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?
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.
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.
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.
Home.
Comfort to some
trigger warning to others.
I know you hate my generation
The self labbed
Woke people
Who are drunk on one side of a story.
I am a generation
The one who is totally
Failing at being what
We’re to be.
You take pride in
Densely packed
nervous buildings
glued together with curiosity,
not hope.
And call this a living.
You and I have
different understandings of home.
I have seen too much of waves
to call shore
As my home.
We talk about grass
the way one talks about earth.
You can argue that
it’s the same thing
but honey, it’s not.
Earth is the one who nurtures,
lets the life grow
out of it
and have enough strength
to support life.
Earth is a mother’s womb,
heart of a father,
The eyes of the couple won’t/can’t be convinced.
Grass is life.
It can’t grow on its own,
It can’t see
how green it is
or how beautiful
the world think
a vast, lively field is.
She smelt like the old stories
The Ones my mother sang,
her huge house was a shell
a garden,
lacking only a spring.
She told us tales
of people who left her behind,
I was in awe of all that she had
And what she didn’t.
Her daughter was of my age
A pretty face and fragile hands,
A girl, surrounded by people
A girl, no one could understand.
I fell in love with her boy
The walking beauty
of our gloomy beach,
His heart was a sacred place
a glittering thing, I couldn’t reach.
He’d walk on words
and swim in love
But we failed to keep in touch.
My memory seems forgotten
like the book you don’t miss much.
Weather is dripping
from your tongue.
White of the clouds
is the calm
the calm you carry around,
the calm I lack,
the calm world needs.
Love?
Love is the crimson red;
of all the times
you have died
because of
your complexity,
For never fitting in,
For never being understood,
For never having been loved.
They say war is an opportunity.
Red tears are
a substitute for poppies.
But
how do you know
the colour of tears?
Who claimed it?
Who named it red, anyway?
This is an apology
to all the Colours
to all the shades I wrote about
without knowing
what a colour is.
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.
a.mermaid'spen_ 