Miraquill
"I'm tired of finding love around me" There, I have said it. I am tired of always being positive, seeing good in everything that comes across. I am tired of turning mere humans into poems that rhymes with my sadness, putting ordinary words on blank pages and making an art out of it. Sometimes it's a crime to glorify things that deserve to be loved for its simplicity.
Humans are like that only. Poets have mislead the whole idea of love while trying to keep alive their muses in the form of poetry for an eternity. It doesn't work that day.
It's not really about seeking constellations around the corner of their eyes, but about stealing each other's glances when teacher turns towards the board and start giggling as soon as your eyes meet. It's about having someone to do all those mundane things with, without feeling insecure about revealing how much you suck at those things.
It's not about writing those thousands of metaphors on the last page of your diary and let them decipher the love you are hiding in between those lines, but simply sending a text "Call me when you reach home." Or saying "I've made some tea for you, just the way you like - some extra chai patti and only one spoon of sugar."
No, you see, we have got it all wrong. It's not about the "Okay" shared in between Hazel Grace and Augustus Waters or the "Always" that stayed just between Severus Snape and Albus Dumbledore, but about the longing you felt after coming out of these fictional worlds.
- Rutvik
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There are times when I do nothing but lay still and stare at these old walls and rusty furniture while listening to 70's music, yeah well I am into old music but in my defense, trust me it's addictive. The kind of calmness and energy they bring to you at the same time is pure bliss, you can just dive into pool of those lyrics and yet you can never get enough of it.
But tbh, I wasn't always a fan of old songs, I was just as clueless as any teenager would be these days about that golden period of music, until I took a detour to my grandparents home. We went there for the first time when I was still a little baby and after that the work-life of city hit my parents and we couldn't make such trip again, until last summer. It was my vacation period and Baba wanted some time off from his corporate life so we decided to have that trip again.
I didn't really know what was waiting for me there, but I was really excited because I had heard lots of things from friends like, grandparents love you unconditionally, to be precise blindly, you can make any mistakes or do whatever you want and still they won't punish you or give you lectures like Ma and Baba. And no matter how much food you eat, it's never enough for them.
It was around five in the evening when we finally reached there. I was really exhausted from that twelve hours journey and just wanted to go straight to the bed as soon as we enter the house, but when I got out of our car, I saw my grandpa sitting there on his comfy chair in the middle of a veranda and sipping a cup of chai (later I found out that it was coffee, unfortunately my grandpa is a coffee person.) while enjoying the background music that was playing on a radio. I could see that he was really into it because he was trying to sing along with the singer without caring about his own voice.
"ये शाम मस्तानी, मदहोश किये जाये
मुज़हे डोर कोइ खींचे, तेरी और लिए जाए."
I heard this line for the very first time in my life and instantly fell in love with the song. So instead of going straight to the bed I sat there with my grandpa and the first thing we talked about after all these years was music, silly right? But trust me, we really bonded over music that day, we were the only one in the house who used to get goosebumps while thinking about which magical melody will come next in the queue.
He introduced me to all the legends like Kishore da, Pancham da, R. D. Burman sahab, Lata ji, Asha ji, and last but not least Mohammed Rafi sahab. He told me his famous story of how he proposed his love of the life, my grandma, in front of her college friends while playing her favorite song in the background,
"प्यार दीवाना होता है मस्ताना होता है
हर ख़ुशी से हर गम से बेगाना होता है."
At first she looked down and covered her face but then after a second or two she looked into grandpa's eyes and knew that they were meant to be together. As soon as she nodded her head to say yes, it started raining and my grandpa being a total Bollywood freak, he started shouting,
"Look, it's like God giving us blessings, We are really meant to be together."
My grandma's face turned red and she was really embarrassed, but she knew what was she getting into so she didn't stop him and instead they both started singing and dancing like a Bollywood couple. (At least this is what my grandpa told me happened, but my grandma's version is a little different and more realistic one tbh. But I never confronted him, neither did grandma, I guess that's what love is, loving them despite of all those irregularities.)
Finally it was time for us to leave, jump back into our old city life and join the rat race again, but before that I wanted to enjoy one last our hour of grandpa's special playlist while sipping cup of adark wali chai with pudina in it. (my grandma's speciality) And little did I know that my grandpa had saved the best for last,
"चलते चलते, मेरे ये गीत याद रखना
कभी अलविदा ना कहना
कभी अलविदा ना कहना
रोते हँसते, बस यूँही तुम गुनगुनाते रहना
कभी अलविदा ..."
A total drama queen, eh?
- Rutvik -
risingdrop
98w
Read More*WHEN IN LOVE*
When in love, you always try to trace back everything to that certain someone,
that dialogue from a movie feels so real and the proposal, your mind runs at least a thousand test runs to think about what you will say when that someone will propose you, how you would react, you want them to do it like your favorite character did in a movie.
At your favorite place, that small coffee house across the street, nearby your home, where you guys first met.
When in love, you start looking at your face in mirror more often, that glow on your face gives away your secrets to strangers, they can witness your heart beating faster than ever, your eyes, they speak louder than a thousand words from a love letter ever can, you look out for things unknowingly that you never cared about before, you want to be the best version of your self in each way possible.
When in love, you become vulnerable too, you give yourself away in a most selfless way possible, you heart, it doesn't want to hold back, all the feelings rush into your mind and all you could think is the moments you spent with that someone.
You know it might never happen, that someone may not feel the same way about you, but that doesn't change the fact that you have fallen in love.
When in love, you suddenly start enjoying weather, that breeze blowing from your balcony is still the same, but now it has some different essence, or perhaps it always had that but you noticed it just now, clouds instantly change your mood and you can never get enough of stars now.
You notice that variations in shape of moon everyday while trying to figure out what the other person would be doing at that time.
When in love, you may not share 'I love yous' more often, but those nods when your eyes meet make up for it perfectly.
- Rutvik
Pic credit :- to respective owner
#writersnetwork
@bluebird okay, no mistakes in a name this time.��
@allbymyself @greypages_ @the_story_weed.
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risingdrop
99w
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@blubird look I found some words today. XD
@allbymyself @the_story_weed @greypages_To/about her
Sometimes when words fall asleep on your lips I hope you sing lullabies to them, I hope you remind yourself about how my ears were always excited to listen to your poetries that your hands scribbled on some white torn pages of your diary. I wonder if I had words lying across my brushed lips waiting to be heard by you, would they sound as beautiful as the ones that you utter when you tell our stories to people by adding superheroes and villains or spacecraft and fairies to make it a little more dramatic as well as fictional.
You were always afraid of people getting to know a little more about you than they deserved, you were always skeptical about the idea of shouting your lover's name from the top of the mountain. You believed in small things, like the favourite music you shared or the favourite food you ate at your favorite place. You think that love is not so different than all the other things that we do every day.
I must admit though, you were best at hiding your tears, from me, from your parents and from this world. I don't know why but when I used to ask, you always said the same thing, "These tears are my mistakes, mistakes that I made while trusting people too much, they remind me of ugliness of this world and I want to keep it to myself because let's be honest, we all are doomed in one way or the other and we all have our share of pain."
You remind me of happiness in its purest form, the time when Chandler proposed Monica, Harry hugged Sirius, Louisa danced with William and when Augustus and Hazel shared their first 'okay'. You remind me of all the happy endings where my heart broke a little and my eyes shed some tears but I had a wide smile spread across my lips.
- Rutvik -
risingdrop
101w
Read More
// Living with the memories //
I'm addicted to a different kind of sadness, the one where I'll show you symptoms of a happy man or a boy, like any face that you could think of while imagining the crowd at the metro station or at the airport,
A man Who has a wide smile spread across his lips because he is going to see his fiance after a whole year or
A boy who is dancing at the metro station because he is so excited to ride in a metro for the very first time.
But at the same I'll remind you of an old man in his late 60's, living alone in his big old house, his son and daughter are long gone from his life, busy in making their own little paradise, at first they used to visit him every now and then with his grandchildren, but as everything and everyone changes with time, they also changed.
His wife left him a little too early, just after a couple of years of marriage, that was the first time he came across sadness, the kind where he was smiling when his kids said their first words, but at the same time tears were rolling down from his eyes as there was no one else to share that moments with.
I'll remind you of that five years old kid who couldn't speak or write like other kids from his class and everyone else made fun of him because he stammered a little while giving his speech, he doesn't know why his heart aches after hearing all those comments, he wants to slap them and shout on them, but instead he sits in a corner, all alone, thinking why God made him like this.
Your sixteen years old girlfriend broke up with you today so you are sad and you think that your life is nothing but a tragedy and it won't ever be same without her so you try to take your own life, but can you think of a guy whose wife was killed in the bomb blast that happened at the shopping mall? She wanted him to come with her, but he was too tired to wake up from his bed so she went alone after making sure that her one year old twins are asleep, can you think of his desperation to alter the past, to remove just one day from it?
You see, I am all of that, that five years old kid or a boy at the metro station or a guy whose wife was killed or an old man living alone with all these memories, all of them is me.
- Rutvik
#writersnetwork
Pic credit :- Pinterest
Title credit :- @rhapsodist
@allbymyself @greypages_ @bluebird.
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risingdrop
102w
Read More
// OF RUNNING CLOUDS AND PEOPLE //
"I like to watch these blue skies running away from me you know, but at the same time they remind me of people who ran away from me, never to look back again and it makes me really sad." Revathi uttered while staring outside of window.
"They are clouds you dumbo." Shantanu laughed from behind.
"Ya ya okay, clouds... Whatever!" Revathi felt irritated.
"You know, you can look it in a different way. Like how everyday different clouds come under your sky from far away, just for you." Shantanu presented his idea calmly.
"Yesss, I suppose. I never thought that way. Thank you Mr smarty pants for that." She smiled while saying this.
"Ayee, you brightest witch of your age. You sure know what irritate me the most." He threw cusion at her.
"Same back at you Miss chanandler bong." She threw the same cusion back.
"Well, at least I am the funny one here." He stood up and sat beside her.
"Now now, why are you still sad?" He asked her when she put her head on his lap.
"No. Nothing as such. It's just a thought, but why clouds and people have to leave you, especially just when you start to feel comfortable around them? Why can't I just own my people and if possible clouds too?" She took his hand in between her both hands while saying this.
"Well, first thing first, that's not possible okay. And besides that there are others like you, waiting for their share of clouds so it's not wise to keep all for us, is it? And people, they are rather more complicated you know. You can't make choices for others, everybody has their own feelings. So rather than trying to make them stay forever you can just love them while they are here, with you." He knew how to convince her.
"Yes, I know that too. But what about the void they leave behind? All that sadness comes to you in the middle of night, those memories, they moist your eyes and songs hit you like never before." She stared into his eyes.
"The more people that you let into your life, the more that can just walk right out." Feel this?
"Yesssss. So you are saying I should shut that door and don't let anyone come in?" She got up and again started watching clouds out of window.
"Can you really do that?"
"No. I've tried, but as you know that was a big failure."
"There you have your answer. That's the thing about us humans and that is the price we have to pay for all the happiness that we steal from our lives. It's like everything comes with its pros and cons. And when pros like me are so much tempting that you forget the cons comes with it." He hugged her from behind.
"Haha. Damn you, you really are the funny one here." She laughed and kissed his forehead.
- Rutvik
#writersnetwork.
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risingdrop
103w
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// LIFE THEN AND NOW //
Once there was a life
around you, within you,
you could feel it in your bones,
that thrill to see what future holds for you,
ready to break every rule out there like a rebel,
trying to be like those characters from a movie,
always smiling,
singing songs with your friends,
dancing with strangers you meet on a road.
There was nothing to fear about,
nothing that you afraid to do, there was someone,
walking side by side with you,
two different footprints leading to the same path.
Life was simple and yet you made the most out of it.
Days turned into months and months into years,
they say age is just a number but now you can see by yourself that it's not.
Things have changed now,
people have changed around you.
There is no thrill left in you to see another day,
another sunrise,
you feel like you are just a burden on your kids,
medicines are the constant items in your menu,
walks have become lonely,
those other footprints are no longer there to give you a company,
she gave up long before you could tell her enough times that how much grateful you are,
for she made this journey so beautiful and a little easy to travel,
to tell her one last time how much you love her when she wears gajra for you.
You know it's not possible now,
but still you wish for just one day,
no words, no signs,
nothing to say,
just you and her,
sitting there,
witnessing one of the most pleasant endings,
one last sunset.
- Rutvik
#writersnetwork.
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risingdrop
104w
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Dear Pia,
Yes, this is happening, you read it right Rancho, it's not for you but for Pia. So now please hand it over to her. Done? Okay, so how are you doing Pia? I hope you are doing good. This letter? yes, I wrote it especially for you, to let you know how much I adored you then. Yes, I know, it's a bit late but tumne vo to suna hi hoga, 'Better late than never.'
Of course, I love those 3 idiots, that was one of the best trios that I have ever seen in my life, except perhaps me, my bed and sleep, just kidding. *laughs* But then you came in out of nowhere, wearing that pink saree, with your nerdy glasses and that 18th-century watch. That's where it was all started, wasn't it? That watch became a cupid and brought our Rancho to you. But first, like any other Indian girl you ignored that free-ki-advise and went to your dad and put our idiots into a big trouble.
That day, I don't believe it was just a coincidence that you saw Rancho and millimeter and you ran to him just so that you can shout on him. And when Rancho gave his another demo you finally gave in and realized that Suhash was never meant for you. Just like Rancho, I loved the way you said 'Gadhe' to him on his face, that was so gutsy of you. I know it wasn't just your Hippocratic oath that drawn you to help him but it's in your nature to help others.
There, In that hospital you witnessed for the first time that our beloved Rancho is softy after all and that his friends are very important to him. And when he instantly recognized that it was your mother's watch and asked you whether you were missing her on your sister's wedding, I could see that you guys had a moment there. And I was right, you did fall in love with him because "aaj mausam ek dum saaf hai par agar aapko pyaar hua hai to aap par halki halki baarish hogi."
When Rancho confessed his love for you that night in your room you were so happy. I know that idiot took four years to say that, but vo 22 minutes tumhari Zindagi ke bhi sabse haseen 22 minutes the, haina? And just like him, you went to his hostel, though it was for the sake of Raju. Sach batana ki uss raat tumne 2 lagayi thi ya 4? Has anyone ever told you that you are damn cute when you are drunk?
That night, you couldn't keep it inside, so you stormed out all the things you were hiding from your dad for so long. I can understand how hard it must have been for you to say all those things to your dad, to tell him that he was the reason for his son's death, to hand him over that suicide note that your brother wrote. But trust me, you did the right thing and you are a really good daughter because it's our duty to correct our parents whenever they are wrong.
One thing I want ask here is that, I know that idiot Rancho left you without saying anything and it was your right to move on, or at least pretend that you have moved on, but still Suhash?... I mean really?...Why Pia Why? But thanks to our Raju and Farhan you were saved at the last moment. And I must say again, it was really gutsy of you to run away from that wedding, in front of everyone, in front of your dad. But again, you did the right thing.
And last but not least, you are a damn good sister Pia, damn good. It was really frustrating and there was no way anybody else would have thought what you thought. You didn't lose your nerves and did everything that you could have done in that situation. Of course Rancho took care of things, but it was because of you that our 'Champ' survived.
Finally, finally you kissed him, that idiot, to prove him "naak bich me nahi aati" and what a kiss it was. You guys were made for each other and totally deserved that happy ending.
By the way, "Shadi ke baad surname change ki ya nahi?"
In the end, being a gujarati I just want you to know that "hamare khane ki item ka sirf naam hi khatarnak hota hai baki 'Dhokla' to tum bhi nahi bhula paayi thi." *laughs*
Love,
Rutvik.
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risingdrop
106w
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Dear Amrita,
So how do I start this? This letter that I urged to write after seeing you behind that silver screen, this letter that is also a way of me thanking you for teaching me a small but very important lesson of life. You know, when I saw you for the first time, I could only see a good wife, a caring daughter-in-law and a happy daughter in you and I assumed that this is what you truly are, this is what makes you happy. I could see that you had a passion for dancing but then like any other member of this Indian society I thought it was just your past, that it was something that you were just fond of, that your priority is changed now and your only source of happiness is your family now. And somewhere you made yourself believe it too.
But that night, that night changed everything, or should I say, that night brought the truth in front of you. That slap wasn't just a slap, was it? It was a reminder for you, a reminder to see all those unfair things that you have been ignoring for so long, things that you should have opposed, or maybe you should have asked answers for. I know that it wasn't your fault because that's what women had been doing before you raised your voice, that's what your grandma taught to your mom and your mom taught to you, to let go. "Jane do ye to hota rehta hai, thoda bardasht karna sikhna chahiye aurton ko." You couldn't understand how no one told him that it was his fault, how everyone just assumed ke ye to chalta hai, ye to normal hai, har pati patni ke bich itna to hota hi hai.
The way you said, "Just a slap, par nahi maar sakta" I could feel chill in my bones, like something awakened within me that was buried since forever. I wanted to scream so loud with you, "yes, it was wrong, he had no right to do it, not even one slap". People around you tried to convince you not to break your marriage because of just one slap. When Netra said "Hamein hi jod kar rakhna padta hai." and you replied, "Jod ke rakhni padi koi cheez toh matlab tooti huyi hai na? aur kab tak, kab tak jod kar rakhoge? kabhi na kabhi to thak jaoge na?" These lines shook me, completely.
I understand what you were trying to say when you told him that you don't love him anymore. You just wanted two things from your life, respect, and happiness. But when he slapped you that night, you realized one thing, that there was no respect for you in his eyes, that he just loved his wife, not you and thought he could do anything with his wife because he loved her and he had a right to slap you, that it was just a mistake, nothing more.
When you doubted yourself for a second, your father asked you whether you are doing all this just on a whim, or is it because you are listening to your inner voice, and then you said that it's your inner voice screaming for you that it is right whatever you are doing. So he told you, "Kai baar sahi karne ka result happy nahi hota." And I could clearly see on your face that you weren't happy too, that you also didn't want to leave what you had, your home, your mother-in-law, but you also couldn't let it go that feeling, that feeling of not being respected.
Dear Amrita, as you said, that petition was just for a slap, a slap that wasn't his right. But Amrita I want you to know that that petition became much more for others, for women it became a symbol of strength, something which inspired them to stand up against all the unfair things that they were ignoring, they realized that there is no need to suppress their feelings, their hobbies. For men, it came as a reminder, a reminder that it is written nowhere that he can raise a hand on his wife or a woman in general.
Amu, now I know that blue was never your favorite color but it was always yellow, and you dreamed of becoming many things in your childhood but housewife was never one of them. You tried your best to become the world's best wife, but not at the cost of your self-respect.
Love,
Rutvik
// Thappad is a must watch movie. Go and watch it in case if you haven't already. //
#writersnetwork.
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risingdrop
106w
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// Yah mera satya hai. Agar aap ko lagta hai ki yahan kahi par bhi aapka zikr hua hai to mujhe maaf kare par aapko sudhar jana chahiye. //
@rhapsodist Kuch tippani karna chahoge aap bhi is satya par?There are people, people who believe they are writers, some self-proclaimed philosophers, who explain truths of life. Sometimes all it takes is a line, a simple sentence, but sometimes, sometimes they have to go beyond their limits, crossing all the boundaries, putting some extra efforts they write two lines, two whole lines. Put some more effort and boom it's rhyming now.
A dish of greatest truth is ready, now whom to serve it. Ohh here we go, searching another one from the same breed. You taste mine and I'll taste yours. You appreciate mine and I'll appreciate yours.
"But that is not really your I guess, I read this same truth somewhere with simple words. Maybe you should not put your name there."
"Aye, don't worry about it mate, nobody will notice and even if they notice there are plenty of them who are just like us."
But, how will they bring other people to their holy walls of truths? Well, they have some tricks that works for them. How about we start with the lamest of all, known as begging in normal world. Then there are some smart ones, evolved ones, Using label of motivator they promote crap, yeah literally crap. Hoping that newbies will make them their godfathers and godmothers.
"But isn't that a good thing to motivate people to write something better?"
"Of course it is. But sometimes being a good WRITER you must know which things you should appreciate and which you shouldn't. Just because you are friends with them that doesn't mean you should always appreciate their shit too. Be a good friend and tell them on their faces that this isn't a poetry."
- Rutvik
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bluebird
48w
Read More23:32
Closed eyes:
My fingers sing a song on your arms,
Tracing the veins, back and forth,
Meaning to recognise the stains
You recognise by;
It's a prayer, if you hear
Closely enough.
Placing your arm on my chest,
I let your fingertips touch my chin
Barely, enough
Closed eyes
My fingers tell a story on your arms,
Of the lies I told,
Out of the fear of falling in love with you.
My nails, broken and bitten
Follow the outline of your thumb,
And I lift it gently,
Enough
To ask for permission
To hold my face and touch my lips.
It's a prayer, can you hear?
A kiss. Barely enough;
Your hand reaches the back of my ear
Tugging a lock of hair
And playing with my pierced earlobe.
You kiss that speck on my neck,
And dial the minutes past us.
You kiss that speck on my neck,
And playing with my pierced earlobe,
Tugging a lock of hair, your hand
Reaches the back of my ear.
A kiss, barely enough;
Its a prayer, can you hear?
To hold my face and touch my lips,
To ask for permission
Enough.
A question,
Making excuses
For me,
From second hand lovers,
To second thoughts,
I ask you;
If I am a synonym
To you -
No longer.
Lips, chapped, cracked
Tired, pink, speaking
Without words.
Could you look at me,
If I was still yours,
If you could hold me,
Would you look at me?
Or would you close your eyes,
Meaning to recognise the stains,
I recognise by?
If names were how we knew each other,
Know,
They named a hurricane after someone,
And it was a disaster.
And someone is no longer someone else.
Someone is no longer.
Your eyes, wider than mine,
Fail to respond, questions that make excuses
For us.
Backs turned, aching my heart,
Looking away from you
My synonym,
Reminds me of second thoughts
By second hand lovers.
Where do they go when they are tired?
They turn around. I turn around.
Your eyes, wider than mine,
Wet, welled, apologising,
And I tether myself to you again.
My hands around your face, pushing back your locks,
With fingers running through, and backwards, behind ears
Dialing the minutes to a halt.
Enough. Look;
It's where the sun stops setting midway,
And where our breaths are all I can hear,
Its where time forgets to pass,
It's where lovers go when they're tired.
Hands, again
On your eyes,
Asking you to let me in.
If having you close would mean
Having to share my skin
Then I would.
At least then, I wouldn't have to
Twist my fingers to feel you,
Touch you,
Kiss you,
Biting my lips, I'd taste you,
Holding my hands,
Begging,
I'd feel safe.
Close your eyes,
Hold me close,
Sit, don't stand
Smile, don't care
Do you feel my breath
Above your lips, do you hear
The gulps, and my tongue
Moving back and forth,
Finding a place to be -
Tasteful,
Your lips, the most perfect attribute
That utters my name,
And makes it yours, so easily,
Your lips,
Meet mine
And your smile, ceases to exist.
A fault? A crime?
A distasteful placement of tongue?
Your scent, lingers still
Your hand, moves mine away,
Closed eyes,
Your fingers sing a song on my arms,
And they say, "you're mine",
And you hold me,
Not looking at me,
You close your eyes,
Meaning to recognise the stains,
I recognise by.
It's the way you say my name,
Making it yours,
That makes me your name,
Just the way I call you mine;
So my hand runs past your ear,
And my nails tend to dial the minutes slow,
Digging those claws deep in your skin
Deep enough to allow me
To grasp your hair
And kiss you deeper,
Softer
Yet harsher
Loving you,
Over
And over
Again.
Time passes by,
Swaying calmer than usual
And my skin melts into your palms
Till the crevices of your skin
And the edges of your lips
Are cemented with the essence of mine.
Hope
Falters
Struggling to perceive our existence.
Water, beneath my feet,
Puddles under my eyes,
A feat.
Your absence speaks words
That I fail to comprehend
A comb carries my hair,
A towel holds the dirt off my body,
A perfume bottle, the one I never use
A ring, another, one more
Enough.
I fail to recognise your stains
Over my presence;
Its senile, the thought of living without you
Insanity, dangerous
Like walking on shards of glass
That was labelled unbreakable.
Making my therapist cry
I walk out, proud,
Looking for a chair to sit upon
And tie an imaginary chain around my ankle
Pretending to be busy; avoiding eye contact
With strangers
I hate.
Walking home, I realise how the clock behind my ear,
It ticks,
The leaves start falling backwards
And my hair trickles down,
Earrings dangle forth and back
Lips blush, eyes flutter down and up
Time passes by, negatively,
And I find myself, covered in blood and bandages
My pelvis, hurt, swollen
I lay, with cut wrist, broken and wilted
I couldn't bloom,
And there was a man, who told me,
The day I was made to realise, how
I can no longer be a mother
"You matter to me."
And hope
Faltered
Struggling to perceive our existence.
I believe
I am a better rider than you,
Just based on the fact,
That I spent a year on bicycles before puberty struck me
And that you didn't.
A weak frame sits in front of you
Won't you hold her,
By her waist?
My hair, brutal on your face,
That you tied with your handkerchief
Were moved aside,
And your arms, chased mine,
Till they reached my hands, grasping the handles
Overlapping, as our fate
Warming my skin
And steering away under canopies
Allowing the sun to brighten my eyes.
I could feel your heart, beating on my back,
And your fingers removing my earring,
Looking for places to kiss
And you kiss,
Dialing the minutes forward.
The sky seems to float, the birds left behind
The road seems to end now,
And the trees farther, now moving ahead
Our teeth now colder from the smiles
Yours, stingy, bearded
Mine, uneven, with torn lips
And a scalp that peels off.
Close your eyes,
Hold me,
Close
Hold me close
"Where are we headed to?"
"Home"
"Where?" I scream
"Right here."
Standing in the dining hall
It's dark outside, 23:32
But the sky is chrome,
Your arms around my waist
And mine, around your neck
Closed eyes and mirroring noses
Foreheads reflecting,
I smile a smile you aren't aware of,
Swaying, dancing, falling in love
Making love, innocently,
Like bottles filled just up to the brim
Waiting for an overflow.
I wonder, what colour my hair would be,
When I'm old, and dead.
I wonder if you'll stay awake, all night,
If you'll remember what my skin felt like,
When you're old; and with someone else.
Growing up, I will lie, cheat and break your heart,
Would you still mean it, when you say now,
"I can never hate you. I just can't."
I wonder what your smile would look like,
When you're old and with somebody new,
With rings you might have exchanged,
Would you let me know?
I wonder if you'll believe, that this kind of love
Was for the young selves,
I wonder if you'll be happy that you fell in love
In your twenties,
When you did, with someone you might not remember;
I wonder if you'll remember me.
I wonder if you'll still know, what my favourite colour is,
And what I used to be allergic to,
When I visit for some relative's funeral,
And eat some cake with tea.
Would you still tell me that I'm yours?
Would you still be mine?
Kiss me, with your coffee lips,
Before you promise this to somebody else,
Fall for me, please?
Sing some song, that is discreet enough
To propose, like you once did before,
Would you remember our song then?
When we grow up, and my scars are no longer yours
And I no longer can write you poems nor stories
Because my father passed away
And there's no one to terrorise my life;
What will happen when those clocks, behind our ears
Stop working, or perhaps forget each other's touch
And when my skin, sheds itself and my self, accepts a new one,
Letting go of your stains; from every kiss that you left behind;
I just hope I don't die, after you -
And you put your hand, over my heart,
Another behind my ear,
Looking into my eyes, you stop the minutes
The time, ceasing to exist
Just us, in a moment,
That we claim as ours,
23:32.
-K23:32
[17/06, 23:29 pm] There's people all around us, all types of people. I fantasize about the good ones and the bad ones, and the ones I have nothing to do with. But they never turn out the way I imagine them to be. I talk to someone, and this is true, I talk to anyone actually, and all I can think of is how it's not where I'm supposed to be.
People make me feel like people; make me feel like there's a home I need to be at.
You're my home. It's where I belong; wherever you are. I can be scared and I can close my eyes, and all I'd think of, will be you.
[17/06, 23:32 pm] I belong with you too. We are home. We: you with your perfections and I, with my messiness.
[17/06, 23:32 pm] Nothing else makes sense anymore, just you and us. -
wisteria_
55w
Baby, I'm scared. There's a hammer that stomps on my sleep, every afternoon nap, every midnight a few minutes past loneliness. I walk around naked in my home, and when no one sees, I see me the way you told me you never get to. I scramble through the floors when the lights are timid, there's a wind I rejoice for, and there's a wind that kills me. My feet are numb, so are my lips.
I haven't walked past a tree in days and my ears cry when my eyes don't. I remember every word I picked from the eulogy every person sang for me, just before walking right out my contact list. And I reckon the songs smeared in their ink, but if you asked me about breakfast, I'll never tell you I gulped thirteen affirmations, and vomited distortions. I might never tell you I was hungry for reassurances, but sipped on stories I cooked on melancholic dawns.
I keep a pen handy, my mind would just about explode if I wouldn't write down who was I supposed to call, what was I supposed to do, and what all I never might be able to. My drawers reeks of the nail paint I spilled trying to change the colour of my nails, to a lesser wistful one. And I have been living in search of a name I could wear, and just slip away.
I keep a white handkerchief with a pin, tied around my ankle, in case I move too fast, or too slow. The days just squander themselves on my insecurities, when I eat blues for dinner, and dare to wake up. I'm outliving my words and what I lived for to actually be able to live another day, and be able to look into someone's eyes without melting myself down to residual wax of shame.
Baby, you don't answer my questions when I talk you through a maze, where in a corner I reside, spilled over like a stain. You don't read me through these hollow lines, I drool down like a disease. And I think it's a sweet month we are living that way, before the next month arrives. I know you sent me a song, they all send me songs to sleep, but I heard a pigeon flutter in the exhaust fan, and I envied him. Oh such an awful person I am.
There I see graves all over, each day as I take a turn towards my lane, but there are no tears and I don't know how. Will the dead tell me, how to cry again? I am forgetting, the world has forgotten. I remember I kept extra pennies in my pocket that I didn't earn. I learnt two things that day, one you get slapped for stealing, but when you're young, and two, I was just a being like any, with a tamed greed until then.
Baby, would you buy me rose petals in exchange for my words? I'd like to stuff my ears and sleep peacefully. I can see the hammer through the window already and it's not even time, yet it'll strike, and I would need to open my notebook and read my manual to breathe again. Baby, would you stay and kiss me? My lips are numb. -
allbymyself
64w
Read MoreMama sits under the sun
singing to herself, humming
to the wind, telling me that
you could make stories out
of shadows if your mind's
not too worn out and your
heart's really in it, and I
promise myself that someday
I'll spin tales out of fire
and magic out of thin air.
Mama has callused skin as
she tells me the earth is kind
to those who are willing to
get their hands dirty, who
don't shy away from a spot
of blood, the ones who put
in the hard yards come rain
or shine, and the rain falls
steady like silver diamonds
as we sip coffee on wasted days.
Mama is long gone up there
somewhere in the skies
slow dancing with the stars
until she became one herself
and I pick up my pen and
claw at the wind, chasing
words in a room half lit
trying to remember that
anything could be poetry
if my heart's really in it.
- Avitaj
@dopamine @raika_ @thegreymetaphor
Picture credit- Cameron VentiStories Out of Shadows
Pick up my pen and
claw at the wind, chasing
words in a room half lit
trying to remember that
anything could be poetry
if my heart's really in it. -
bluebird
65w
Read More
@mirakee hi. Been a while.
(Haven't yet reread, ignore the mistakes if any for now)
,
"You know, I don't really mind the sugar."
"Oh, I'm so sorry, I forgot, again, didn't I?"
"Oh did you?"
And he chuckled, took a sip and then sat down on the floor. His was a lukewarm cup, held late on account of ill tampered arrivals and traffic. It was a replacement for coffee, just a miracle of how the milk in my fridge ran out every time he was to stop by.
"It's raining outside, else I'd have been on time."
"I know."
His breath smelled of cardamom. There was no mustache to be wiped off, just dried lips, not taken care of, licking themselves over and over again, worsening the flaking skin. His habit of biting his lower lip just after his first sip of tea, seemed to bother me at first, yet then I got used to the fact that he was already trying to compromise his departure every time he decided to share a cup of chai.
A salted cracker and a small bowl of peanuts was all that I could provide his diabetic self.
"This is good." He sipped peacefully. There was a faint scream of crickets in the wet grass. A sense of closure, a calm; his eyes closed and his lips smiled. His checkered grey shirt had rolled down sleeves with open buttons on the cuffs and the absence of two from the collar. His wet hair began to curl upon themselves, those lines from his forehead disappeared. His wet socks couldn't hide his curling toes and his dirty jeans had pockets filled with a supposed pack of cigarettes he had been wanting to share with me and probably some mouth freshners for the moments he tried his lady luck. Those wet footsteps led from my room's door to the window pane. The cardamom somehow flavoured the overdue petrichor in a way that it reminded him of his village. "This is good."
I closed my eyes. I sighed and sipped my chai.
There was a rush. A rush of voices clubbing together; laughing and shouting, with names overlapping and smiles you could hear. There were peers on my right who wished to drink beer at 14, and satisfied their puberty with fruit beers. Some friends on my left were busy gossiping about a classmate who made out with a senior in the 'Mysterious Caves of Magic'. It sure seemed magical, the idea of convincing the father of my best friend to allow her to get out for a day on a school picnic, where I took the big responsibility of not allowing her to talk to strangers.
We were standing in front of a menu board. Her stomach was rumbling. There was sweat under our armpits from the compulsion of wearing a coat; whereas there were mobile phones in the armpits of others, from the excuse of being compelled.
"One plate is for 50. Can you believe that? I'm not carrying that much."
"It's okay. We can handle this no?"
With scared school boots we headed on to the cheapest place in the cafeteria and for the first time ever, tried to use the art of flirtation for negotiation. There were huge shoulders and a big mustache behind the counter. If you were tall enough, you could see his stomach being on the risk of catching fire from the proximity to the stove.
A foot in front of the other, we smiled; hers was a chubby one, with her pretty north eastern eyes glistening in the sun, while mine was intentional, with eyes staring straight into the heart of the vendor.
"Can you do it for ten? Ten each?"
"No."
"What if we say "please"?"
A sigh. A sigh and a huge skillet was lit. There was no reduction in the amount of noodles, nor in the chillies, nor in the seasonings. There was no reduction in the love he put into our food. And that's when we sat down behind fake plants, on a special table, with huge plates and food that was too much for our bellies. Excited, as if it was an adventure, we laughed, and paid as much as we had promised.
"A complimentary tea."
There was this tea, one I've never had before, in a small paper cup, orange in sheen. It smelled of cloves and pepper, with a hint of cinnamon. The cups felt hot to our palms, so we carried our bags and walked in the park, counting the number of times some boys hit an inappropriate dance move. We sat on a porous metallic bench, heavier on her side, and we tried our best not to move much, especially after she did and caused my share of tea to spill on my shoes. I pulled her cheeks and asked her not to repeat it again, but oh well, a kid out for the first time had forgotten to have fun in all this while.
We saw the sun set until our roll calls were heard.
Just a moment. I smelled marigold.
"Let's go."
Just a moment.
I closed my eyes. I sighed and sipped my chai.
There was a clatter in the kitchen. Apparently he had let the cups slide off the counter.
"Are you sure you don't want me in there?"
"No, I don't want you in here, K. I can handle this."
"Doesn't seem like it."
He emerged with a tray good enough for holding six cups, with mittens on his hands and an apron that smelled of milk. There was a non stick pan on the top of the tray.
"Ta-daaa. Here's it."
"What?"
"What?"
"You said you were making tea."
"This is the tea."
"In a pan"
"Yeah" his eyes widened and his eyebrows arched, "with straws. I can use some appreciation here. Did you not just hear the cups fall behind my back while I was totally not trying to scoop out the leftover tea leaves floating around?"
He sat down, took his mittens off, threw away his apron in the laundry basked and began setting his hair off in the opposite direction of their growth. He sat down on the couch and held the pan up to my face.
"Drink it."
"I am not mouthing a pan. For some tea. Are you sure I won't die from this?"
"No."
"What did you add?"
"Just some cloves and cardamom,"
"Hmm"
"And sugar and pepper."
"Okay"
"And I wanted to balance out the extra accidental spoon of sugar with some salt."
"Some salt?"
"Yes. And there's some leaves you put in a tea. The one's my mother grows."
"Basil?"
"Maybe?"
He handed me a straw and held one close to his mouth. I counted to three. We sipped and immediately spit back the hot tea through the same straws into the pan.
A moment of silence for his efforts.
"So?"
"The basil really tasted a lot like mint. I don't know how you did that, but it really was exceptional. Stood out for me."
And then laughter.
"You really can't make this breakfast in bed for your mother's birthday. Please don't."
"I won't. Got it. Learnt it. It's all done and settled."
"Do you want me to make some for you right now?"
"No. I'm not a tea person. Oh come on, your adorable face makes me want to say yes everytime."
He sat on the kitchen counter. I put on the saucepan and turned on the gas. There went two and a half cups of water, two teaspoons of tea, an inch of crushed ginger, two teaspoons of sugar, and milk according to the colour. He watched me do it all, and watched it all be done by me. He was watching me. Just me.
"So you really are beautiful. And the best of everything."
"Wait for the tea."
I strained the tea, pressed the tealeaves and discarded them. There were two non matching cups that were filled to exact perfection. I offered one to him and he immediately burnt the tip of his tongue.
"Why do you do this to yourself?"
"Well maybe because of this,"
And he kissed me while I stood there motionless with my eyes closed and a racing heart. I never kissed him back, never known how to kiss.
I closed my eyes. I sighed and sipped my chai.,
"Miss, are you waiting for someone?"
The slide of the menu card broke my nostalgia.
"Oh, oh yes." I said, without looking her in the eyes.
I pulled down my sleeves and tried to purse my lips. There was a cloth tied around my head. Blue, it was.
She stared for a moment, as if she had recognised me, and then she smiled the smile that she must've smiled at every other person she had served during her shift. I smiled a smile that hurt my bruise.
There was the ring of the bells on the door. There it was.
The shoes. His walk. One foot in front of the other. In a rhythm. It was something about the way he walked, the way he looked at me, the way he talked; it was something about him, something that made him who he is to me.
I tried to consider getting up and hiding inside the washroom. But you know what they say, kids who are scared of being locked in the toilet, don't hide in the toilets when they're scared; and if they do, then there's something wrong with you.
There was an attempt to stand up, yet I didn't realise how close I had pulled the table on my side, in the anxiety of being reached out by his hands; and I stood up, my legs did straighten, yet I hit my knee against the table top and the salt & pepper jars fell.
There it was. His grip on my arm. Over a bruise he gave me.
"It's okay." He told everyone at the café. "My wife's okay."
And then he turned to me. With that grim smile on his face, he walked towards his side of the table and fastened his coat's button.
"Where did you think you were going? I'm right here."
I sat.
He sat.
Silence. A car passed us by.
"So?"
"I can't do this."
"Ma'am, can I get your order?"
"No thanks, we're trying to..."
"..yeah. A tea. No milk."
"And for her?"
"Apparently 'she can't do this.' So nothing. Thanks."
"So? What were you saying? What "can't" you do now?"
"I don't want this marriage."
"Hmm. And? Anything else?"
Silence.
"Nothing. Nothing else. This is what you called me for? This is why I've been searching for you everywhere? This is why you ran away? We could've talked about this at home. This.."
"Sir, your tea."
"Thanks."
He leaned forward. His breath on my skin smelled of liquor; his eyes were calm, like they always were, in every single moment of his anger. And there it was again. His smile.
"Jasmine, this is exactly what I warned you against the last time your arm got stuck in the doorway. This is what I warned you against, the day your father agreed to hand you over to me. Look at me and tell me what is wrong with being with me when I am the one paying for everything you wish to pursue and when your family is the leech that has been living off on my money?"
He backed away. The cup on his palm, he sipped. He wasn't as old as I had imagined him to be, probably ten years older than myself. This was the man at every family gathering who offered me a drink since I turned a teenager. Here he was, drinking his tea; his every single gulp visible on his perfectly shaven skin. And there it was: that smile.
He licked his lips and smacked them in disappointment.
"The ring."
I hid my hands under the table in a rush.
"Where's the ring?" His calmness.
"I couldn't wear it."
"I took care of it the last time."
"You broke my finger," a glance into his eyes, "I can not, wear it. It hurts." My voice broke, almost as if I wanted to cry but there were no tears left anymore.
"Well then let me do it for you. Give me the ring."
Silence.
"Give it, else I'd take it."
I slid it across the table.
"Good."
He looked me straight in the eyes and held my cold hands under the table. No one could see the way he pushed his ring onto my finger and no one could see the way he, and only he, could bring out the tears I always thought to have been dried off. Not screaming is a part of me that he taught me well.
"Good." He wiped off my tears with his finger and then cleaned his finger with a tissue. He smiled.
"Take it off again and I'd tell you how to wear it back on.
Oh don't cry, here, drink something."
That cold cup of tea felt indifferent against my lips. He held my hand and left the cup in my grip.
I gulped the cold tea.
"I'll be home early." He kissed my forehead and left.
I closed my eyes. I sighed and sipped my chai.
It was the first time I made tea for my mother. She had always wanted me to learn how to cook and finally, I wanted her to know that yes, I'm old enough to stand close to the fire.
So I stood on a stool to be able to see the water boiling.
There was a clumsy effort on measuring the cups of water I put in. My elbows ached from carrying the weight of my head as I waited for ages for the water to come to a boil.
This was when I realised how my tea always tasted of ginger. So I went down to the lowest rack of the fridge and asked my mother,
"Mummy, do good girls first ask their mummies before opening the fridge?"
She laughed and said "Yes."
"Mummy, can I open the fridge?"
"Yes."
I looked for the bag of ginger and finally found it hidden behind the sack of tomatoes. I broke a circular end and hid it in my fist, hoping my mother wouldn't have noticed, right after asking her where exactly she keeps the ginger.
I went inside the kitchen and cut the ginger into thin slices and then put it in the boiling water. Then there went tea leaves, something I used to love to smell for a minute or saw, right after opening the container. Then went sugar, miscounted. And then went the milk, after a minute or so of boiling.
And when a skin had formed, I turned off the gas and caught the pan with my bare hands, burning my little fingers, and crying in pain, yet not loud enough. I managed to save the tea.
I strained the tea, pressed the tealeaves and discarded them. There were three cups, all the same, for me, my brother and my mother.
I walked towards the room with my wobbly feet; the tea spilled on the sides of the steel plate.
And there it was. The awaited moment. This was the first sip of my mother, the first sip of the first tea I ever made.
"It tastes like water. I don't like it. If it's tea, I don't care who made it. If it's bad, I have to say it."
So I sat down by the window. Sat down and held my cup of tea.
There was a sense of failure. A sense of hurt.
Perhaps I was not good enough.
Perhaps I didn't try hard enough.
I closed my eyes. I sighed and sipped my chai.
©bluebird -
bluebird
66w
Read More
"What can I give that is all for you?
My heart's no good 'cause it's split in two
What can I give that is all for you?
These arms are all I have
But I'll hold you like I do love you
But I'll hold you like I do love you"
Arms; The Paper Kites
#valentine #hearMeFATHOM
Strands
Wrapped around your fingers,
Incomplete between each twist
Loosened around every ridge of your touch
Black; soft
My hair; caressed,
Denying departure from the forks in your nails
Hands, porous with the essence of autumn
Playing with the splits of my scalp
Smelling of bribed love
Strands, trickling from the friction they offer,
Down under your knees;
Those ends tickling my nose
And the nose wrinkling over to smile
With closed eyes,
Strands;
Like threads being pulled out of the spool
Unnoticed, with no intentions,
And with a head in the clouds,
Leaving your fingers smell of cherries
When they reach your nose to itch
And of the hallucination of oil
When they run over pages and digits, leaving prints
Of something you touched
Hours ago.
There's this strangeness in the way I love you,
Love,
Its the way you linger on my body
Without touching me like you do
And the way you don't let me leave
Without evidences on yours;
There's this strangeness, love,
About how you're not quite around
Yet leave me with something I can't call my own,
There's this strange love,
Where I'm afraid you'd leave me with all that there is
Where you're the movements in my sleep
The words I can't keep;
I'm afraid,
All I'd be left with will be,
An incomplete kiss, your sweat on my neck,
A you, a me,
And you without me.
Breaths
A cloud I can't separate:
Yours from mine, yours or mine
Bare legs trapped in cold sheets,
And toes touching with an excuse of accidents
Cold still,
Breaths, yours and mine
On a neck, on a breast,
Warmer, moist,
Unaware of the cold feet,
And the cold beds,
This is where sleep lingers,
Where warmth decides to sigh in our presence,
Your breath on my chest; warmer, closer
My breath on your shoulder, calmer, colder,
This is where I can close my eyes
And wonder why I chose to lay on the wrong side,
Pulling blankets, gulping a dry mouth
You're awake, and you smile with your closed eyes
Breaths; like lullabies,
Warmer when you smile,
Closer, even more,
This is where I belong;
Where your eyelashes kiss my collarbones
When it's morn,
Waking up on the right side.
There's this strangeness in the way I love you,
Love,
Its the way you linger on my body
Without touching me like you do
And the way you don't let me leave
Without evidences on yours;
There's this strangeness, love,
About how you're not quite around
Yet leave me with something I can't call my own,
There's this strange love,
Where I'm afraid you'd leave me with all that there is
Where you're the movements in my sleep
The words I can't keep;
I'm afraid,
All I'd be left with will be,
An incomplete kiss, your sweat on my neck,
A you, a me,
And you without me.
Walks
Where no hands are held
No words are pronounced
Two bodies, walking
Swaying,
Like a pair of earrings, dangling with a movement
With feet mismatched, and steps miscounted
A push towards you and a lean towards me
Walks,
Where silence speaks nothing
Just your peace in mine,
A knuckle brushing past another
Watches clinging onto each other
Left with scratches around the rims
It's the hair on my skin that tell you
How fast my heart beats still
When we walk
And when our hands collide
Just close enough,
To roll down your folded sleeves
Of a shirt I chose,
For walks,
Like this,
Where your eyes search for eyes
And your hand searches for mine
With every finger just fitting in perfectly
Dancing around yours, figuring out the riddle,
After infinities,
Meanings to our presence;
Where every groove of your finger,
Remembers every spot on mine,
And where we don't need to catch our time
For walks,
Like this,
To home;
When home is walking just right by your side.
There's this strangeness in the way I love you,
Love,
Its the way you linger on my body
Without touching me like you do
And the way you don't let me leave
Without evidences on yours;
There's this strangeness, love,
About how you're not quite around
Yet leave me with something I can't call my own,
There's this strange love,
Where I'm afraid you'd leave me with all that there is
Where you're the movements in my sleep
The words I can't keep;
I'm afraid,
All I'd be left with will be,
An incomplete kiss, your sweat on my neck,
A you, a me,
And you without me.
Lips
Dried at corners,
With creases and folds,
Felt roughly by fingertips
Cold and crude, with an uneven skin
Brushing away with pauses;
Noticing the tremble of my lips,
This is where your eyes escape mine
And there's a space between your lips,
Wishing fulfilment,
Just perfect enough to let me kiss,
As if,
We were meant to be.
Lips,
Forming silence, in a moment
That doesn't seem to explain
The reasons for existence
Of a you, a me;
Yet this is where neither of us doubts
And that is a reason enough.
A step closer,
Lips, touching tips
And toes, on their tips,
Breaths leaving sweat above
And arms not knowing where to lock
So they fall.
Still. Straight.
A distance.
A silence.
There's this strangeness in the way I love you,
Love,
Its the way you linger on my body
Without touching me like you do
And the way you don't let me leave
Without evidences on yours;
There's this strangeness, love,
About how you're not quite around
Yet leave me with something I can't call my own,
There's this strange love,
Where I'm afraid you'd leave me with all that there is
Where you're the movements in my sleep
The words I can't keep;
I'm afraid,
All I'd be left with will be,
An incomplete kiss, your sweat on my neck,
A you, a me,
And you without me. -
vessel_poetry
69w
We run to
Lies,
As a means of
Escape.
But, lies are
Roofless houses
And one day
It will
Rain.
VESSEL -
my_cup_of_poetry
70w
Read More• Plath - Sylvia Plath , an American poet
• Faiz - Faiz Ahmad Faiz , a Pakistani poet
• Gogh - Vincent Van Gogh, a Dutch painter
• Shikara - wooden boat found in Dal Lake.
@writersnetwork @writersbay thanks a ton :")How old were you
when Plath first
knocked your door?
I was fourteen,
fresh like flowers
of Gulmohar,
when Plath silently
walked in and kissed
my forehead.
I felt too heavy that
day and cried
inside an inkpot.
How old were you
when Faiz first died
inside your heart ?
I was seventeen
scarred like leaves
of winter Chinar,
begging Faiz to not
leave my hands.
That day I fell on
a shikara and
forgot the sky.
How old were you
when Gogh first
stood outside your
window pane ?
I was nineteen,
cold like icebergs
of Atlantics,
when Gogh starred
at my smile and
didn't smile back.
That day I painted
Stars , drank a cup
of insomnia and
bled sunflowers.
I was fourteen,
seventeen and
nineteen when a
gust of art
reduced me to
DUST.
____________
©my_cup_of_poetry -
allbymyself
72w
Read More
Inspiration is
the dream you barely
remember when you
are jolted awake from
a restless night's sleep
the conversation you
overhead in a crowded
bar because they sat
too close to your seat
the song you have
heard a thousand times
but whose meaning hits
you like a bolt from the
blue one random morning
the water that drips gently
from a broken tap
the cup that shatters
because it didn't fall
upon the carpeted floor
the tip of a pen waiting
to be moved upon a page
the stare of vacant eyes
into immovable walls
the dance of shadows
in an empty room
what finds you when
you are not looking for it
and what eludes you
when you seek it out
- Avitaj
@dopamine @raika_
Picture credit- Ramiro PianarosaInspiration
This is just an ordinary day
Wipe the insecurities away
I can see that the darkness will erode
Lookin' out the corner of my eye
I can see that the sunshine will explode
Far across the desert in the sky
Beautiful girl, won't you be my inspiration
Beautiful girl, don't you throw your love around
- Ordinary Day, The Cranberries -
thewordplayer
73w
Read MoreWalking down the seventh street
with a heavy heart and cold feet;
I reached that old forgotten park,
the one where we left our forever mark.
I felt like it was calling me from a mile
and that old fragrance made me smile;
The garden still bears those bright flowers,
and the air still carries every memory of ours.
Beside that tree where you used to hide
I stood stubborn, and I sighed;
I wished my eyes still had enough tears,
for every time your peek-a-boo echoed in my ears.
I walked to the bench where you carved our name
and I sat there hoping it would all be the same;
The left hand-rest was wet with dew,
and every bit of it still smelt like you.
I closed my eyes and recalled every fight,
I mourned every bit where I thought I was right;
This distance between us was ought to be,
cause with every drop of my blood, I killed 'you and me'.
This bench saw our very first kiss,
and it was the witness to our every promise;
but now I wish for what was once my biggest fear,
that you'd sit there with someone new, and be happier.
#echo #wod.
-
my_cup_of_poetry
73w
Read More
'Irises' , 'Wheatfield with crows' and 'Almond blossoms' are some of the paintings by Dutch post Impressionist painter Vincent Van Gogh.
Saint Paul de Mausole was the asylum where Gogh painted Irises.on days I felt like
an asylum housing
a mentally ill,
I named myself
Saint Paul de Mausole,
asked my age old
Van Gogh
to paint purple
'Irises' blooming in
my garden
and eternalize my
despair on hundred
and thirty canvases.
on days I felt like a
poor crow flying in
uncertain directions ,
I made myself believe
that I am one of those
crows that
Gogh painted over
windlaced 'Wheatfield'
during the last weeks
of his life.
on days I felt like a
suicide note, I named
myself ' Almond
Blossoms ' ;
all white and hopeful,
that lonely Gogh
painted to gift his
newborn nephew.
and on all the days
I felt too ordinary
and worthless
I convinced myself
that I am a portion
of Art.
- Sakshi, Of Art
©my_cup_of_poetry
