// 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

// of fears and discouragement//

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?

Prompts

1. What I care about everyday, every minute by : New Media Works

2. Discouragement by : Von Smith

A lot

You try to hide your women
in thin threads of colour
cast
and religion.
You hide them
behind the shattered
ceilings of your sin.
And you tell them
“It’s for your protection”.

You stop women
from going out,
meeting people,
and cover the
thick khol of their eyes
and you tell them
“this is because I love you”.

You beat your women
for having a voice,
a right,
an opinion,
revolutionary sight.
and you tell them
“it’s because you’re mine”.

You are against your women
for having an education,
to get a degree,
and to work in
cooperative sector.
And you tell them
“It’s because you won’t fit”.

You rape your women
because the clothes
were reveling,
her walk was appealing,
and sometimes,
only because of the gender.
And you tell them
“It was your fault”.

Every other day,
You tell your women things
You instruct,
You command
A lot.
And justify saying
“You don’t know enough”.

So, today
I’m here to tell you.
You do all of this
because you know,
1. They don’t need your protection.
2. You’re in love with the bodies.
3. They fit everywhere. Because you know If you can fit in them, they can fit the whole world in them.
4. Every time you say it’s their fault, you show your cowardice in accepting yours.
5. And you definitely know, that your women know A LOT, more than all of  you combined. And you’re just scared of the things they know.

And everytime you break a woman, you break yourself.

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?

~🧜

Strength

Out there I see a world
full of hope,
people with options
to chose from,
who can be
what they want to be;
My street is of the gifted,
people with answers for
every “how” and “if”, but me.

I was terrible at volleyball
couldn’t even sing,
I tried to learn them all
yet failed at everything.

I put people first
and end up second,
not the best choice,
Lonely in the crowds,
hid in the corners
with my choking voice.

I do believe in that one voice
in my heart that, something mine is somewhere out there
waiting for me to find a way;
With every word leaving my fingers
I try to find my strength,
every passing day.

Broken Sunset

Once I met a broken sunset
stunning in pink and beautifully alone,
He was tip toe-ing through twilight
asking me to step into unknown.

My inside and out felt like stones
but I was willing to know what it has to say,
For sometimes the most ordinary things become blessings
and I had nothing to do, anyway.

He took me to the core of colours
and said he can give me all of them,
And he asked me:
Humans talk about the lonely hearts that bleed in silence whole night, but what about the open wounds that stinks at 2 pm?

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.

Art

From silent poetry to screaming voice of art
I have met people, creative from the heart.

They tried to teach structure and rhythm but who they are to decide what we are?
I have seen pioneers of colours
and words – the weapons which give scars and help the world win wars.

From Van Gogh to Franz Kafka
all the names make me want to paint stars,
Sometimes I resonate with Rupi Kaur’s wolves but my heart is trapped in Sylvia’s “The Bell Jar” .

~🧜

Also Instagram

Aftermath.

Hey you guys.

Please stay home and stay safe.

Wash your hands often and save water too.

______________________________________

When people started to stay home
were learning to untangle their heart,
All the healing took over pain
it was beautiful to see them reading and making art.

Some met their demons
while others danced to uplift their spirits,
They started to think individually
For they realised importance of every life , every breath , their ignorance
– a lesson they were ready to inherit.

It felt like centuries
but people stayed where they were,
For all the eyes were hoping for
the golden age to come back, wind was supposed to come with cure.

When all the suffering passed, all was felt and done, people came together to grieve the losses,
To see the earth healing was relief admist chaos and to never take life granted, to cherish every minute they promised.

~🧜