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poetry Prompt poetry

Languorous eyes- Villanelle

Piercing gaze of pines;
So much life on the verge of dying but
Languorous eyes can’t save anyone.

We lose something everyday;
I’m calling us we, though
The Art of losing is really easy.Let’s try to see things as such;
Hearts overflowing with hope always end up as disasters.
Languorous eyes can’t save anyone.

Let’s try to see things as such;
Hearts overflowing with hope always end up as disasters.
Languorous eyes can’t save anyone.

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

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

I’m dying poetry

In his Letters to Milena, Kafka wrote,
‘You are the knife I turn inside myself;
that is love. That, my dear, is love.’

And I can’t help but wonder
number of times I ate my own skin
to feel your touch on my lips.
And number of times I died,
trying to reason with unknown.
In search of words I travel
through my spine; your garden
in my lungs is dead. Butterflies
have turned into fireflies,
illuminating me while burning
my senses, I am alive you see.

There is a reason why I hate September,
we all have reasons, to reason with
unknown is a silent revolution, a war
with possessiveness. Like a failed
theory my eyes look for you
in patterns, for hints, so that
I can reason with my tied hands;
there are songs of lost touch in my heart.

All I am left with are questions.
I can’t come up with an explanation
for my fear of something that already
passed. Like the evening sky
there are too many colours, too many
shades of verses leaving my finger tips;
I paint my nails red when I miss you the most.

My skin sweat in how, why and where?
You ask me why no happy poems?
These, my dear, are barely poems.

Categories
collaboration

//Touch has a memory//

I have been pretty transparent, if you’re really looking.
On my skin, you could see the boy with hazel eyes
with softest curls and the way,
he is touching my skin just by looking,
You can feel the metaphors
running along my hair
to your fingers;
you can sense the memories
curling up your hand.
Will remind you of the last kiss
or I’ll fill your heart with clichés;
you always fall for it.

Let me tell you stories about disasters and disappointment running deep down under my wrist, in my veins;
If you touch me for a bit longer, you’ll be able to sense the thunders;
touches, devastating enough to burn down the entirety.
But there’s nothing scarier than skin that feels nothing at all.

If I tell you,
consent in love is a funny thing
between the flashback of millions of memories and disruptive silence
in your eyes, you’re lost, believe me.
Once you touch,
there are no more may l’s.

And what about the veins under my skin that still tremble
at slightest touch because there are memories buried underneath me.
You look for justifications on my wrist,
all the longer-than-usual touches,
I’m wearing under my sleeves.

I know you’d believe me crying myself to sleep and how miserable the year has been.

But,
would you believe me
If I tell you,
An unwanted touch can send chills down the man’s spine
when you try to pull him closer after every “no”?
There is always a ” be a man” ready to slip from your tongue.
Can you ever forgive yourself in the name of humanity,
in the crowds shouting for justice while you’re the 5/10 culprits;
for stealing a moment that was not yours; thinking a smile to be a consent or never asking for it?
You know there won’t be any going back for him.
If there was a slight voice of complain,
it’s always easy to be a victim than to take responsibilities.
Funny how you always get away when they’re the ones sulking in pain.

And what about when a man tells you he was molested, would you believe him or say, “must’ve been fun?”

Collaboration with Bharath

Categories
Prompt poetry

// ‘V’ sign of tears //

I see life unfold before me,
Like a distant memory
in moments of perfect harmony
you build your home in my chest
rising from the pit of my stomach;
And rush into my eyes before I know.
World behind you is blurred
I try to hold on to it,
To a memory, to a moment, to you.

And like any other day
you ignore my plea
Anguish down my cheeks
now distant then ever.
These fleeting memories
of you, crawl under my skin, reminding me of your touch.
The warmth of satisfaction
spreads in my heart
Would you take my hand in yours?

I try not to stop you
from falling, out of my eyes,
nor do I try to brush those tears away.
I wait for you instead, to meet
at some point on my skin,
Until I soak you in
and call you mine.

It’s an endless circle
of you leaving my body
and being one with me, again;
Realisation of us weighs heavier
than this. 
Burden of love, grief, pain and love.
See, a circle.



Categories
Prompt poetry

// zoning out from blog//

Not writing this week? Want to know what piques my anxiety? Ask me a question.
It’s not people that I’m scared of but myself. My words aren’t forced, they come to me, like rain, forming clouds slowly pouring out of my body. My fingers forge the sky and I embody the universe.

But I suppose universe has its boundaries. It too needs to slow down sometimes and close its eyes when things go out of control. What if control is an illusion? Why is too much always considered to be hazardous? Isn’t the sky too expansive for the eyes? Why aren’t we ever tired of looking at it? Why does a heavy downpour scare you? I know. It’s because we dream of the skies and envy the rain. We want to fall free, effortlessly.  We want to be loved regardless of how ugly or scary the fall is.

So is the case with writing and us. You want to write, set the words free, to feel, no matter how much we try and deny. People expect. Expectations are inevitable and sometimes expectations are heavy. No one is telling you but you know, you can feel. So you start running backwards, you don’t count steps. It’s a good thing; it leads you to a good place.

Too much emptiness. Too much silence. Too much solace.

Prompt by : Atara

Categories
poetry

A poem for everyone

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 .

Also, Instagram

Categories
rant

Let them be

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.