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 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.
I have heard
their whole heart,
to hide some part.
And I have seen
people trying to
are not people,
like they are
not their own.
And I always think
why is that so after all?
my whole heart
(with all the pieces)
in this poem
This poem is whole.
I have kept
all your words safe
in the flowers that dried
pressed next to the stories
and the pace at which
you were running towards sun,
I hope somehow
you have learnt to rest.
very primal the way
your words are building home
in my chest now,
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.
Once I met a broken sunset
stunning in pink and beautifully alone,
He was tip toe-ing through twilight
asking me to step into unknown.
My inside and out felt like stones
but I was willing to know what it has to say,
For sometimes the most ordinary things become blessings
and I had nothing to do, anyway.
He took me to the core of colours
and said he can give me all of them,
And he asked me:
Humans talk about the lonely hearts that bleed in silence whole night, but what about the open wounds that stinks at 2 pm?
This constant pressure someone feeling that they are entitled to talk to you daily can be draining ( and can break the bonds too). When going through things, the most creative people can also run out of words and the answer to every question can be nothing more than “okay”.
We keep checking on people , which is a good thing, indeed. But too much care can be toxic too. If everybody starts with “How are you today?” then what else can someone say other than ” I’m fine”.
On some days the best thing we can do for others is to just listen or just be there in silence or just give them the space. Because sometimes, the best thing we can do for others is not to do anything.
~ Let them be.
From silent poetry to screaming voice of art
I have met people, creative from the heart.
They tried to teach structure and rhythm but who they are to decide what we are?
I have seen pioneers of colours
and words – the weapons which give scars and help the world win wars.
From Van Gogh to Franz Kafka
all the names make me want to paint stars,
Sometimes I resonate with Rupi Kaur’s wolves but my heart is trapped in Sylvia’s “The Bell Jar” .
Those honey coated eyes
were the “okay.” to every “okay?”
I used to throw,
when sheets used to haunt me
In search of rhythm,
to him I used to go.
named after my favourite colour
In his smile
I used to see the rainbow,
Every mountain was his own
and every stream
he used to know.
were the narrow roads
and wide sea used to
inspire him the most,
For they said he carried galaxies
within his eyes
had pockets full of cosmos.
Hey you guys.
Please stay home and stay safe.
Wash your hands often and save water too.
When people started to stay home
were learning to untangle their heart,
All the healing took over pain
it was beautiful to see them reading and making art.
Some met their demons
while others danced to uplift their spirits,
They started to think individually
For they realised importance of every life , every breath , their ignorance
– a lesson they were ready to inherit.
It felt like centuries
but people stayed where they were,
For all the eyes were hoping for
the golden age to come back, wind was supposed to come with cure.
When all the suffering passed, all was felt and done, people came together to grieve the losses,
To see the earth healing was relief admist chaos and to never take life granted, to cherish every minute they promised.
Here’s a collaboration with Bharath.Check out his mind.
A bag full of memories
A jar full of tears
Sand in my shoes
Fears up my sleeves.
A mind filled with fears
Voice full of melodies
Eyesight soaking in the hues
I carry down this road.
A world invisible is what I see
The touch I never felt haunts me
The fish never reached the oceans
Is it freedom, to fly like a bird
Over the air
Those stars in the sky
Are they really there?
With every turn
And then I see you
Pouring your all, into the blue.
You point to the wall,
I had no clue
We’re in this together
They’re our nightmares.