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?

Gods are dying in my country.

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.

Prompt by Samyak

I’m dying poetry

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.

// ‘V’ sign of tears //

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
than this. 
Burden of love, grief, pain and love.
See, a circle.



// zoning out from blog//

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 art of holding on

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?

~🧜

Let them be

This constant pressure someone feeling that they are entitled to talk to you daily can be draining ( and can break the bonds too). When going through things, the most creative people can also run out of words and the answer to every question can be nothing more than “okay”.

We keep checking on people , which is a good thing, indeed. But too much care can be toxic too. If everybody starts with “How are you today?” then what else can someone say other than ” I’m fine”.

On some days the best thing we can do for others is to just listen or just be there in silence or just give them the space. Because sometimes, the best thing we can do for others is not to do anything.

~ Let them be.

Apocalypse

Silence knocks on my window everytime it snows; I have an ache every time I hear your name. This time, spring came with the bittersweet memories, my kitchen smells like your favourite street food and the aroma runs through my veins, urging me to run away .

We are oceans apart yet its heavy on my heart. This sweet scent is telling me
to run
and
find the way
back
to
you.

//They say time will heal the heart
but it hurts everywhere//

Like the apocalypse your memory is playing in my head, vivid imaginations peep into my soul. Convictions constantly trying to reason with the cause. Metaphors climb, chisel and breaking my vision, as I curl into my fears.

Tell me?

Lately, I have been feeling so pissed at world and my head seems full of rants, probably not going to talk about that to someone. So I guess I’m starting to write them down here.

___________________________________________

I have been called pretty, beautiful and all the things someone want to hear, but I don’t want to hear that. I wanted to hear something more that that, something that have value to me ( values and ideas vary) .Recently, I met one of my aunts, she looked me and said you’re going to be a great mother…
Okay. I get it. Women are the arc reactors where we put the same ingredients and wait for the same products, the same expected results from generations.
She didn’t ask me about my major or my favourite book, what if I don’t want to be an arc reactor? What if I want to be more that what I already am?
Why people always talk about boobs and womb, why nobody talk about strength and brains? Why they always talk about finding the right guy and have the fucking happily forever and after? Are we living in Disney’s dimension?

Why no one is teaching their kids to be more than what they can be?

Phoenix

I belong to this world or maybe I am the world or just a void in space, whatever it is, some days I am so full of life, feels like I could give birth to million galaxies and swallow down the burning meteoroids or maybe save everyone from existential crisis. When I see someone suffering, especially something I have been through and managed to survive, there is this invincible desire to move their world upside down and make them see, how incredibly tiny and pointless their pain/ sufferings are. Then, at the exact same moment I want to stay distant, speak only when asked and help only as much as needed to let others soak up the hell fire and be their own Phoenix.

Everyday, I come across someone who starts or end the conversation with “you/ your words saved me” and I just end up smiling, doing nothing, trying to be distant. Like how!
I can barely drag myself out to at least to breathe. I leave conversations in cliffhanger, don’t reply for weeks, worse, delete my accounts. When I am back from the shell, how everyone is still here? Why everyone is still here?

There is this person living inside me, even after all the hell I put through myself, she never left, she actually refuses to leave. And wants to save everyone, her believes in love are so strong that all my demons cry for her to leave. But she keep trying to pull off these “heroic” scenes. Once I told her, if you must,then save me from myself.To which she replied, “saving is not something you need”.
OKAY. What do I need then?

You can call me narcissist, but my world does revolves around me. I am the greatest weapon of destruction and source of healing I have ever known, and these days..

I am not sure what I am.