The song of fragments
stitched together by memories,
The wound must bleed.
The lasts are more important than firsts
the last word
the last time
the last place.
empty lies on the promise
of better tomorrow.
Sorrow of seconds dissolved in minutes
heavy heart in a discolored room.
It keep coming
in the past, present and future
From wishing on falling stars
to fall like stars.
~🧜♀️
Life is a dictionary of things.
Most come and go.
Some make us home
others are at a distance,
But none of them are lost.
Like tears, they remain,
always a part of us.
With a few bold decisions
they say
“You can take anything you want.”
But, what about the things that
don’t belong to us?
Is it ethical to run and cry
for things?
Or do we just choose
“Suffering” and look for “sacrifice”?
What exactly is life? A collection of things? Or a thing?
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?
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
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.
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.
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
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?
~🧜
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.
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.
a.mermaid'spen_ 