My Poems

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/

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

Wonders

Don’t just hear,
listen
what one word
whisper to other,
Here, all the words are
adjacent yet far
how they managed to exist,
I wonder.

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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.

Illusion.

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 […]

Illusion.

// 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

This poem is whole.

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

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?

Live a little

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.

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A poem for everyone

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 .

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