Send words/prompts

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 ❤️

A lot

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.

The art of holding on

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?

~🧜

Poems and women

If my poems were women
they will love you till
one of us is out of blood,
will make flowers out of your flesh
and bury the remnants in the mud.
They will drag you to the top of hills
and dare you jump off without second thought
there must be moments of pretty love but wild hearts is all that I have got.
No, my poems won’t read you books
for to learn something you need to gain,
I don’t promise to bring you stars
for them,leaving the moon can be pain.
Either there can be moments of deafening silence or subtle words shouting on my skin,
my poems do not believe in good
all they know is to sin.

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?

Strength

Out there I see a world
full of hope,
people with options
to chose from,
who can be
what they want to be;
My street is of the gifted,
people with answers for
every “how” and “if”, but me.

I was terrible at volleyball
couldn’t even sing,
I tried to learn them all
yet failed at everything.

I put people first
and end up second,
not the best choice,
Lonely in the crowds,
hid in the corners
with my choking voice.

I do believe in that one voice
in my heart that, something mine is somewhere out there
waiting for me to find a way;
With every word leaving my fingers
I try to find my strength,
every passing day.

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.

Also, Instagram

You and poems

Distance between words
is our home.

I hang my words on the
red thread around your neck
and everytime I look at you
it reminds me of the fact
that my poems and you are one,
Talking about chills
I never met anyone like you, none.

Your smile reminds me of the sky
under which we first met,
and the summer breeze
take me back to the mix tape
you left on my table,
Yes , I’m not over it yet.

The only thing I feel anymore
is you and poems,
My skin is poems and you.

~🧜

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