Towards the left and into the right
not a single heart in sight.
It’s expensive to be a human
And drastic when inhuman.
The conflicts are head high
river air: impossibility dry,
Sharp cries of wounded
growing faint
In one’s own home
everyone is a saint.
See, no help is needed now
No point where, why and how!
Tears are caught in between the lines
suppressed murmuring
as from a wood of pines.
Could one live?
What do they say of hope?
Does, post death
has life any scope?
Tipsy nights are amusing;
A striking fashion of wind.
Always the same? not quite.
Hibiscus- a quite calm scent,
A sent through the oppressed walls.
Distance is luxury.
More the distance, more the beauty.
A lavish scene – tens of buildings
glued together; strangers.
Tip-toeing youth
“You should walk more”
The tiring routine of life
“Walk more and live long”.
Seldom talking mouths,
keen eyes and trembling hands.
Another day to live
to claim
to pass.
How fragile- life
How hard- living.
My being is hanging out with the thought of being myself at almost all the times and the urge to be anything but me.Thought is an act of violence. The urge to be somethingbut me, is the violence against what I am. The urge to be nowhere but near you.
Is it possible for a person to be envious of a place?
To be honest I’m tired of writing about you, tired of writing about writing about you. Whenever I am about to ditch the thought of writing, a desperate poem about how your city is covered in broken hearts, start screming in my lungs. Is your city drowning in broken things or running on it?
I hope the next time you cross a mart, it snows. I hope it snows to the extent that your cold city start shivering, I hope you get a taste of what you’re serving. For atleast 12 days I want the snow to stay there (beauty deceiving hearts), for 12 days are the maximum amount of time you’re capable of loving someone and your city is cruel for 12 months in a row.
Tonight, after reading this, when you’ll call me, I’ll miss 11 of them but pick 12th, for I know you won’t call after 12th. Even though, I promise myself to be better and be me, I lose myself to your city.
A city of tall buildings.
A city of cold hearts.
A city of you.
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.
Holding on doesn’t always have to be about people or the stained memories, it’s more complex than what we know.Â
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 IÂ 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?
~🧜
Every time you’re hurt,
You keep coming,
Your heart,
is a heart,
Others have machines,
just running.
I’m sick of these guess games,
Haven’t you got any other to blame?
Please, stop these claims,
Your agony is a result of,
your own flames.
Kept pushing me,
Whenever I offered help.
Now, when you are drowning in sea,
You choose to Yelp?
I too, have a soul,
But you kept digging hole,
Stop roaming around,
comparing loss or gain.
Regardless of intensity,
pain is pain.
I learned his past
present
desires to fly,
The way he sounds
when his demons cry.
His scent,
voice,
fears,
Love, was divine.
I wanted to claim and
make him mine.
Under the moonlight,
on heart’s call,
I was ready to breakdown
my heart’s wall.
Everything was perfect
and fine,
until I came to know
he was dying to
call me his lifeline.
I witnessed a love,
nearly perfect.
My locality was
dancing under a special effect.
My soul was empty
and heart
full of doubt,
Over the rainfall
I ended up
choosing drought.
Pushed him away
was afraid of being healed,
Here I am,
Alone,
with my high shield.
a.mermaid'spen_ 