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/
Centuries ago, during the course of evolution, humans brought the whole species together, on the base of One belief system; Religion. We thrived. They say nothing lasts forever; humans have this obsession with change, To know more, To be more.
And now ( fast forward to ‘I’ ) As ‘act of God’ I see my country moulding beliefs of generations. God has now become a tool To control masses; we are given a Reason to be scared of the sacred. I see them locked in fancy buildings like you and me, having ‘no right to speech’, worse, they can’t even speak because no one is actually asking them.
/I used to think/ I’m an atheist/ but lately/ I have started to believe otherwise/ like y’all/ I too have a holy book/
My God is as panicky and breathless as yours. I watch TV till my heart starts aching, I clutch the Constitution close to my flesh, with hopes of lending some air to it; I hear him suffocating. Then I sleep to the weeping sound of my God (Constitution); who cries with all the other Gods because Gods are dying in my country.
In his Letters to Milena, Kafka wrote, ‘You are the knife I turn inside myself; that is love. That, my dear, is love.’
And I can’t help but wonder number of times I ate my own skin to feel your touch on my lips. And number of times I died, trying to reason with unknown. In search of words I travel through my spine; your garden in my lungs is dead. Butterflies have turned into fireflies, illuminating me while burning my senses, I am alive you see.
There is a reason why I hate September, we all have reasons, to reason with unknown is a silent revolution, a war with possessiveness. Like a failed theory my eyes look for you in patterns, for hints, so that I can reason with my tied hands; there are songs of lost touch in my heart.
All I am left with are questions. I can’t come up with an explanation for my fear of something that already passed. Like the evening sky there are too many colours, too many shades of verses leaving my finger tips; I paint my nails red when I miss you the most.
My skin sweat in how, why and where? You ask me why no happy poems? These, my dear, are barely poems.
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.
If I was a writer I’d write you love letters perfectly folded in the scent of wind hidden under the silk sheets from me to you it can be a gift. And I’d dip my pen in your hair to check the length of your curls and to steal the ink from you; Your skin is a rainbow. And I’d steal all your worries like the rain and store away the stuff that steal your smile; the thing you label as pain. But I read somewhere that pen is a writer’s sword and I can’t harm the one I adore the most So I won’t pretend to be a writer and will sit here hoping you’re falling in love with me , almost?
I have kept all your words safe in the flowers that dried pressed next to the stories you left, and the pace at which you were running towards sun, I hope somehow you have learnt to rest. There’s something very primal the way your words are building home in my chest now, In distance 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.