Categories
rant short poem

Note to self

Write freely? Let the words fall in place? Write with no strings attached? No.
Try writing with all your emotions attached to that one word which made you write in the first place. Read shitty poems on internet, write shitty poems on internet and re read your work. Because, who cares. Be your biggest fan. Take the compliments, take them all. It took you so much to reach here, stand your ground and take all the praise. Write what you want when you want and where you want. Fall in love and don’t try to hold it in anymore. Let yourself fall and let yourself love. Don’t be afraid to have your heart broken. It’s about time, just live.

~ 🧜‍♀️

Categories
short poem

Cafuné

Towards the left and into the right
not a single heart in sight.
It’s expensive to be a human
And drastic when inhuman.

The conflicts are head high
river air: impossibility dry,
Sharp cries of wounded
growing faint
In one’s own home
everyone is a saint.

See, no help is needed now
No point where, why and how!
Tears are caught in between the lines
suppressed murmuring
as from a wood of pines.

Could one live?
What do they say of hope?
Does, post death
has life any scope?

Categories
poetry

Allegory

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.

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

Categories
short poem

Wonders

Don’t just hear,
listen
what one word
whisper to other,
Here, all the words are
adjacent yet far
how they managed to exist,
I wonder.

Also, Instagram

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
poetry

A lot

You try to hide your women
in thin threads of colour
cast
and religion.
You hide them
behind the shattered
ceilings of your sin.
And you tell them
“It’s for your protection”.

You stop women
from going out,
meeting people,
and cover the
thick khol of their eyes
and you tell them
“this is because I love you”.

You beat your women
for having a voice,
a right,
an opinion,
revolutionary sight.
and you tell them
“it’s because you’re mine”.

You are against your women
for having an education,
to get a degree,
and to work in
cooperative sector.
And you tell them
“It’s because you won’t fit”.

You rape your women
because the clothes
were reveling,
her walk was appealing,
and sometimes,
only because of the gender.
And you tell them
“It was your fault”.

Every other day,
You tell your women things
You instruct,
You command
A lot.
And justify saying
“You don’t know enough”.

So, today
I’m here to tell you.
You do all of this
because you know,
1. They don’t need your protection.
2. You’re in love with the bodies.
3. They fit everywhere. Because you know If you can fit in them, they can fit the whole world in them.
4. Every time you say it’s their fault, you show your cowardice in accepting yours.
5. And you definitely know, that your women know A LOT, more than all of  you combined. And you’re just scared of the things they know.

And everytime you break a woman, you break yourself.