How hard is it to write something beautiful? something so soothing that the reader has to pause to take it all in and then maybe wonder, wonder how strange concoctions of alphabets carry so much in them. so much that makes metaphors bleed. such serenity that time feels still. i wonder.
Let me tell you, darling, my woman is not a single entity, she is an amalgamation of every earthy and celestial being.
in the dewy leaves you touch on a rainy morning and the flowers you pluck because of their beauty, she is the soft feeling that melts on your fingertips and subdues the demons within; the fire that keeps you alive, the soft wind that eases your anxiety, and the lullaby that puts you to sleep- she is the touch you never knew you needed.
the dreams you weave with stars are nothing but fragments of her soul scattered and spilled- a forgotten wine, never cherished.
but on some nights and somedays when her kindness starts wearing off because of all the acid, her heart doesn't stop hurting; she cries, she weeps, she grieves and the universe, for her it bleeds; there are some hurricanes you cannot fathom- wuthering and unconquerable, she resides in them and with her hands makes them swirl to the rhythm of her heartache.
I am the calmth that overwhelms any chaos; in my lap miracles are birthed and death surrenders; my hands are nurturing and love breathes within me, yet I'm the one whose soul is evanescing by the destruction caused by my own beings; maybe I will fade away and become one with you someday. -Earth
I am the embodiment of freedom; on their knees poets worship me, in my hands are a million dreams- some broken, some free, your beings look up to me some with rue in their eyes and some with hope; maybe someday I will raze down all humanity and become one with you, indefinitely. -Sky
Good eveniiiing, Mirakee. This your lovely and charming RJ EurusGrey for tonight and you are listening to Mirakee FM 95.01. So stay tuned for some wise words. ;)♡
There are endless novels, poems, movies surrounding this topic, but these words by an Irish poet have been stuck in my head since a few days. "Never love anybody who treats you like you're ordinary." -Oscar Wilde Simple words, but the more you think the deeper you dig, until you find yourself questioning everything.
What is love? Love is beauty. Love is poetry. Love is art and sunsets. It is soft and gentle; in harsh winters it's the fire that keeps you warm and a cool breeze in scorching summers; it isn't the same for everyone, it doesn't need to be.
Love is anything that you truly believe in. It grows where your passion lies. But one thing that love isn't is pure devotion. It isn't just endless sacrifices and pain. It isn't always supportive, it makes you realise when you are at fault, when you make mistakes, when you end up on the wrong path.
I like to believe that where love exists flowers bloom like weeds and yes, there are thorns but some aches are worth it; nothing the beauty, fragrance and calmth can't overcome. Be it romantic or platonic, love is love. Be it for things or people, doesn't matter.
It's in the small things that make you happy, moments that bring out your carefree laughter, people who stay through the thick and thin. Love is you and you are love. Maybe you can't see it now, but someday you will. Maybe you'll realise it yourself or someone/something will make you realise along the journey, but as I said earlier it doesnt matter. What matters is that you feel it, the way it is meant for you.
Thank you for joining, I hope you all have a pleasant day/night ahead. Goodbye♡
If flowers could speak, I think they'd tell us to stop plucking their wings in the name of love, to stop pressing them between verses and poetries only to be withered away, like another sad story; they'd tell us to start watering roots instead of just what appears to be, to start appreciating things before they wilt away; to breathe freely, take in the fragrance of life and let them too.
If the sky could speak, I think it'd tell us to stop looking wistfully at colours of dusk, as the sun dips in crimson- a token of passion and not sin; it'd tell us to keep running behind things that make us happy but at the same time stop wishing, on things that keep falling, on ones that are not meant to be ours; to let ourselves dream, to begin again with a new dawn, a beautiful one.
You might wonder Scenes going blur Kinda like crimson red plastic sheet Wrapped over your head. White roses aren't white anymore. No need of hiding the Jeffery dahmer inside you That's the only thing that keeps me upto. Resurrect the killer sojourning deep down in your head And don't you dare think of ever redeeming yourself. If you do, I'll be ready to show up at your door with a handful of my own blood in a flask, waiting for a sin to happen.
You'll never find an appropriate quote from a book to quote or any suitable lyrics to dedicate to a moment. Someday after months or so, you'll be recalling that moment, a habit which will never leave you alone, and start singing. You must read books to find those quotes, I hope you know. Still you won't find any because you are just not meant to dwell upon those words. Those aren't any places. Those aren't any people. Those aren't any moments. Those are better than anything and you aren't going to get this ever. Next time when something in you will ask you to smile, don't be foolish to think of the things which take it away from you. How dumb can someone be to think of those on purpose? ‘I'm not supposed to smile'. As if you're meant to cry. And no one's there to call you a fool looking at same trees everytime and smiling. It's just where your sight reaches. It's just how you've been smiling at your thoughts. It's okay, it's just a smile. You very well know about those times when your lips tremble to do so. No need to then, getting it? You'll be provided with the bricks from time to time, stay aware and spit out the ignorance already. It's the time, brick by brick, start building the wall. High enough for you to never feel like peaking on the other side and low enough that when you'll feel like pulling it down, it'll be something you would care to do for yourself, with least efforts you know. The chances are very very less but if someone tries to do so on your behalf, you are supposed to give them a chance. A gem is meant to be treated as a gem. You know it. No need to be sorry for yourself, it's fine. Everything is. Maybe someday you'll learn how to get pissed off at atleast a few things which are meant to piss you off but instead hurt and then you grab it all and lock it somewhere. Somewhere, where it all keeps teasing you. Not everything is meant to hurt, not everyone is supposed to possess that power to hurt but you are you and you will suffer just by being you. Everything. The list is long. Let it be, that's how it works. The day you'll stop being you, I'll know how I am nothing for you. As if I don't know already but just saying. Something? Okay nevermind, as usual. 101 ways to walk away like those passing clouds, but looks like you don't have enough excuses to stick on your tongue with some unsavoury glue. That seems quite unfair but nonetheless, you know you're good at sticking back. Staying back in an empty room which smells like chapters, in the middle of the mess, being a mess. Who cares? I don't, you don't, clouds don't either. Some polaroids won't look into your tired eyes before tiring them more.You may look away tho, who's stopping you? Nothing and no one but you. You always do and while collecting everything in your heart, forget how having two sided conversations about memories make you feel better and not the other way around. Actually, you know it all but still you'll say I'm spending my time. Fine!
There is no reason to live and no reason to die. There is no meaning to my existence Or yours, if you want me to be honest.
I can feel my existence, parts of it, from the first memory of a child to some memory of a work I had to complete before I started to type this on a screen. Where do these thoughts come from, I wonder?
A neural network simply spitting out word after another without a rhyme to make sense of this world that feels so personal or something I do not know how to imagine?
Perhaps, my brain cannot make the chemicals to compute the right answer. How do you know the difference between the right answer from the wrong one? Is there a difference at all? Our morality is simply the conditions that we've found useful throughout our evolution to ensure the survival of our species at large, isn't it? There is nothing divine about it, some chemical dictating what you are.
Maybe some chemicals are tricking you into these loops that never end, thoughts that never lead to an answer but contradictions. But these thoughts are yours, aren't they? You were supposed to be the one making decisions, the master of your own free will and your thoughts. What happened then? Why is it that you cannot stop thinking about the meaningless of it all? Why is it that you cannot escape from the stress, the lows the blues the misery, that random nihilism that hits you when all you want is sleep? Not a hug, not a conversation but to simply sleep, shutting down the thoughts the way you killed the machine with a click.
We act as if we are free as if there is a divine touch, a purpose, a meaning to these thoughts that randomly appear. It is hard for me to believe in free will in the sense that we've been told. We are never really free, always bounded by some simple chemicals, a simple probabilistic distribution of the existence of some particles. Some days you feel the high, some days you're never really sure about who you are anymore.
But why do I exist? Why do these thoughts exist? Why anything exists at all? Why is there something rather than nothing? Or is it simply a game of life simulating the game of life? A simple automaton that moves from one state to another.
Maybe I should correct myself. There is no divine meaning to my existence apart from the simple evolutionary learning where nature learns about the best traits that it finds suitable to survive in the physical system that the creature is embedded in. It gets passed down from a generation to another to another till it goes extinct and all this starts again. A mere learning algorithm inside a physical system that it can barely comprehend but stuck in an illusion of self and free till the inevitable end, dreaming of heaven that never arrives.
I suppose you will have your own reaction towards this existence. Incomplete, inconsistent; Explanations and contradictions branching From one to another.
प्रिय आजी, मी तुला नमस्कार करू की मिठी मारू? तुझा आशिर्वाद माझ्या पाठीशी कायम आहे हे माहीत असताना मी मिठीच मारते. माफ कर मला कारण मला आठवत नाही आहे की आपण शेवटची मिठी कधी मारली होती, हो पण लहानपणीच्या साऱ्या मिठ्या मला अगदी चोख आठवतात बघ. ऐक ना...जर ह्यावेळी थोडा जास्त वेळ तुझ्या मिठीत मी राहिले तर चालेल का ग? तू माझी आजी तर फक्त म्हणायला ग पण खरं तर तू माझी, माझ्या लहानपणीची जिवलग मैत्रीणच आहेस ना! आणि मी वचन देते की ही मिठी मी माझ्या शेवटच्या श्वासापर्यंत लक्षात ठेवेन. आम्ही, तुझी नातवंडं, मोठी झालोय आता पण तुझी खूप आठवण आधी यायची तशीच येते. तुलाही जाणवलं असेलच ना की आपण कित्येक महिने एव्हाना वर्ष नीट भेटलोच नाही आहोत. तुला माहित आहे, तुझा कॉल येतो तेव्हा मी तुझा आवाज रेकॉर्ड करून ठेवते कधी कधी. तुझा आवाज ऐकला की चेहऱ्यावर आपोआप हसू येतं बघ. खूप बरं वाटतं तुझा गोड आणि शांत आवाज ऐकून. तुला आठवतं तू गाणे गायचीस आणि आजोबा कविता म्हणायचे? मला तर ऐकतच बसावेसे वाटायचे. प्रत्येक ओळ अगदी चोख पाठ. असं झोपून, एक हात ओठांवर आणि दुसरा हात असा हवेत गाण्याबरोबर तरंगत. कोणाला आवडणार नाही हे दृश्य? शक्यच नाही! तुझ्या बाजूला, तुझ्या कुशीत, शांत झोप लागायची नेहमी. पण आता लागेल का माहिती नाही. तुला दिवसभर हसून रात्री छताकडे एक टक लाऊन पाहताना बघितलं आहे मी. लहान होती मी तशी पण तुझ्या चेहऱ्यावरची काळजी दिसायची आणि कळायचीही. बरीच कारणे होती, नाही का? “त्याचं कसं होणार देवास ठाऊक.” असं म्हणायचीस तेव्हा तो कोण? हे माहीत असायचं मला. खूप गुपिते सांगितली आहेस मला. कसा एवढा विश्वास ठेवलास? अजबच वाटतं मला आजही. मलाही माझी गुपित तुला सांगता आली असती तर?! सगळं किती छान असता ना!
101, 101 ways to kill myself, 101 ways to snort the snow, 101 kinds of pellets that are settled on the medical shelf, for chemical help. the devil's at work, although, he doesn't break his back like the slave inside my nostrils who bleeds when put through crucifixion. my parents, they've a problem with the white patches impaled on my nasal-tip, and, if you couldn't figure out by now — this poem is something, inbetween everything non-substantial and my cocaine addiction, alongwith, reaching the pinnacle of my misery; misfortune that comes free when you've reached the hundredth mark of writing halfway thought and halfway cooked poetries. opening my eyes, to the blood slipping through the cracks of addiction, and, living with a heart that measly has a pulse, with a pair of lungs that should be replaced by two inhalers instead; the anguish floats free, unrestrained, in the realms of my ribcage until, it perforates the pacemaker and sends me, to my maker. death comes for a price, and, I've paid it in full and in advance; dead by twenty-one and, the perfect summer getaway amidst the meadows of afterlife, of Satan's bleeding anus; hell isn't the desired vacation, because, they had told me that the heaven was rendered from Angel Dust.
my friend's father passed away, a day that's both, blessed and cursed, in the wickedest way possible; acquainted with death, because I've felt it breathing down my neck ever since my childhood, but, I haven't seen death from a third person perspective before, and, it's easier to walk their steps than having to stare still in dignified detriment, in tragic torment; the affliction in his voice, could make the heavens cry and pour rain, on to the soil, where his father's corpse rests now.
I have been told, that religion helps, that, I need faith, yet, this question has been eating me alive : can faith quench your thirst, replenish the oxygen level in your blood, your will to live for your sons, daughters, and your wife ? what good is a God, when the government is busy role-playing as him, what good is a religion, when it's constantly causing wars ?
this is an untimely poem, like an unexpected death — the clock speaks fluently nowadays, maybe, because it knows that we're running out of second chances and hours; there are no alternatives, but to gather your loved ones, and burn them alive, mankind only grows from anguish, so, let there be turmoil, tarnished flesh and organs that are nothing more, but, frozen meat for the stray dogs.
today, I have found myself doing a lot of wondering, wondering, if the substance in my words is necessary, especially in these times of instant gratification, of one or two-liners, poems that do not meet the poetic justice, poems without the correct punctuation curve, poems that are blatantly plagiarized; I wonder, what seeing your father die, felt like; I would take your pain away, only if I could, however, my wisdom makes me the monster, which feeds on collective agony, a vulture, immortalising everything that breaks, that dissipates, that dies, only at a cheap price, of my sanity; what an expensive fate.
my life has slowly and completely evolved into that of Hank Chinaski's; eyeballing school girls wearing short-skirts, from my car that's almost always running out of gas. so much for a fast life, the price you pay for idolizing an inebriate because you never had someone to look up to, as a father figure. and sleep is still a long lost friend, even after my unwavering trials to bring it back, be it with the booze, or the empty bottles of pills; it's quite evident that sleep doesn't want a reconciliation. things change in the blink of an eye, like that one time — when I almost crashed the front bumper of my car into the rear of a fourteen-wheeler; just because, my gaze was fixated on a girl walking out of walmart on a sunny afternoon, with her plum and pink lips tightly wrapped around, a strawberry popsicle; so much for a fast life, so much for pushing my luck to get ahold of the sight of my summer solstice.
getting old is much troubling, especially when you lay down after beheading yourself, but, still, you somehow dream of dying without having anyone by your side — I scream at my skin, and it crawls up to cover the portions of my shamelessness. for what it's worth, I would happily die from a cardiac arrest whilst chasing the thrills and everything that's cheap inbetween; and, maybe, just maybe — I was the one worth leaving, because my mother always doubted my commitment to any other woman; a crow is a crow, afterall, homegrown, but, it wouldn't think twice before nibbling on rotten flesh; incase, you've heard otherwise, they were nothing more than luscious lies.