Holding on doesn’t always have to be about people or the stained memories, it’s more complex than what we know.
I often leave my poems and pause midway to reminisce the fleeting moments, to find you there once again, which apparently has become my favourite thing to do.
I always try to find my face there, try to see the dipping-toes-in-the-moment-me.
I am constantly reminded of what I was because of what I am and I fail at being myself trying to hold on to what I was.
I write a poem every other day but there is no one to read them;
It hardly makes sense to hold on to past self, I know but you gotta hold on to something right?
why can’t that something be you?
If my poems were women
they will love you till
one of us is out of blood,
will make flowers out of your flesh
and bury the remnants in the mud.
They will drag you to the top of hills
and dare you jump off without second thought
there must be moments of pretty love but wild hearts is all that I have got.
No, my poems won’t read you books
for to learn something you need to gain,
I don’t promise to bring you stars
for them,leaving the moon can be pain.
Either there can be moments of deafening silence or subtle words shouting on my skin,
my poems do not believe in good
all they know is to sin.
Out there I see a world
full of hope,
people with options
to chose from,
who can be
what they want to be;
My street is of the gifted,
people with answers for
every “how” and “if”, but me.
I was terrible at volleyball
couldn’t even sing,
I tried to learn them all
yet failed at everything.
I put people first
and end up second,
not the best choice,
Lonely in the crowds,
hid in the corners
with my choking voice.
I do believe in that one voice
in my heart that, something mine is somewhere out there
waiting for me to find a way;
With every word leaving my fingers
I try to find my strength,
every passing day.
I have kept
all your words safe
in the flowers that dried
pressed next to the stories
and the pace at which
you were running towards sun,
I hope somehow
you have learnt to rest.
very primal the way
your words are building home
in my chest now,
we are growing close to each other
and I don’t know how.
I know someday we’ll meet
at the cliff before falling off
or learning to fly,
Maybe this way
sky will teach us to live a little
before we finally die.
Ever looked at someone and thought, is this what poetry in motion is?!
Because I do think that sometimes, like right now, sitting here while my mind is dwelling in the vast sea of profound memories of all the people I have come across and I am realising all of them were beautiful in a way it’s not possible for me to put them simply into words.
There is this distinct memory about a long lost best friend. The way she used to put my head at ease during the wars and how she almost lost me to my irresistible urge to finish the “due project”. My single second was a light year for her and all the waiting and chatting still warms up my heart whenever the wave of grief try to sink me down. Looking back at time, I have realized, it’s always those tiny, funny and unexpected moments of seconds that add up to most of our minutes.
There is nothing specific to talk about a person, but also there is nothing that is found in every single of them. We all are maybe looking at the sky at the same time but none of us have the same sky. Same is the case when it comes to people.
The part of someone I see maybe is the part that is only for me. And all the parts of all the people I have, will always be with me like the specific alphabets running in my blood. And with every passing second, I’m here, hoping that you all have had a poem, your own specific poem written for you, atleast once .
Once I met a broken sunset
stunning in pink and beautifully alone,
He was tip toe-ing through twilight
asking me to step into unknown.
My inside and out felt like stones
but I was willing to know what it has to say,
For sometimes the most ordinary things become blessings
and I had nothing to do, anyway.
He took me to the core of colours
and said he can give me all of them,
And he asked me:
Humans talk about the lonely hearts that bleed in silence whole night, but what about the open wounds that stinks at 2 pm?
From silent poetry to screaming voice of art
I have met people, creative from the heart.
They tried to teach structure and rhythm but who they are to decide what we are?
I have seen pioneers of colours
and words – the weapons which give scars and help the world win wars.
From Van Gogh to Franz Kafka
all the names make me want to paint stars,
Sometimes I resonate with Rupi Kaur’s wolves but my heart is trapped in Sylvia’s “The Bell Jar” .
Those honey coated eyes
were the “okay.” to every “okay?”
I used to throw,
when sheets used to haunt me
In search of rhythm,
to him I used to go.
named after my favourite colour
In his smile
I used to see the rainbow,
Every mountain was his own
and every stream
he used to know.
were the narrow roads
and wide sea used to
inspire him the most,
For they said he carried galaxies
within his eyes
had pockets full of cosmos.
Hey you guys.
Please stay home and stay safe.
Wash your hands often and save water too.
When people started to stay home
were learning to untangle their heart,
All the healing took over pain
it was beautiful to see them reading and making art.
Some met their demons
while others danced to uplift their spirits,
They started to think individually
For they realised importance of every life , every breath , their ignorance
– a lesson they were ready to inherit.
It felt like centuries
but people stayed where they were,
For all the eyes were hoping for
the golden age to come back, wind was supposed to come with cure.
When all the suffering passed, all was felt and done, people came together to grieve the losses,
To see the earth healing was relief admist chaos and to never take life granted, to cherish every minute they promised.
I know heartbreak,
It live in my veins, I hear my blood shout.
It took the colours out of my rainbow,
Tried to turn my heart inside out .
When my heart was hanging mid air
I forced myself to swallow the ink,
Somehow my sky managed to stay yellow
All my words and pages turned pink.
There’s this power in breathing
Something none of us can touch,
This magic resides in air, to heal,
Whenever life bleeds too much.
So, this one is for all the second bests
People who keep leaving ourselves behind,
Let’s stop trying to fit in with the world
We are enough, even if we are the last ones in line.