Categories
NaPoWriMo

Crimson Red

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.

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
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 rant

Shadows

How do you manage to keep going
without the urge to throw yourself
away?
How does it feel like hearing everything
but your own heart?
Does it really get better with time?
Do layers of skin mange to cover it all?

Tell me how you escaped the pit
of rusty flowers decorating
humnae need of art,
Is there a way to escape your shadow?
Have you made peace with it all?

Deep down, in your heart
does it shine bright like the day?
Or is it pretty like the sky?
If you smiled bright
and visited be places
Would it matter?

Tell me,
Does it get better?
Tell me,
Is there any way out?

Categories
short poem

Garden

Another day while I was trying
to escape from the dark,
I saw this boy
in middle of the park.
Everyone was sitting in shade
but he sat in open,
The smile on his face
was near to broken.
Instead of sky
I started staring him,
when our eyes met
his went dim.
He got up and started walking
towards my way,
shaking hair, a mixture of black and grey.
Abruptly, he gave me a smile
the one, hard to exist,
Before leaving, he gave me a star
on my wrist.

Categories
Prompt poetry

Beloved spring – Poem

It was just yesterday
That I wrote a poem
to the early spring.
Blooming flowers in my garden
soothe my heavy heart,
every bud glowing green;
Spring is a work of art.

The hollow earth
beneath my feet
is now as lively as a new born,
Sometimes I feel I romanticise
spring too much
but, I am not willing to unlearn.

It’s April now.
It’s sowing in the hills
and plains don’t know
what to feel about that,
Maybe because the world
isn’t over the beauty of winter
yet.

In return, spring gave me
early rains
Humid winds came knocking
on my window,
Altostratus clouds are hovering  over
and the spring wrote, “to be continued…”

I have lost my train of thoughts.
It feels like my ‘self’ moved on
but my shadow is still there,
In the snow
And everywhere.

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/