shatteredsoul

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Novel Nerd. Scribbler. Dreamer. artist. love imaginations.

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  • shatteredsoul 33w

    I’m a bit rusty tonight
    The love I want is too expensive,
    It looks like a Hokusai on a wooden block,
    Prussian Blue smeared all over it
    in an 1842 Japan.

    The love I want is too expensive,
    There are sixth degree burns in my heart
    My body couldn’t afford the means
    to quench the thirst of your eyes.

    The love I want is too expensive,
    It wants the Sun to set in between your thighs
    It wants us to swing rhythmically
    with the hands of the clock hanging lonely on the wall.
    Wordsworth has no worth in my mouth
    when you spread your legs in front of my eyes.

    The love I want is too expensive
    It is intoxicated on capitalism
    I just paid 20% extra tip to the waiter
    To preserve your lipstick mark on the coffee cup
    You crave for a leather bound Karl Marx
    in between your soft breasts.

    The love I want is too expensive
    It makes me lick the honey filled alleys in your thighs
    So that you forget all the men who blurred the sunrises on this very bed
    while moaning your name backwards,
    so twisted, it sounded like their ex.

    The love I want is too expensive,
    I try to write poems to pay its dues
    So I’m standing here with a half written poem
    And Your favourite Hozier played in my head 47 times,
    Hoping for you to put your lips, in between mine like a couplet at the end of a Shakespearean sword
    Or will you kiss me in my dreams
    And tomorrow I’ll wake up looking like
    All the abandoned homes whose children are settled in abroad.

    #POD #mirakee #writersnetwork #love

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    The love I want is too expensive,
    It wants the Sun to set in between your thighs
    It wants us to swing rhythmically
    with the hands of the clock hanging lonely on the wall.
    Wordsworth has no worth in my mouth
    when you spread your legs in front of my eyes.


    (caption)



    ©ronit

  • shatteredsoul 47w

    Hey pretty girl,
    I'm calling to let you know
    That I'm staring at the sky tonight with you

    Hey pretty girl
    don't you think that there's a chance
    that we are starting at the same star tonight.

    Hey pretty girl
    I heard that nature is conspiring tonight
    She'll bring all the stars in one place
    to shine bright like your eyes.

    Because I have heard
    they tore down the Berlin Wall
    to see Aivazovsky's painting
    in your ocean eyes.

    Hey pretty girl
    you were in my dream last night
    We were in the maths class
    and you told my teacher
    not Pythagorean’s theorem
    but only my poems
    can measure the distance
    between our hearts.

    I have heard
    there's a whisper around the city
    you've taught the tram tracks
    that even parallel lines can meet
    if there is love between them.

    Hey pretty girl
    I love your smile
    The U shape of your chin
    Like a sin wave clamped from -1 to 0
    Like the patterns of foam on the sea shore.

    Hey pretty girl
    It's driving me insane
    I wonder if you ever feel the same
    For me.
    I wish we were two dots in the number line
    Face to face, lost in each other's eyes.
    And when we kiss
    The world turns into a painting of Monet.

    Hey pretty girl
    You could have been a Roman Goddess
    But tonight I choose to make you my poetry
    Because I guess I have
    Fallen in love
    with
    you.

    - ronit
    #mirakee #pod #poetry

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    A phone call that never happened

    ( a poem written after Vict Molina)

    ©ronit

  • shatteredsoul 66w

    Dear,
    I've always loved you.
    But I render my love in open verse
    So it's not as apparent as a 4-4-4-2 Shakespearean sonnet.
    But trust me, it's always hard to hide
    When you smile,
    especially when you smile,
    when your chin makes that perfect U
    like a sin wave clamped from 0 to -1
    Like the foam line that stretches
    on the sea shore like a roller coaster
    and that's when my love feels like
    a dot product between two vectors
    where the result is sadly, below zero.
    So, let's imagine
    It's an evening
    The city looks like a painting of Monet
    where thousand cigarettes are lit up together.
    Me and you, we are stuck in the theory of duality,
    Tonight we are not two vectors in the dot product,
    we are dots in an one dimensional line.
    Face to face, lost in each other's eyes.
    So let's imagine,
    We are sitting in a California cafe
    The world is a painting of Hopper
    But hopper is so overrated tonight
    For your face, in my heart is like an Andy Warhol print.
    We are not in a pandemic but Shakespeare is still a costly drug,
    So, I read you John Donne instead.
    Stalin is so proud of his statue,
    Japan is about to surrender,
    But Truman would only listen to his mind,
    I look at your lips and wonder
    If Oppenheimer knew,
    lips placed between wrong lips
    would cause a bigger catastrophe
    than an atomic bomb.

    #writersnetwork #mirakee #pod
    By Ronit

    Read More

    We are not in a pandemic but Shakespeare is still a costly drug,
    So, I read you John Donne instead.

    ronit

  • shatteredsoul 93w

    1. Maa used to say,
    we capture the color of our favourite sunset in our hearts
    when it matches with someone, we fall in love
    But how do I explain you, with whom every sunset feels favourite.

    2. Forever is overrated
    Stay with me until the sunset changes
    from yellow to orange to red to nothingness.

    3. I've named the veins of my wrist after you
    Like the love stricken Kolkata
    carrying Shakespeare street and Mirza Ghalib road in her heart,
    Poets who never wrote for the city,
    The city who never got over the poets
    A tale of unrequited love.

    4. I played the piano backwards last night,
    As we were disentangling ourselves,
    going back to being strangers again,
    It sounded like the silence without you.

    5. Emptiness after you
    feels like the hanging cigarette smoke in a busy street.

    6. I've put spring flowers inside the refrigerator
    The world can't fathom the wounds on a heart
    so I show them the withered flowers instead.

    7. Ruddiopkfssuyrwsgfsthjikpphgdtjgkludsef
    Fhryhklllhvdsyuthjikhkloighkkhgrssryhhk
    when someone close leaves the house
    the entire house feels orderless
    like the last two lines,
    like this
    entire
    poem.

    #writersnetwork #mirakee #pod #poem #love #sadness
    @writersnetwork @mirakee

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    I've named the veins of my wrist after you
    Like the love stricken Kolkata
    carrying Shakespeare street and Mirza Ghalib road in her heart,
    Poets who never wrote for the city,
    The city who never got over the poets
    A tale of unrequited love.

    ronit

  • shatteredsoul 129w

    The night,
    we made love,
    you wanted to feel all my pain,
    between the gaps of your moans
    as i kept whispering my old lovers' names
    and handed you one of the knives that they had shoved in my heart
    you shoved it back in my chest, twisted it again.
    Because love,
    for you girl,
    is like a pinhole camera
    so my emotions
    flipped in your heart,
    clashed with your past
    like body scents in a crammed lift.
    In our life we either,
    suffocate in a gas chamber
    or turn our kitchen into one,
    So when you had pressed your lips against mine,
    I felt like I'm a survivor of the holocaust,
    learning to breathe again.
    But our love darling,
    is an evanescent one,
    like a week old vegetables
    in the fridge,
    or flowing ink turning lifeless
    to give life to someone's feelings.
    or a last second eye contact at the airport
    that says a harder goodbye
    than you can ever form with words.
    Now i walk zigzag on straight roads
    to count the stitches on my wounds.
    the knives are still in me, clanking,
    forming the perfect tune of goodbye
    that i could never whisper as you
    disappeared from my sight.

    -ronit

    #writersnetwork #mirakee #POD

    Read More

    Because love,
    for you girl,
    is like a pinhole camera
    so my emotions
    flipped in your heart,
    clashed with your past
    like body scents in a crammed lift.

    ©ronit

  • shatteredsoul 136w

    Now that you're gone,
    Our love looks like a failed attempt of Shakespeare.
    A crumpled paper, tossed out of the window
    we could be Romeo and Juliet
    but our love was too real to be on the stage of Globe,
    So we chose to burn down with the theatre itself.
    Now that you're gone,
    I'm a pair of gloomy eyes
    staring from East to the West of Berlin.
    There's no gigantic wall with checkpoints,
    Barbed wires, sirens and blazing guns.
    The wall is invisible and your old love letters aren't valuable enough to cross it.
    Yet I stand holding the papers, hoping for your wall to fall.
    Now that you're gone,
    I'm a child of Bukowski.
    I've chewed his poems and
    the Blue bird flutters in my rib cage,
    The goldfish stares blankly at the sky,
    Because today, I've a smile to remember.
    Now that you're gone,
    The night cafe doesn't look that ugly anymore.
    Green and Red aren't fighting anymore.
    And trust me darling,
    even Vincent would have slayed down his other ear
    to cherish a bit of presence of yours.

    - Ronit

    #writersnetwork #mirakee #POD #love #pain

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    And trust me darling,
    even Vincent would have slayed down his other ear
    to cherish a bit of presence of yours.

    (read caption)

    ©Ronit

  • shatteredsoul 165w

    Our last kiss was like
    a Boeing 737 meeting another
    face to face
    Lighting up the sky
    like Hindenburg did
    In its last flight.
    and the humans abandoned it forever.
    Because you see, we humans
    Can't afford flaws.
    And the left ones look like,
    The first draft of a heart broken poet,
    The streets of Kolkata
    Sliced by tram lines,
    An evening sky,
    Not the one that you see from a beach
    But the one, that you see through the gaps
    Of tin sheds and electric wires, from a slum.
    The left ones look like-
    Airport kisses,
    where the lips cherish the present
    and the heart wanders
    in the uncertainty of the future.
    Or like a blind follower of Nietzsche
    Standing at the slopes of Vesuvius.
    Like mother's food in your throat
    And a broken heart in your chest,
    Neither can you spit nor can you swallow.
    Or like someone who had slept
    with 18 persons on 18 different nights
    But felt only his lost home 18 times.
    Or like remnants of History
    Kept carefully in museums,
    Craving to die with the rest of the past.
    For the left ones have no names,
    They are just numbers,
    casualties in a war
    Called love.

    #mirakee #writersnetwork #poetry #pod

    Read More

    The left ones look like-
    Airport kisses,
    where the lips cherish the present
    and the heart wanders
    in the uncertainty of the future.
    Or like a blind follower of Nietzsche
    Standing at the slopes of Vesuvius.

    (Caption)
    ©Ronit

  • shatteredsoul 174w

    Little Things

    I wonder
    If Oppenheimer ever knew,
    Lips placed in the wrong places
    can cause larger destruction than a nuclear bomb,
    I realised when your lips met his.

    I had painted
    The Starry Night on your belly.
    you’ve left me long ago
    but the dried paint and brushes
    still smell like you.
    they’re in agony,
    they want Van Gogh’s death.

    The potholes of the streets of Kolkata are busy even in summer
    they’ve to gather all my tears.

    Sometimes I stare
    at the web of electrical wires
    they remind me of our fingers.

    They say
    if you hold your ear on the railway track
    you can hear the train, even before seeing it,
    I only hear your fading footsteps.

    I slept with the bartender
    who works at the nearby night club
    she has stretch marks on her thighs
    that reminded me of the marks
    that the waves of your memories created
    on the shore of my heart.

    You kiss me in my dreams,
    the next morning I look like
    the abandoned houses whose children are settled in abroad.

    Don’t try to locate yourself in my heart.
    The latitude and Longitude have turned into a knot.
    The knot that you’re going to tie with someone else.

    You should’ve left a clock in my heart.
    It still feels like I lost you yesterday.

    Sometimes I forget certain words.
    when I see you,
    I forget every word,
    every alphabet.
    My mind feels like it’s amidst a traffic jam,
    horns blare all around.
    The horns sound like
    ”I love you.”

    I find you in unexpected places,
    sometimes between the lyrics of cigarettes after sex,
    sometimes between the folds
    of the prescription given by my psychiatrist.

    I like sunsets now,
    the colours remind me
    of your dusky skin
    slowly melting on the edge of your lips.

    The GPS doesn't work
    When your love is lonely,
    there's no way out of someone's heart,
    I'm lost in you,
    without you,
    forever.

    #POD #writersnetwork #poem

    Read More

    I slept with the bartender
    who works at the nearby night club
    she has stretch marks on her thighs
    that reminded me of the marks
    that the waves of your memories created
    on the shore of my heart.

    (read caption)

    ©ronit

  • shatteredsoul 176w

    My heart
    Looks like
    a 9th-grade history book
    And the pages of Colonialism
    are perfectly bookmarked,
    because it mourns
    under the ruling of your memories
    since the day you had written
    “Et tu, Brute?” on your lips
    and had pressed it hard
    against mine.

    It mourns for our long lost love.
    And the mourning doesn’t look like
    long wintry nights or
    slow summer noons.
    It’s like the brush stroke of Van Gogh-
    short and rough.
    or, like the couplets of Ghalib-
    a sudden fall into the labyrinth of emotions.
    or, like the night club around the corner,
    drowned in EDM
    that craves for Tagore’s love songs.
    because love there tastes like
    tequila stained kisses
    and looks like geometrical shapes,
    that are made of humans who know how to moan fake.

    Because you see dear,
    the scars in my heart,
    Don’t look like
    colourful postcolonialism
    Frida Kahlo paintings.
    There's no rebel in here.
    I look like London after world wars -
    cold and mourning.
    I look like the confused tram lines
    lying on the modern Kolkata roads-
    reeking of history and mourning.
    You said that you had moved on
    three springs ago,
    but trust me, dear,
    I haven't learnt how to mourn for my old sins,
    don't expect me to embrace the spring,
    don't expect me to fall in love again.

    #writersnetwork #mirakee #POD #napowrimo

    Read More

    My heart
    Looks like
    a 9th-grade history book
    And the pages of Colonialism
    are perfectly bookmarked,
    because it mourns
    under the ruling of your memories
    since the day you had written
    “Et tu, Brute?” on your lips
    and had pressed it hard
    against mine.
    (Caption)


    ©ronit

  • shatteredsoul 187w

    English words,
    to my grandma
    were like a set of rules
    imposed upon women
    by the male dominated society.
    So whenever
    I used to read my poems to her
    she used to look into my eyes
    because poetry, to her,
    were written in two languages
    either happiness or sadness.

    My grandma had a habit
    of counting lost homes,
    and not stars.
    So whenever I used to
    whisper your name,
    she used to reminisce
    her home who came back in a box
    from 1962 Sino-Indian war,
    And she stood in front of his pyre,
    and pretended it to be
    a giant star, fallen on earth.

    I stand with 400,000 Soldiers at Dunkirk,
    They look at their home,
    and I, stare at you.
    The Germans aren’t hurling bombs tonight,
    But our memories,
    and the English Channel is red with our promises.
    This isn’t 1940 Battle of Dunkirk,
    This is more devastating, this is love,
    Because as my Grandma used to say,
    In war, you lose your home just once,
    In love you remain homeless forever.

    #writersnetwork #mirakee #POD #love #poem

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    Because as my Grandma used to say,
    In war, you lose your home just once,
    In love you remain homeless forever.
    (Read caption)


    ©ronit