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

You and poems

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.

~🧜

Categories
poetry

Pockets full of Cosmos.

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.

The one
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.

His poetry
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.

~🧜