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.
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.
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 .
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.
Silence knocks on my window everytime it snows; I have an ache every time I hear your name. This time, spring came with the bittersweet memories, my kitchen smells like your favourite street food and the aroma runs through my veins, urging me to run away .
We are oceans apart yet its heavy on my heart. This sweet scent is telling me
find the way
//They say time will heal the heart
but it hurts everywhere//
Like the apocalypse your memory is playing in my head, vivid imaginations peep into my soul. Convictions constantly trying to reason with the cause. Metaphors climb, chisel and breaking my vision, as I curl into my fears.
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.
I know heartbreak,
It live in my veins, I hear my blood shout.
It took the colours out of my rainbow,
Tried to turn my heart inside out .
When my heart was hanging mid air
I forced myself to swallow the ink,
Somehow my sky managed to stay yellow
All my words and pages turned pink.
There’s this power in breathing
Something none of us can touch,
This magic resides in air, to heal,
Whenever life bleeds too much.
So, this one is for all the second bests
People who keep leaving ourselves behind,
Let’s stop trying to fit in with the world
We are enough, even if we are the last ones in line.
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.