cliches_cuddles_and_him

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Looking for permanent assets in life.

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  • cliches_cuddles_and_him 4w

    Rose and it's shelves //

    Worn out, untidy and travelling
    through fabric to skin, hair to migraine,
    palms to feet and temple to graveyards;
    roses are who follow you to your room,
    find empty places to rest and become
    one to take you home.
    You have become overweight
    and you'd grow old too crossing
    boundaries of all the nuances,
    leaps and imageries.
    Though lovers are unshaped
    geometrical figures and their hearts
    are union of two sets alone like a library
    and incomplete like kisses, transparent as dusk
    kept in between braces.
    The earth's un embraced adjectives
    are greeted like companions of literature
    and unheard apologies are emblazoned
    like thesis to not get crushed like
    mist in afternoons.
    The day you realised roses are bereft
    of their own fragrance, you saw all your
    promises crumbling, crushing and twisting
    all at once.
    Honesty is a fixed wage and
    is restored inside the pistil,
    the winters in your life play tic-tac-toes
    and there's no muffler to cradle your modesty.
    There are nights, there are secrets,
    there are recipes but there is no
    sandalwood that glows.
    There is no grapevine that grows
    but there is lust that grew, there was
    apathy that stayed.
    Your lacquer polishes, choicest words,
    stiletto and its loose straps, red cherries
    and bitten lips and there are shelves that are
    too devoid of dates because romance
    lacked graphite to write that the relation
    would last forever.
    Roses have shelves with
    long distance relationships that are
    too full with skepticism, and inch-deep
    relevant measures of weak beauty standards
    and despair cocooned with laughter.

    ©cliches_cuddles_and_him_

  • cliches_cuddles_and_him 7w

    and I know you don't care
    because you've made my love: synonym of loss.
    because you've your own reasons of forgetting and forgiving
    I don't own your apology and it's too hard for me to breathe because as far as I know I've tried enough and still your nights went sleepless with me being your side.
    Because the sole reason behind every misconception had always been me, and will always be.
    It was going too smooth and I suddenly stopped making sense to you because seeing me in guilt would never make a difference to you and I just can't let my heart suppress everything so that it'd someday become a relatable poem to someone and they'd begin thanking my nth heartbreak that was nothing but unsorted pieces of our ungrammatical conversation that probably should not everyday need to be tasted like love and longing, should not always smell like roses that you never bought for me.
    You do not know how much breaths it take to nurture a relationship that's dead (unrequited in native language)
    Because I've been tired of missing you and reminding you that all I love you's possibly would never end in midnight cravings but all I miss you's always ends in happy beginnings.
    And the boundary line you've created around
    you is not just thrashing me out of your life
    but separating me from myself and it is legit terrible for me to play a song because it always creates a picture of you, a necessity of you and I just can't shut my brains up to see that you are there but not in the way I supposed you to.
    You gave me a reson to move on but you didn't say things will be alright and I will not be a walking pause staying at your door forever.

    I am not leaving a question mark here
    because what bothers me, bothers me.
    I can be us but I can never be you.

    ©cliches.cuddles.and.him__

  • cliches_cuddles_and_him 17w

    • Men like him are short paragraphs or sometimes even a syllable whose length could never be equivalent to all the pities you deserved at sleepless nights. You being the powerhouse​ of loquacious verbal skills have somehow forgotten how to draw a metaphor between someone's changed behaviour and not-so-examined tactics of art. You rather draw a circle knowing that they had been straight lines with immeasurable intersections.

    • Men like him come home when your heart heals on the edge of a forgotten relationship, when your words weigh lighter to be not held under a paperweight and when you lie almost motionless over his foreign body that he can sense unacceptable reasons why
    you've not been so close because love probably doesn't mean coming back to home every time.

    • Men like him are demolition to your habit of expecting more everyday. The long drives of your eyelashes just to stare at them, your occasional mood swings that hang round the nape of your neck in form of sequin necklace and the urge to calm down your heart with his favourite songs failed to express your love for them.

    • Men like him don't believe in the concept of hope and despair. They grew out of worldly pleasures before meeting you and after seeing you in trouble they would've offered nothing but their formal appearance that would push you in the abyss of deliberately exiting yourself from their life. They won't thrive with your decision of letting them go and also they won't make you believe that they need you anymore.

    •Men like him are adversary, excuses after loss, bilingual terms where you will be asked to erase your existence and unheard voices that doesn't last like grief. They meet you with ironies where your pain could never be a question mark and you trust them once being a liar to yourself that it's going to be the last time you are serving them forgiveness in between the insecurities that had already consumed you.

    ©cliches_cuddles_and_him

  • cliches_cuddles_and_him 32w

    Of all the things I am made of
    apologies stuck between chopsticks
    until a connoisseur switch to fork
    scares me like a room where
    ancestors gathered once at
    evenings and now it got changed
    into a library by the generation who
    like their mistakes to be called delicate,
    whose privacy is so homogeneous as to
    make their heart almost inaccessible to
    every stranger that passes by.

    Museum, dead bodies and art
    are uneasy beliefs to be followed
    by a non-atheist.
    He seeks basic knowledge and deliver
    its affliction over huge amount of
    blank pages but prevent himself
    from being caught in the arms
    of tragedies.
    He despise being the moans, the tears
    and the jerks but didn't know
    that avoidance to little pain is
    acceptance to thrifty consequences.

    I scoop a couplet out of my liquor bathed
    body and await for a communication
    where it proudly indicates that I smell
    more like commiseration rather
    than heartbreak.
    Heartbreaks are underrated not because
    they were rubbed over and again but
    they are too adulterated to be termed
    edible.
    They don't carry a voice of their own.

    Of all the things I am made of
    attractiveness in its original form
    comes as an obstruction
    because arrangements of words
    that makes one garrulous are stained
    with disparity.
    They can not plead the world to trace
    all the legal things hidden inside them.
    Like a spiritual lesson you enter in
    every aspect of life and like a sinner
    you escape with the misconception
    that you were influencing someone.
    ©cliches_cuddles_and_him

  • cliches_cuddles_and_him 32w

    I lack definition of everything
    like a wanderer lost in paradise
    in search of aesthetics and luxuries.
    I've been lacking happiness in life
    since too long and find it on the edges
    of mountains, stuck on the wings
    of a butterfly, left in the sanctity of rivers.

    I wonder where satisfaction was born.
    I submerged deep into the vocabularies,
    I leapt onto a pocket full of coins but
    I found it in mother's saree,
    in father's tiredness after working
    all day long, in siblings giggles and
    in a lover's moan.

    I keep searching the whereabouts
    of love in the texts that get replies
    instantly, in the soft caresses
    over your forehead by someone
    close to your heart, in the sunsets
    falling over ocean's chest
    but I met it at the skies where two stars
    were distance apart, in yellow letters
    enveloped and kept in Post Offices
    that somehow doesn't deliver it on
    time.

    ©cliches_cuddles_and_him

  • cliches_cuddles_and_him 32w

    Uniqueness builds home over
    unkempt ceilings where every
    passerby has to tattoo cemented
    alphabets of anorexia that spits
    half bitten promises of a liar who
    felt like an ode to a forgotten city.

    Your eyes are escapades to
    all the treats that this world
    considers anniversaries.
    Folded sleeves of shirt and
    puddings of plum are nostalgic
    invitations to be cuddled at the end
    of the day and you realised this
    when a terrifying dream hid double chins
    and chiseled jawline underneath
    the veil of silence.
    (Paraphrase double standards)
    Silence that was notorious enough
    to be named a child whose heart
    barely knew how not to leave the
    doors open for toxic people and
    maybe this is how the cardigan you
    wore last night didn't spell like warmth.
    A spacious warmth.
    Because you run to people.

    Doesn't matter you try but you
    can't shove that wreckage out.
    You wear it like a nail enamel.
    Different shades perfumed with
    disdain of your own existence.
    You painted the last seen color of
    your locality on the walls of your room
    but fear peeps through window that it's
    too hard to cover the world with a poem.

    Autumns are near and soon you'll
    adjust yourself in between the
    spaces people never had left for you.
    ©chaotic_phrases

  • cliches_cuddles_and_him 33w

    I know this is too late. @mirakee
    #start #wod

    Read More

    If poetry was a person
    it'd be respiratory organ
    of millions of trees on this earth
    sowing not only oxygen but also
    prayers over its sensitive parts
    until another autumn sheds tears
    of joy that a writer carries in his
    hands to preserve the nature.

    If poetry was a person
    it'd be paper planes made
    out of all the hormonal secretions
    of a young girl hiding all the acnes
    and mood swings until it falls on
    a rooftop where a young boy hold
    it in his palms and whisper
    'I love you' without a purpose.

    If poetry was a person
    it'd be shelter to all the buried
    promises of two lovers who had
    to part ways because their cities
    are now renowned as
    arranged marriages and they
    doesn't feel like home there.
    It's too hard to adjust for pleasures
    when pain was what you had
    been living for.

    If poetry was a person
    it'd be a sketchbook of a child
    where he draws procedures of
    being happy everytime.
    It may seem insane but when
    it is coloured through his naivety
    and stillness it gets an excellent
    remark by his teacher and then
    paints the world beautiful.

    If poetry was a person she'd
    be all the where's and why's
    when she gets pressed between
    folds of warmth everytime she
    makes love after a disastrous
    heartbreak and she keeps waiting
    till another sunrise wraps her body.

    If poetry was a person it'd
    be a good listener to all the
    unheard voices of a mother
    everytime when her husband returns
    late at home and caress her head at
    night but forget to visit her heart
    and pay homage to her emptiness.

    If poetry was a person
    it'd be the experience of a
    30-year old person rewriting
    the past over her fragile body
    and erasing childhood, teenage
    and adulthood from her obstinate
    methods of struggling and growing.
    ©chaotic_phrases

  • cliches_cuddles_and_him 33w

    The procrastination that
    abstains me from writing
    is not hand-picked.
    It smells like roasted cumins
    kept in a jar that could not be
    used as of now because
    summer's gone and lemonade
    will not be served anymore.
    You see lifelessness reeks
    all the shades of dark circles
    that brush past your eyes.
    I keep huge varieties of flowers
    inside my books because they
    keeps me moist when all the
    dreams dries up.

    His musk laden hoodies
    does no wonder for the
    pleasure is ephemeral.
    I wish to sit beside him
    for an hour or two to hear
    why his lips are being so
    indifferent to smiles?
    I expected too hard once
    that I dismantled the charisma
    of devouring someone's presence
    when you are in their arms.
    The desperateness echoes
    through the wardrobe
    where your unwashed clothes
    that were familiar with the
    touches you need are kept.
    Those touches are like alignments
    that if put left, right or in centre
    won't make the paragraph look
    sober anyhow.

    Does it makes you a lover
    to slide your fingers inside age 21
    or does it makes me a woman
    to find a home and shift at a place
    from where all the neighbours left.
    52 summers away we were unconscious
    and didn't sneak peak into the gaps
    left between our proximities.
    Walking across the terrace
    playing with my hair this is where
    I don't want you to stop.
    If you keep coming lonely,
    devoid of the all the ideas
    wearing seclusion around your neck.
    I'd die a tragedy to fall for a poet.
    ©chaotic_phrases

  • cliches_cuddles_and_him 35w

    I left vacant spaces for bias and judgements to occur between the paragraphs and it reeks an equivocation that questions whether a crime was heinous or not?
    But you see I am an artist and social issues don't come to me because my conscience has been disparaged looking at the blood-red colour of injustice.

    When the nth time I worshipped an idol it designated a house of esteem under my sub-conscious mind because my presence looked alike all the characteristics that are found in a devotee and when I glanced at the mirror I was fading. I presumed myself to be a current affair who awaits to be published into a headline until it didn't screech and turn into a deadline.

    Every time I increased my calorie intake an economic crisis knocked at my door or say malnutrition hides itself my backyard where the sun rises and sets but darkness still prevailed.
    I can never gather syllables for the ancestor's named freedom fighters. Religion and Culture are living harmoniously but unity is dichotomised.

    We are not vigilant yet we are voting for the nation. We parted into love and hate. We, writers, are umpteen efforts to capture a situation, not into words but emotions. We are often misinterpreted for spreading violence. We are taken aback by all the trigger warnings.

    I admit that the trouble in me and the rage in my veins can sincerely destroy one's peace of mind but I sincerely tried to save women from being molested or theft being committed. Though I break into pieces they gather again to become someone's salvation.

    "An artist escapes from writing about social issues because he/she must be trapped living its consequences, growing under its boundaries or rescuing themselves from forced laws".

    ©chaotic_phrases

  • cliches_cuddles_and_him 36w

    There is a missing
    apostrophe that I
    can never type between
    (cant) and then there are
    people like you that I can
    never forget.
    You see the last text that
    I sent to you reads:
    "I can't live without you"

    The measure of the void between
    my heart and yours is 2 cm.
    Former lost the way
    to love and latter
    doesn't even want to
    to go there.

    They say, don't beg
    someone to stay.
    I continuously keep
    thinking that how I
    made it devastating
    for you to depart.

    Destiny is a hell-go-round.
    It bends in a circle and follows
    a straight-line pattern where
    you and I didn't fit into
    a geometrical figure.

    To hold on something,
    you need to let it go and
    there should not remain
    frequent urges to call
    them yours.
    Self-love is one such
    excuse pretending that
    you are not thinking about
    someone who's long gone.

    Though one knows excuses
    are not realistic //

    ©chaotic_phrases