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/
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.
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?
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.
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.
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
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.
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?