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.
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.
Hello beautiful people, I’m feeling disconnected from blog and this September I’m about to complete 2 years on WordPress. So to keep me going I invite you for words/ prompts you want me to write on and I’ll post poems/rants out of them till October. You can send suggestions by commenting on this post or you can mail the prompts too ( via contact option). I’ll start posting them from next Saturday i.e 08/08/2020. Thank you for your patience and immense love. I love y’all ❤️
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?
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?
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 .