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 am very fortunate to stick around here for this long time and of course it’s all because ALL OF YOU. Thank you very much for believing in my words and staying here. Your constant support keep me going.
I changed my blog URL this August ( in first week) and due to drastic changes I lost all my will and hopes to blog anymore. But after being in constant touch with WordPress happiness engine, effort of the team and unbelievable support and faith of Sumeet I am able to see changes and my blog is getting better day by day. So, if you’re seeing this post, do let me know if you can comment and like , if not please let me know about the same via Gmail.
Like I said last year, I love being on WordPress, hoping to meet y’all next year same day.
Reblogging/ re-posting this, because my reach ( along with visibility of blog to people) and will to write here, is messed.
I once heard someone say The world inside your head is barren, But I brush that thought away For who they are to think they know. The spring came but I failed to fix the gloom For in corners of my mind, the thought grew bit by bit, I’m trapped; For my own skin no […]
Words will leave me at the end of this poem just like your love left societies and hearts day by day or maybe it was never there. Maybe I am too delicate. Breathing before I suffocate. Am I too slow to cope up with the mornings, days and seconds? But I still am very receptive towards love, affection and the foundations of your faiths and religions. Everyday I hear lips shouting “love is love” but see them denying the same when it’s time to act. They let their opinions slip into air infecting people, disheartening the minds (Sometimes people are The virus) Being homosexual or transgender is no crime; world needs to stick to love instead of a gender, one part of world is on roads, angry, hurt and you’re telling me to deny unlearning because what you have been taught is not wrong. Stop shouting ” we’ll take care of you, get you checked” let the people be who they are. We have so much to learn yet, we have to go far. And sooner or later I’ll find the words which left but, can you find the love you threw out of your windows?
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
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.
Ever looked at someone and thought, is this what poetry in motion is?! Because I do think that sometimes, like right now, sitting here while my mind is dwelling in the vast sea of profound memories of all the people I have come across and I am realising all of them were beautiful in a way it’s not possible for me to put them simply into words.
There is this distinct memory about a long lost best friend. The way she used to put my head at ease during the wars and how she almost lost me to my irresistible urge to finish the “due project”. My single second was a light year for her and all the waiting and chatting still warms up my heart whenever the wave of grief try to sink me down. Looking back at time, I have realized, it’s always those tiny, funny and unexpected moments of seconds that add up to most of our minutes.
There is nothing specific to talk about a person, but also there is nothing that is found in every single of them. We all are maybe looking at the sky at the same time but none of us have the same sky. Same is the case when it comes to people.
The part of someone I see maybe is the part that is only for me. And all the parts of all the people I have, will always be with me like the specific alphabets running in my blood. And with every passing second, I’m here, hoping that you all have had a poem, your own specific poem written for you, atleast once .