I love that word, tradition. A bit archaic yet it settles in the lower pocket of beliefs, I've seen it escaping from hourglass almost everyday, but now it seems to fade away like clouds after raining.
When the skies were bluer we stitched confetti's on empty walls and greetings on the tip of our tongues, we filled hungry stomachs with spices and herbs like rifles stuffed with guncottons.
When I saw time being naked, the last time, it was Diwali where dull hearts and pale skin bloomed into scarlet and beige shades, hope was a little brighter while sorrows a little fainter, and humanity screamed as a loudest forever.
I love that word, tradition. Which bring our hearts closer like orchids, roses and lilies in same fence, but we are drifting apart in this pandemic, till what remains is our own selves. ~Purva
In case some of you are confused about what this shape represents, it's nothing in specific. I just randomised a shape while writing about a lost soul wandering and seeking. Otherwise, you are free to perceive it however you want.
Thank you @miraquill for the POD I am not even really sure if I deserve this today, I saw so many beautiful concrete poems, mine is nothing infront of them. Even though thank you so much for appreciating this #concretepoetry#writersnetwork
Again, if we begin, to draw those skies towards the grounds, to sweep off those dandelion fields with love to connect the stars and, sew them, to stay together forever, would we reach the destiny?
/I killed 3 things tonight, I killed 3 things tonight, our sky, our dandelion field, our stars, And I followed you to the graveyard./✿
Again, if we begin, to hang the cherries onto the trees, to ring the bells when someone prays, to paint the pale wings of butterflies, and sprinkle some stardust on them, would we reach the destiny?
/I killed 3 things tonight, I killed 3 things tonight, our trees, our butterflies, our prayers, And I followed you to the graveyard./✿
Again, if we begin, to make the sour memories sweet, the broken hearts meet, the dead escape back to life and, greet, the sombre summers of their lonely beloved, would we reach the destiny?
/I killed 3 things tonight, I killed 3 things tonight, our memories, the broken hearts, our summers, And I followed you to the graveyard. to which, the heart has left, leaving the soul behind./✿
Being the same person, some conflicts tend to be never-ending.
//Again, if we begin,
✿ apart from the seashores, we sail ✿ ✿ above the clouds, we fly ✿ ✿ around the moon, we play ✿ ✿ along the sun, we rise ✿ ✿ at the horizons, we meet ✿ ✿ adoring the beautiful deeds of ours ✿ ✿ a heart and a soul live together in the same ✿//
So I daily wake up and choose pain to wear over my skin.
There's a faded black t-shirt messily thrust between my other clothes. I am a little ardent in not letting it be thrown away so I argue with my mother.
Maa, if you are listening to me then I want to tell you that your daughter feels herself in that faded black t-shirt. She wants to keep this immortal thing close just like those poems, your '24/7 dedicated towards family' heart wouldn't understand. And your daughter wants you to never understand them either, I know if you do, you would feel all the pain on your heart, from the toe ring to the red in your hairline, in your every atom, you would be able to feel all the pain your daughter has been eating upon all these days.
Maa if you are listening to me (please don't) I feel myself fading like that faded black t-shirt. I see myself daily spinning in the soapy water of a never-ending war, I slip and never get up. There's an experience, there's a mature understanding which flew and perched on my broken windows, the boy at my guitar class looks at the sky through the glass window and tells me that he loves the maturity I hold in my bones.
I walk back to home with 'maturity in my bones' and lay on my bed till the sky paints itself black. Maa, what do I do with all this maturity when it costed a life. A life, my life. I have round brown eyes to look at life with a mature way but I don't have a soul left to look at life in any way.
All this experience I hold in my hands is like peace after a war. I am bleeding, fresh wounds are still there, then how can I flex over this experience past situations left at my door.
Maa, the hair you oil daily, they still smell of war, they still smell of all the times I pulled harshly onto them when downfalls were biting on my skin. All this experience is similar to the dullness taking over my black t-shirt after all the washes it has gone through and maa I see you are in the mood to throw it away. You tell me that it doesn't look good on my skin now and I want to tell you that all this skin on me also doesn't look good on me now. I daily soak in the sun of the hope notes I write, but maa I am fading away.
Can I keep this black t-shirt with me to remind me that all the faded isn't thrown away? That though faded I am meant to exist. Maa, are you listening (please don't).
Every day, I encounter, the thought of our possible future. I got caught up in the midst of the combination of our substances. It seems, Your sky was too cloudy to hold my rainbow, therefore in the midst of it all, I lost a sense of myself. Perhaps that was a code -- the world's way of telling me, I wasn't meant to stay. It took me long to bury my much-cherished love. Adamant to let go "My no other than you." As a consequences, I have become frigid to the sweet aromas and aphrodisiac melodies. Mirages clogged my mind, my neurons frayed. Long loneliness - dissonance that resolves; perceiving, the tertiary refrain - as exquisite verse. and matchless liqueur. Sublime gratuity derived through doors of surrender, Upon a soft breeze carries the whispers of my soul, rustling my heartstrings like wind through chimes and into my bones -- Keeping at bay the demons that lurk and the ghosts that haunt. It is here, in this space, When I feel most at ease. I am not quite awake, Yet not quite in a dream, Craving of how love could feel, and how intimacy could heal. I just wish I knew how to tell you that i am getting better with your ghost... But I guess, Some words are better left unsaid.
Image found in Pinterest and is credited to the rightful owner/artist
"I can't save you. I can't save myself. I can't save us."
You think I trust you with saving me? You think I trust you with saving yourself? Someone that I would die for? You think I trust you with saving us? Something that I won't live without?
No, I don't.. I trust your hopes and I trust your prayers that I don't know how many times you say for yourself but I've hear you say them for me.. "I hope you're okay.. I don't have a doubt in you.. I want to see you thrive.."
There isn't much in this world that I can count on... but I know that if you are holding my hand and I'm holding yours.. We say nothing out of this crippling fear..we say nothing aloud.. And in these hearts that we know nothing about we ask for the same things.. "God..please don't let him leave my hand" "Oh, please don't let her leave mine.."
So, I ask you to ask.. For all that you want.. Whatever that may be.. Countless things.. The impossible..ask for it..
I'll ask for the same.. with every breath..each and every breath that is left in me.. Hold on to it..
I murdered the poet in me last night and buried it under all the poems I wrote for every soul I once loved . I no longer beseech happiness , or look for beauty in obvious flaws , instead , I let the harsh reality seep in my bones and fill my holes which I used to describe as artistic cracks .
All the paragraphs about red wine and coffee shops , warm kisses and freezing rains , Tibetan teacups and wind chimes , lilies and sunflowers , Polaroids and cigarettes , all of them , were supposed to make me feel beautifully sad . Instead , they kept reminding me that poems about muses are just a way of escaping the obvious and undeniable reality . Because evil is inevitable , and the artist under the skin just keeps trying to paint the world with imagination , as wild as it can .
Poets , these damned poets , us , we try to make blood and smoke look beautiful , and we try to picture the most absurd scenarios in our backyards , kitchen counters , balconies or bathroom tiles , and we somehow even succed , but just after the whiff of endorphin settles and the wave of thoughts and metaphors wash over , reality comes crashing back , just as we open the blinds and traffic noises come rushing , kids start screeching ,time just refuses to slow down and the days wreck havoc .
Painting the walls of our being with beautiful lies never help , but then , reality doesn't either . Maybe it's just better to let Mr Darcy and Heathcliff seep in our veins , and to cry with Elizabeth and Catherine as all the world dissolves around .
I regret murdering the poet in me , just the way I regret existing .
- Ruhii .
I like to contradict myself . Happy Everything to Everyone !