More often, I fall for the innocence of clear skies than the painted sunrises and sunsets. I tread my hand towards the blueness while painting my hand with the brushes of white tulips and pink lilies. They perch on the stillness of the blue welkin and refrain the melody of winters and snowflakes; I name them as poetries who unfold the craziness of my twenties and I become high on clear skies again and again to sketch my parables blue.
Often I love black pansies of my balcony who nod their anthers with the breezes of summer and their lavish petals never scare to show their dark side to the world. Those innocuous sepals holding the hearts of ovaries, they show how to bloom with the inky pudding and the summer notarizes their sinless and never-terrified stance with its arbours and my poetries bellow under the mists of black.
And then I love to wear the anklets of my grandmother, they're heavy and they tingle with their unstable surfs ; which make me happy in a late night while everyone dreams in their silences. The womanhood of mine roars within the hums of katydids and cimmerian nights look more rebellious with the melody of my muliebrity and they jingle with the gusts of August raindrops and sturgeon moon waits for my silken stories.
Wearing that anklet, I put a black pansy on my left ear and murmur a song of 90s with some wrong lyrics and incorrect scales, I stand under the clear skies of December to syllabify myself within the saucers of happiness. I forget that I'm a poet, and I want to become a poetry and bloom near someone's elflocks of diary.
My favourite place is to sit under the serene dawn Where i scribble the sonnets on my scars but he is not here to read and praise them and i Write the syllabic verses on the moonbow let the rainbow recite them.
My favourite place is to sit under the willow tree where the breeze hugs me from behind Flower petals kiss my cheeks Around me are alpine trees Small stones to throw them In the sea and make the wish For us.
My favourite place is to sit Near the meadow and compose The metaphors,i hold the quill I dip it in the ink of star's coz' I want my poetries to shine.
//I etch my pain on the dead Leaves and they become lively//
Everytime I have whispered something I have meant it. Vacant chairs scare me, the ones that are beside me and one that's in front. There is a place where I can never be alone. I feel stuck in this loop of information and everything that sucks me in is enabling it. There are some around who never wish better, and some leave to make it better. There is always this cycle of something never ending. It's like we live in a simulation where kids push and pull buttons to tap into our imagination. Paying bonuses when we act just like they want us to, luring us into believing that we are in control of our lives.
We all have this tendency to feel important, I visit bookstores on Sundays, mainly Oxford. I sit there in desolation as if waiting for something to happen, with my eyes moored to the printed designs that speak, I almost forget everything that goes around. One such day I met this woman who was hurrying her way towards the cafeteria and almost slipped infront of me. She grabbed my left shoulder and sat down beside me, wondering what's going on, I asked if she was okay. She looked at me and and asked if she is looking beautiful. I said "yeah mam, you do, what happened?". She was wearing a black saree with white polka dots and she was actually very pretty. She told me that she was waiting for her boyfriend, whom she hasn't seen in 2 years. And that she wanted to look beautiful today. I smiled and answered that you are really pretty and he is really lucky to have you. She got up smiled and left, then she came back with a rose in her hand and a man standing beside her. She gave me the rose and told me that I made her day. It was so wholesome and so inexplicable that I couldn't stand for an hour. I sat there, waiting for the evening to pass by.
If a bunch of kids were controlling me that day, I am grateful to them. Everytime I have whispered something I have meant it and under my breath I still speak as I write.
I just want to pass by, happily. Even when trouble comes I want to pass by without a fuss, even when there's a fuss I want to pass by with tight clench and stiff shoulders, but I just want to pass by. If there's a loop, please be gentle, I don't want to pluck your eyes out and make you blind, I just want to pass by your side glances and assert what I mean.
I mean that I just want to pass by. And if I don't, then sit down with me, I have something to tell you that next time "I'll pass by".