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?
We were walking the same path
she- in colours
me- in hues.
A path everyone keeps
talking about.
I steal glances to make sure I’m okay
she glances to make me feel okay.
We crossed oceans
one heavy with depth
Another heavy under the depth.
The intensity with which
one resemble their mother
is terrifying.
For a few days or so,
like the waves we leave
then return
we always come back
there’s always home, in mother.
Wrapped hands around knees
The thrill of beginnings in my heart
without realising
I keep turning into my mother.
Am I running towards a disaster
or turning into one?!
Leaving, they say, is the
hardest thing to do
and easiest after it’s done.
Finding oneself is a quest
a discovery of superior kind
I’m not talking about
finding a space for me,
but finding me.
It’s hard in all the glory of world
to be less
to want less
For, more is glorified,
more is expected
more is celebrated.
But I just want
to be invisible
in my home
in my room,
in my place of discovery.
Life is a journey, they say.
In search for words
in the corners of the world,
It seems easy.
Unknown vernacular is scattered
on the long forgotten floor.
Mist from long lost feet echoes-
A language of ancient times.
Memory is nothing but
a forgotten language.
No one other than you can speak it.
No one other than you know it.
No two people in a memory
remember it the same.
We often hear ourselves asking others,
“Remember this, remember that”?
Memories written on the skin
are lethal.
How do you describe a touch
that no longer exists!
Existence is a whole other thing,
let’s not go there.
But
everything exists in a memory.
I come here to say the exact same thing
For the warmth of your wing,
I’m tired of the know-it-all world
of being here, terrified and curled.
Poets on the streets say, it’s okay
Encouraging us to live another day,
Who knows about the next second?
Society is crying, stressing over.
You see this world will never know
Nor do they care anymore, now,
You and I, we all are going to die
let’s, just once, try to fly.
Piercing gaze of pines;
So much life on the verge of dying but
Languorous eyes can’t save anyone.
We lose something everyday;
I’m calling us we, though
The Art of losing is really easy.Let’s try to see things as such;
Hearts overflowing with hope always end up as disasters.
Languorous eyes can’t save anyone.
Let’s try to see things as such;
Hearts overflowing with hope always end up as disasters.
Languorous eyes can’t save anyone.
Home.
Comfort to some
trigger warning to others.
I know you hate my generation
The self labbed
Woke people
Who are drunk on one side of a story.
I am a generation
The one who is totally
Failing at being what
We’re to be.
You take pride in
Densely packed
nervous buildings
glued together with curiosity,
not hope.
And call this a living.
You and I have
different understandings of home.
I have seen too much of waves
to call shore
As my home.
We talk about grass
the way one talks about earth.
You can argue that
it’s the same thing
but honey, it’s not.
Earth is the one who nurtures,
lets the life grow
out of it
and have enough strength
to support life.
Earth is a mother’s womb,
heart of a father,
The eyes of the couple won’t/can’t be convinced.
Grass is life.
It can’t grow on its own,
It can’t see
how green it is
or how beautiful
the world think
a vast, lively field is.
She smelt like the old stories
The Ones my mother sang,
her huge house was a shell
a garden,
lacking only a spring.
She told us tales
of people who left her behind,
I was in awe of all that she had
And what she didn’t.
Her daughter was of my age
A pretty face and fragile hands,
A girl, surrounded by people
A girl, no one could understand.
I fell in love with her boy
The walking beauty
of our gloomy beach,
His heart was a sacred place
a glittering thing, I couldn’t reach.
He’d walk on words
and swim in love
But we failed to keep in touch.
My memory seems forgotten
like the book you don’t miss much.
a.mermaid'spen_ 