Categories
NaPoWriMo

Art is Agony

The way things are,
I’m having hard time being okay with that.
They say- forever never lasts long,
HOW to be okay with that?

I see my friends turning to art,
Reading shit and calling shots.
WHAT is the meaning of art?
WHERE do I shoot my shot?

I’m afraid of asking questions
for all my WHAT go unnoticed.
The cat on my patio is purring unnecessarily
Is she afraid of living, unnoticed?

All the questions are hiding
hiding behind question marks,
Despite the endless possibility of no’s
All of us are looking for more,
Childhood wounds are surely popular
to leave marks.

Categories
NaPoWriMo

To bake a cake in the eye of the Storm

It hurts to grow old, he said
with a hint of pain in his eyes,
and looked at his trembling hands
maybe was trying to recognise something.

“Movement is tiring” he said
to bake a cake in the eye of the storm,
To see the same souls and faces
in all the people, in all the forms.

I wonder if it gets better
for they say everything does,
People generalise though
And when they do,
do they think of us?

Maybe it’s more about losing
than to fit in,
All the storms took things from us
But I miss the spot
We used to sit in.

Categories
Prompt poetry

Skinship

Kafka said “all the love in the world is useless when there is total lack of understanding”. But, how do you make someone understand love?

Fear is a toothless beast.
I see you move across the house and wait for you to see me.
I have been writing on the shape of your mouth; it’s been days since you held me close.
I wonder what you think of the colour violet, you still love it?

I close my eyes
and you’re still here.
here and there
– everywhere.

Quick sand is diminishing through the hourglass. As if wind is carrying me away from you. In a flash I see you, then you’re gone. I’m taking care of flowers, lilies are blooming. You left me a candle of darkness.
I’m longing to feel your touch, mother.

Categories
poetry story

Language of History- A poem

I met this girl who made me believe that earth is round and it indeed moves around its axis. I was looking through the tinted glass, rain pouring like flowers in spring air – utter melancholy, here and there.

She came to me, asked for what I want, that girl with blue eyes and purple lips; hair as red as sun and hands so pale, like she never knew light, avoiding the sun; the way lovers avoid trauma bound conversations.

History dripped from her words; a dialect I never heard of. For you, natural instinct might be to correct the pronunciation.
However, I kept listening to her. She showed me different types of coffee, and asked me to choose one, as it’s cold and romantic. I have no preferences in coffee, cold is a feeling that reminds me of life and romance? I’m a hopeless romantic.
I asked her to choose one instead, then she  assured me to be back with a coffee made by love for the lover.

I was still lost in translation, vernacular is bliss. Like love can only be described best in the mother tongue; her words seemed to be as old as time.
I am no philologist yet I’m stuck in time, trying to make sense of history.

She served me as-it-is: the words of generations, which she said her father had taught her, for her mother was too busy trying to birth a boy. The words which surely stay the same with tingling aroma of coffee.

Categories
poetry

Anything but Human -a poem

We are birds that flock together.
Hunting worms, blind to the nature of the ones we’re dying to feed on. We follow each other while pretending to know it all and end up with a worm stuck in our throats. We are not choking, we are not okay either.
We are birds;
blind, foolish and hungry.

Other days, we are mice, wating for scampering feet of cats. Instead of running away or hiding, we’re waiting for trouble to knock on our doors. We are not happy or afraid but curious to see who will live, who will fight, who will give up and who will thrive!
We know what is happening but we are the generation of blind eye.
To pretend not to see is easier than to see and suffer.

We are the sailors of dead sea.
Instead of coming together we are waiting for the other boat to flip over or run out of hope, we are waiting for the sea to choose a winner;
for it’s easy to blame on time and circumstances.

We are everything but human, yet human.

Categories
poetry

30 of 60

Most foolish act is to break down a minute. Time seems to be the most visible truth, unbiased and irrational or it’s engulfed by the past yearning for tomorrow?
For half a second, I’ll let the grief leave and try to look for good, for they say, you find happiness when you look for it. It can be true. We all want good. When we find it, we embrace the shadows and hold on to them, tight.
But grief? It’s not that hard to find it, You see. It’s always in the air as there’s no place for sadness in the bones. We hurt ourselves to merely fool ourselves, by building this wall of ‘soul’s pain’. We pretend not be bothered by whatever is outside.
But, what’s the point of killing pain with pain? Point of killing 30 of 60 seconds over what will always linger after another 30 of 60 (seconds/minutes)?
Every second I feel myself engulfed by the second that passed and the one yet to come, I’m stuck in time.
Is this what we call living!?
What if we were built this way? All of us? Can desire justify it or do I have to look for the synonyms of ‘escape’?
Desire is like air, it’s always there.

Most of the times we are unaware. We’re all stuck here, who said life is fair?

Categories
poetry

A City of heartbreaks

My being is hanging out with the thought of being myself at almost all the times and the urge to be anything but me.Thought is an act of violence. The urge to be somethingbut me, is the violence against what I am. The urge  to be nowhere but near you.

Is it possible for a person to be envious of a place?

To be honest I’m tired of writing about you, tired of writing about writing about you. Whenever I am about to ditch the thought of writing, a desperate poem about how your city is covered in broken hearts, start screming in my lungs. Is your city drowning in broken things or running on it?

I hope the next time you cross a mart, it snows. I hope it snows to the extent that your cold city start shivering, I hope you get a taste of what you’re serving. For atleast 12 days I want the snow to stay there (beauty deceiving hearts), for 12 days are the maximum amount of time you’re capable of loving someone and your city is cruel for 12 months in a row.

Tonight, after reading this, when you’ll call me, I’ll miss 11 of them but pick 12th, for I know you won’t call after 12th. Even though, I promise myself to be better and be me, I lose myself to your city.
A city of tall buildings.
A city of cold hearts.
A city of you.

Categories
poetry

Things that matter.

A poem, you ask?
I sit here and think, wondering what
we are,
when doors are shut
Tight and hard.

Alright, I will come with you for the trippy fight;
also, came with my freshly chewed skin,
All the prose and adjectives are here
We’ll keep them the way they have always been.


Let me give you a guilt trip with rich metaphors
Like the whispers you heard last night,
we’re beautifully demonic; we walk like angels.
A war against the world, you say? would you dare?

When next time you come to fight beside me
I’ll remember everything you tried to shatter,
But my question is , are you here because it matters
Or for the fame that comes later?

Categories
poetry

My Poems

My heart is a building/
memories blow/
like the wind/
Seekers shall find
home in my bones/
My skin shall always
relive the moments here/
even if I go blind/

I draw hearts/
on the glass/
that shelters dew drops/
for love is all I know/
And to embrace the pain/
is no weakness/
For You shall grow/
only when You know/

In the hallways/
wander hearts/
romanticising pain/
In the name of art/
~Ignorant~
you don’t have to turn blue/
everytime/
to know that you’re alive/
Art is apposite/
soulful/
And a smile/
can work wonders/ too/

My poems/
doorways to melancholy/
Past those/ hides/
a happy me/

Categories
poetry

Gods are dying in my country.

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.

Prompt by Samyak