I see life unfold before me,
Like a distant memory
in moments of perfect harmony
you build your home in my chest
rising from the pit of my stomach;
And rush into my eyes before I know.
World behind you is blurred
I try to hold on to it,
To a memory, to a moment, to you.
And like any other day
you ignore my plea
Anguish down my cheeks
now distant then ever.
These fleeting memories
of you, crawl under my skin, reminding me of your touch.
The warmth of satisfaction
spreads in my heart
Would you take my hand in yours?
I try not to stop you
from falling, out of my eyes,
nor do I try to brush those tears away.
I wait for you instead, to meet
at some point on my skin,
Until I soak you in
and call you mine.
It’s an endless circle
of you leaving my body
and being one with me, again;
Realisation of us weighs heavier
Burden of love, grief, pain and love.
See, a circle.
Not writing this week? Want to know what piques my anxiety? Ask me a question.
It’s not people that I’m scared of but myself. My words aren’t forced, they come to me, like rain, forming clouds slowly pouring out of my body. My fingers forge the sky and I embody the universe.
But I suppose universe has its boundaries. It too needs to slow down sometimes and close its eyes when things go out of control. What if control is an illusion? Why is too much always considered to be hazardous? Isn’t the sky too expansive for the eyes? Why aren’t we ever tired of looking at it? Why does a heavy downpour scare you? I know. It’s because we dream of the skies and envy the rain. We want to fall free, effortlessly. We want to be loved regardless of how ugly or scary the fall is.
So is the case with writing and us. You want to write, set the words free, to feel, no matter how much we try and deny. People expect. Expectations are inevitable and sometimes expectations are heavy. No one is telling you but you know, you can feel. So you start running backwards, you don’t count steps. It’s a good thing; it leads you to a good place.
Too much emptiness. Too much silence. Too much solace.
Prompt by : Atara
The times are hard and my fears keep getting worse. In these fleeting moments, there are things I‘m scared of and care about.
And then, there’s me.
I’m my greatest accomplishment. I crave attention and validation from myself and write long paragraphs with weird rhythms to make sense of things around.
I like to think of myself as an artist, an artist that paints emotions in words and verses.
This identity crisis vexes me because what am I to you but bones and skin? What makes me lies hidden beneath.
I believe my words justify my heart and mind more than the features of my face and I run in my head, run for miles, to find the encouragement from my skin; for my senses. I bend like grass and blow like leaves yet feel discouraged and people look for my pictures instead of words.
It’s like a tiny plant growing in cracks, hustling to bloom but failing because no one likes where she’s coming from.
Why do we need a garden to love the flower? Aren’t wildflowers flowers too??
Why do we judge an artist by the skin they are in and not by what they’re writing?
Why do we encourage people with million followers and ignore the novices discovering art?
1. What I care about everyday, every minute by : New Media Works
2. Discouragement by : Von Smith
Hello beautiful people,
I’m feeling disconnected from blog and this September I’m about to complete 2 years on WordPress.
So to keep me going I invite you for words/ prompts you want me to write on and I’ll post poems/rants out of them till October.
You can send suggestions by commenting on this post or you can mail the prompts too ( via contact option). I’ll start posting them from next Saturday i.e 08/08/2020. Thank you for your patience and immense love.
I love y’all ❤️
You try to hide your women
in thin threads of colour
You hide them
behind the shattered
ceilings of your sin.
And you tell them
“It’s for your protection”.
You stop women
from going out,
and cover the
thick khol of their eyes
and you tell them
“this is because I love you”.
You beat your women
for having a voice,
and you tell them
“it’s because you’re mine”.
You are against your women
for having an education,
to get a degree,
and to work in
And you tell them
“It’s because you won’t fit”.
You rape your women
because the clothes
her walk was appealing,
only because of the gender.
And you tell them
“It was your fault”.
Every other day,
You tell your women things
And justify saying
“You don’t know enough”.
I’m here to tell you.
You do all of this
because you know,
1. They don’t need your protection.
2. You’re in love with the bodies.
3. They fit everywhere. Because you know If you can fit in them, they can fit the whole world in them.
4. Every time you say it’s their fault, you show your cowardice in accepting yours.
5. And you definitely know, that your women know A LOT, more than all of you combined. And you’re just scared of the things they know.
And everytime you break a woman, you break yourself.
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.
I have heard
their whole heart,
to hide some part.
And I have seen
people trying to
are not people,
like they are
not their own.
And I always think
why is that so after all?
my whole heart
(with all the pieces)
in this poem
This poem is whole.
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.
It’s raining almost every second day,
and I’m learning to bloom from the earth,
From life less branches to bed of dead leaves,
something inside of me is telling me to know my worth.
Sun is always shining over mountains
still, there is this darkness in the woods,
dripping down the lifeless branches
in a way only hope could.
My mind feels quiet than usual
sending the shivers down my spine,
these fingers gripping core of my skin
bringing my stars back to shine.
Sun rays are claiming my body;
reaching the places which need hope the most,
With every breath, life is teaching me to live a little;
I’m falling for love, almost.