A house always does
what a house should do
no matter the cost,
for the benefits are worth.
A high wall, a decorated lawn
Pretty to look at
hard to be seen.
A tall gate, beautiful colours
Stone-cold beauty
Impregnable.
Empty marbles
Indeed a marvel!
A graveyard waiting for all
to join in,
Can’t claim all the land.
Why don’t you just live?
Don’t just hear,
listen
what one word
whisper to other,
Here, all the words are
adjacent yet far
how they managed to exist,
I wonder.
Also, Instagram
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.
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?
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.
The one
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.
His poetry
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.
~🧜
Don’t you hear the leaves singing
endless tale of life?
To live is to know that
you have to let go sometimes.
What if they also
refuse wind’s hand and
join stubborn hearts in strike?
What will be the point of seasons,
all the moments and wasted time?
Let go, breath, forget about
the ones who left,
Fall, fly along with your heart
towards the land of abandoned joy.
Autumn taught me it’s okay to change
Sometimes, it’s must and best,
To be a tree resting in winter
instead of being a volcano to destroy.
~🧜🏻♀
Like clouds and rain
we are supposed to let go pain.
It’s said not to dwell on past
but does mind ever stop?
They command you to
walk on betrayal
then talk about hope.
I know you’re running
out of patience and
have been there myself,
I too am
tired of hearing
songs of disguised elf.
You must be brave though
breathing after blood and war,
You have left flesh
and became poetry
I am proud of you
for coming this far.
~🧜🏻♀
Your heart was a hurricane
soul was a vast sea,
I miss the old times
when your words were free.
Layers on layers of impair
what have you become?
Let me hear this story
sit here, come?
Talk to me, tell me
where all of this went wrong?
I’m here to listen
even if it’s infinitely long.
You’re the closest to me
why still feels miles apart?
I know it hurts
we share the same heart.
Even in summer
your smile is cold as snow,
I never left during storms
I know, you know.
When I was painting sunsets
you were busy looking for rain,
I tried to show you spring
but you kept looking for pain.
It hurts my heart to see you
keep roaming here and there,
I yelp at your scars
but mostly cry over the tied hair.
I have always been here
please try to see,
Together we can acquire anything
I just need you, us and we.
I have lived with you
in between your screams,
cried for your laughter too.
I have always loved you in silence
because I know you.
~Me to me.
Not a trigger alert, it’s more sort of a love letter. Makes sense?
I am actually writing this letter to narrator of ‘The Book Thief‘ by Markus Zusak.
(For writing this book, Markus Zusak have a part of my heart)
It’s obvious to fall in love with characters, but here, I’m in love with narrator instead.
I will try my best to not to ruin the book for you.
___________________________________________
Dear death,
You said you notice colours before people and you had me there. I want you to know, you are my favourite narrator in the history of forever and I have written a poem on you too.(Click here).You showed me your world, suffering and dilemmas, you showed me the pure heart of death. I had a strong feeling of resentment towards you, but you made me know, you are not the faulty one here. You are alone, but not worse.
Sometimes you were so melancholic, I wanted to rip open the words and enter your world, to hold you, to embrace you for a while, I wanted to comfort you so bad. I wanted to stay with you in between my breath. You are the one for whom I would write words without space, because I know how much those blank spaces hurt you and you know how much they scare me.
I’m not sure about people, but I don’t hate you or envy/pity you. I treasure you, for who you are. I believe in everything you said, cried with you at times and lived through your words.
I appreciate you, I really do.
And I’m haunted by humans, just like you.
Yours,
Mermaid.
a.mermaid'spen_ 