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/

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.

//Touch has a memory//

I have been pretty transparent, if you’re really looking.
On my skin, you could see the boy with hazel eyes
with softest curls and the way,
he is touching my skin just by looking,
You can feel the metaphors
running along my hair
to your fingers;
you can sense the memories
curling up your hand.
Will remind you of the last kiss
or I’ll fill your heart with clichés;
you always fall for it.

Let me tell you stories about disasters and disappointment running deep down under my wrist, in my veins;
If you touch me for a bit longer, you’ll be able to sense the thunders;
touches, devastating enough to burn down the entirety.
But there’s nothing scarier than skin that feels nothing at all.

If I tell you,
consent in love is a funny thing
between the flashback of millions of memories and disruptive silence
in your eyes, you’re lost, believe me.
Once you touch,
there are no more may l’s.

And what about the veins under my skin that still tremble
at slightest touch because there are memories buried underneath me.
You look for justifications on my wrist,
all the longer-than-usual touches,
I’m wearing under my sleeves.

I know you’d believe me crying myself to sleep and how miserable the year has been.

But,
would you believe me
If I tell you,
An unwanted touch can send chills down the man’s spine
when you try to pull him closer after every “no”?
There is always a ” be a man” ready to slip from your tongue.
Can you ever forgive yourself in the name of humanity,
in the crowds shouting for justice while you’re the 5/10 culprits;
for stealing a moment that was not yours; thinking a smile to be a consent or never asking for it?
You know there won’t be any going back for him.
If there was a slight voice of complain,
it’s always easy to be a victim than to take responsibilities.
Funny how you always get away when they’re the ones sulking in pain.

And what about when a man tells you he was molested, would you believe him or say, “must’ve been fun?”

Collaboration with Bharath

// ‘V’ sign of tears //

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.



// 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

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 .

Also, Instagram

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.

Words.

Words feel on my skin like wildflowers and stay in my heart like the pretty snow,
They steal my sky like the shinning stars
Run in my blood wherever I go.

I keep seeing them floating in my eyes
they are the fresh scent in the winds that blow,
For days I keep running towards them to their land and watch the river flow.

For they are the songs that are whispered and bold enough to tear my skies apart,
I keep stealing them from cosmos
Somehow they always manage to fit in my heart.

~ 🧜🏻‍♀

Ephialtes

I often find myself with the ghosts after the whole world goes to sleep,
The world say those creatures are horrifying
but to my wonder I saw them weep.

It always seems like their darkness is my comfort even though they suck out my light,
My world sometimes seems dull and shallow do they have it bright?

They know the colour of my nightmares and all the words that drag me below,
How the world starts slipping out of my body
whenever I hold on and try to swallow.

Breath by breath I try to walk, not sure about the horizon or meadow,
I was told not to go too far as hell has nothing to offer, now I know.

~🧜‍♀

Brave

Like clouds and rain
we are supposed to let go pain.
It’s said not to dwell on past
but does mind ever stop?
They command you to
walk on betrayal
then talk about hope.
I know you’re running
out of patience and
have been there myself,
I too am
tired of hearing
songs of disguised elf.
You must be brave though
breathing after blood and war,
You have left flesh
and became poetry
I am proud of you
for coming this far.

~🧜🏻‍♀