My heart is a building/ memories blow/ like the wind/ Seekers shall find home in my bones/ My skin shall always relive the moments here/ even if I go blind/
I draw hearts/ on the glass/ that shelters dew drops/ for love is all I know/ And to embrace the pain/ is no weakness/ For You shall grow/ only when You know/
In the hallways/ wander hearts/ romanticising pain/ In the name of art/ ~Ignorant~ you don’t have to turn blue/ everytime/ to know that you’re alive/ Art is apposite/ soulful/ And a smile/ can work wonders/ too/
My poems/ doorways to melancholy/ Past those/ hides/ a happy me/
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.
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.
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 […]
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
I have heard people complaining about writers not writing their whole heart, always trying to hide some part. And I have seen people trying to explore the unknown; like writers are not people, like they are not their own. And I always think why is that so after all? So here I’m putting my whole heart (with all the pieces) in this poem and now This poem is whole.
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?
I have kept all your words safe in the flowers that dried pressed next to the stories you left, and the pace at which you were running towards sun, I hope somehow you have learnt to rest. There’s something very primal the way your words are building home in my chest now, In distance we are growing close to each other and I don’t know how. I know someday we’ll meet at the cliff before falling off or learning to fly, Maybe this way sky will teach us to live a little before we finally die.
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 .