Note to self

Write freely? Let the words fall in place? Write with no strings attached? No.
Try writing with all your emotions attached to that one word which made you write in the first place. Read shitty poems on internet, write shitty poems on internet and re read your work. Because, who cares. Be your biggest fan. Take the compliments, take them all. It took you so much to reach here, stand your ground and take all the praise. Write what you want when you want and where you want. Fall in love and don’t try to hold it in anymore. Let yourself fall and let yourself love. Don’t be afraid to have your heart broken. It’s about time, just live.

~ 🧜‍♀️

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Sorrow’s Vertigo

The song of fragments
stitched together by memories,
The wound must bleed.
The lasts are more important than firsts
the last word
the last time
the last place.
empty lies on the promise
of better tomorrow.
Sorrow of seconds dissolved in minutes
heavy heart in a discolored room.
It keep coming
in the past, present and future
From wishing on falling stars
to fall like stars.

~🧜‍♀️

Cafuné

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?

The sound of time

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.

My space

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.

Watertight compartments

A house always does
what a house should do
no matter the cost,
for the benefits are worth.

A high wall, a decorated lawn
Pretty to look at
hard to be seen.
A tall gate, beautiful colours
Stone-cold beauty
Impregnable.

Empty marbles
Indeed a marvel!
A graveyard waiting for all
to join in,
Can’t claim all the land.
Why don’t you just live?

Purple Days

Of life and living

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.

Sanity is not a Statistics

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.

Thoughts

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.