be true. We all want good. When we find it, we embrace the shadows and hold on to them, tight.
But grief? It’s not that hard to find it, You see. It’s always in the air as there’s no place for sadness in the bones. We hurt ourselves to merely fool ourselves, by building this wall of ‘soul’s pain’. We pretend not be bothered by whatever is outside.
But, what’s the point of killing pain with pain? Point of killing 30 of 60 seconds over what will always linger after another 30 of 60 (seconds/minutes)?
Every second I feel myself engulfed by the second that passed and the one yet to come, I’m stuck in time.
Is this what we call living!?
What if we were built this way? All of us? Can desire justify it or do I have to look for the synonyms of ‘escape’?
Desire is like air, it’s always there.

Most of the times we are unaware. We’re all stuck here, who said life is fair?

A City of heartbreaks

My being is hanging out with the thought of being myself at almost all the times and the urge to be anything but me.Thought is an act of violence. The urge to be somethingbut me, is the violence against what I am. The urge  to be nowhere but near you.

Is it possible for a person to be envious of a place?

To be honest I’m tired of writing about you, tired of writing about writing about you. Whenever I am about to ditch the thought of writing, a desperate poem about how your city is covered in broken hearts, start screming in my lungs. Is your city drowning in broken things or running on it?

I hope the next time you cross a mart, it snows. I hope it snows to the extent that your cold city start shivering, I hope you get a taste of what you’re serving. For atleast 12 days I want the snow to stay there (beauty deceiving hearts), for 12 days are the maximum amount of time you’re capable of loving someone and your city is cruel for 12 months in a row.

Tonight, after reading this, when you’ll call me, I’ll miss 11 of them but pick 12th, for I know you won’t call after 12th. Even though, I promise myself to be better and be me, I lose myself to your city.
A city of tall buildings.
A city of cold hearts.
A city of you.

Things that matter.

A poem, you ask?
I sit here and think, wondering what
we are,
when doors are shut
Tight and hard.

Alright, I will come with you for the trippy fight;
also, came with my freshly chewed skin,
All the prose and adjectives are here
We’ll keep them the way they have always been.


Let me give you a guilt trip with rich metaphors
Like the whispers you heard last night,
we’re beautifully demonic; we walk like angels.
A war against the world, you say? would you dare?

When next time you come to fight beside me
I’ll remember everything you tried to shatter,
But my question is , are you here because it matters
Or for the fame that comes later?

My Poems

My heart is a building/
memories blow/
like the wind/
Seekers shall find
home in my bones/
My skin shall always
relive the moments here/
even if I go blind/

I draw hearts/
on the glass/
that shelters dew drops/
for love is all I know/
And to embrace the pain/
is no weakness/
For You shall grow/
only when You know/

In the hallways/
wander hearts/
romanticising pain/
In the name of art/
~Ignorant~
you don’t have to turn blue/
everytime/
to know that you’re alive/
Art is apposite/
soulful/
And a smile/
can work wonders/ too/

My poems/
doorways to melancholy/
Past those/ hides/
a happy me/

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