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.
The times are hard and my fears keep getting worse. In these fleeting moments, there are things I‘m scared of and care about. And then, there’s me. I’m my greatest accomplishment. I crave attention and validation from myself and write long paragraphs with weird rhythms to make sense of things around. I like to think of myself as an artist, an artist that paints emotions in words and verses. This identity crisis vexes me because what am I to you but bones and skin? What makes me lies hidden beneath.
I believe my words justify my heart and mind more than the features of my face and I run in my head, run for miles, to find the encouragement from my skin; for my senses. I bend like grass and blow like leaves yet feel discouraged and people look for my pictures instead of words.
It’s like a tiny plant growing in cracks, hustling to bloom but failing because no one likes where she’s coming from. Why do we need a garden to love the flower? Aren’t wildflowers flowers too?? Why do we judge an artist by the skin they are in and not by what they’re writing? Why do we encourage people with million followers and ignore the novices discovering art?
1. What I care about everyday, every minute by : New Media Works
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?
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?
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.