She/her I love rainbows so I became one.��

Grid View
List View
  • shrutitripathi 2d

    Send me to the
    woods this time,
    not to the green ones
    but cold and dead
    and brown and black
    and pale and numb
    but breathing, like I do.

    To the woods with
    no friends or lover
    no weapon or
    shield to cover,
    to cover tenderness
    or anything like that,
    for I've given all I had,
    love and warmth left
    a breathing heart sad,
    that cried a lot,
    a lot to stop,
    transition from a home
    to that of a rock,
    and no,
    rock doesn't wishes
    for the dusky sun,
    or the joyous,
    familiar dawn of all,
    all it waits for is
    for the black, big,
    isolated woods,
    so take me there
    before comes the fall.

    -Shruti, home's waiting in the woods.

    Read More



  • shrutitripathi 3d

    I cannot write today but
    I want to write something.
    That's how I put my hand inside my soul
    to find and pull out something
    which I knew existed,
    but never knew what.
    It looks like - nothingness.
    What exactly nothingness looks like?
    Nothingness is blind and deaf
    with a mouth so full of words
    that it hardly comes out.
    It's just like a baby not just in my womb
    but everywhere, growing and growing
    and growing like chaos
    that sounds like death
    and looks like the
    most unlovable child of the family.
    And when I try to look at it,
    I feel it looking back at me everytime
    with it's naked body like the infant
    that finds home as an unknown location
    and lap as the home.
    I place it on my lap
    when the bodily figures around me
    are in their bed sleeping,
    sleeping just to get up another day
    doing same things.
    So same that they
    don't even look at their wrist watch.
    I wonder who's more mechanic,
    them or the time.
    So I look at nothingness
    and feed it with love.
    With its mouth on my chest
    that aches way too much
    for me to let go, so I stayed once.
    And "once" isn't getting over.
    It gets severe with every sunset.
    Sometimes even when the moon sets
    and all I look forward to is to kill.
    To kill Nothingness. Or to kill myself.
    I dislike it, the most most most unlovable child
    who's unloved but doesn't know, why.
    Who takes birth in me,
    in you, in all of us. For what?
    To make us taste grief and for itself
    to taste shame, ignorance, hatred, what not.
    And even if I take a knife to stab, or a bottle of poison to kill, or to push it off the
    top most floor
    or to dig the ground
    near the farthest door,
    for it to die before anyone hear it's cry
    or see the death taking place before it actually dies.
    But I cannot. I cannot kill it. For I am it's mother too, who never saw it, who couldn't hold it, who couldn't endure it, who couldn't see it or hear it or say anything about it or even give a name to it.
    For I'm it's mother whose heart licked
    the gushing grief even though it
    sounded like laughter outside.
    Heart was fooled.
    So fooled that even if it gets to hear
    "how have you been?"
    it replies back with a long love note that dies somewhere in the unknown location of the receiver. And nobody is going to find it out.
    Who looks for things that's gone
    until it arrives to one as a faded memory.
    Long love notes are written inside-out
    and sent to the unlovable child, to nothingness,
    that sits on the lap to read it when world is not watching, it reads with its eyes closed and mouth shut. It is chaotic and numb,
    chaos is it's expression and numbness is the reaction and that, that I get by now.
    It reads and fold it again into
    the smallest possible way and
    sticks it on it's tongue,
    as if my words are it's voice with a sound.
    A sound that it never gulped down its throat.
    It'd have died then. It knows.
    Nothingness tastes like nothing
    but have tasted everything.
    It stays with me, it's cruel mother
    who feeds it with pain, agony
    and grief most of the time,
    it stays for I accepted it since it
    took birth and received hatred.
    It knows I disliked it too at times
    for it sucked happiness off my chest but the soreness of my chest
    adapted because for it, there's no other home.
    And where do you go with the keys in pockets
    and wrong addresses in the hand?
    Nowhere. You just get lost.

    -Shruti, your kid looks like you, like Nothingness.��

    Read More



  • shrutitripathi 1w

    Days when you miss someone
    and do not wonder if they too do,
    or recall even
    or the last time they saw
    your message a month ago,
    and it's been a month of you waiting,
    but you're not upset or mad for this
    you smile, not happily but that's not sad,
    something that cannot be named
    to get identified by, or to get called back
    and you just breathe with this feel
    in your heart whose beat sounds
    like multiple sighs to get heard, held
    and eyes that do not cry, cannot cry
    but there's so much in it to see, to read,
    and all you do is - nothing.

    A feeling that's not love or hate
    and not half or complete
    and not pale or visible
    and not said or heard
    and not scared or brave
    and not empty or heavy
    and not - I don't know more.
    There's no name,
    There's no name of something
    that we always feel, always.

    So we look at the sky to make sure
    it is already looking at us, that it knows.
    Know what? Don't know, but something.
    And your mouth is full of questions
    for someone. Questions like-
    How are you? What's bothering you?
    I hope things are better,
    I hope they get better,
    I hope you heal.
    I hope you too hope for this.
    I hope you believe in kindness,
    I hope people try even more to
    not break a belief like this.
    Do you remember me?
    I do, sometimes.
    You remember me, you do,
    I'm sure. You do, right?
    I pray many times a day
    and I take your name in my prayers.
    I do. We do. We should do it.

    We don't have to be in love to love.
    We can do it just like that,
    just like waking up,
    just like breathing,
    There's no name for this, I'm glad.
    I don't know what this is,
    but this is beautiful enough for a living.

    -Shruti, we don't have to be in love to love.
    We can do it just like that. ��

    Read More



  • shrutitripathi 2w

    For all the voices and words
    with no sound or maybe sounds of
    everything felt, heard, but unidentified
    on dry tongues with dead taste bud
    that tastes like a plant on the soil
    waiting for the rain during cruel winters
    amidst pale woods sounding like
    some men buried under the ground
    with women outside, shouting to find,
    to become their saviour, to save,
    but they only knew the location of weapons
    and not how to use them.
    All the men buried were found dead.

    For all the sounds of sacrifices
    that have this language of nothingness
    which was heard by none
    seen by some
    with bullets in pockets to protect,
    but they kept their mouths shut
    with the gun.
    Liberty was owned by a party
    and given to some for free
    so they hold the power of taking it away
    whenever the right time comes.
    Mouth painted with blood
    and eyes saw it all
    with no tears, no apologies,
    but agony and beliefs.
    War was going on in the eyes of all.
    War was going to be a better construction
    after a great fall.

    They learnt to carry the weapons,
    decided to create a new location,
    where all wrongs die
    with no voices of sigh
    and the plant grows
    with the flower blooming,
    it learnt to look evergreen
    in seasons so dead and dry.
    War anyways didn't stop,
    war anyways is never stopping,
    all sins die and take birth again,
    with promises of peace, liberty,
    and all lies.
    Take the gun and the bullets
    in the pockets of clothes and not gender,
    to shoot the evil, to learn what's fair,
    to taste the win of everything that's right,
    for liberty is still whispered like a prayer.

    -Shruti, one can tuck flowers behind the ears and carry knives in the pockets with blood as a stone that got the lamenting sound.

    Read More



  • shrutitripathi 3w

    Flowers are plucked from their homes
    and leaves remain there to leave, to fall,
    one is in pain, another in agony,
    I wonder who tasted freedom first
    and how free they were after death's call.
    Was it death, maybe.. maybe not,
    no shoulders to carry, no grave to dig,
    for whom to cry when you don't know
    who this time is lost.

    Some dead flowers on the ground,
    and leaves when step on,
    how alive they sound,
    sounds of pain, loss, and cries,
    so numb, so dead, as if that too is life.
    What if that's life and not this?
    Which hands do you choose
    this time to kiss?
    what if you kiss the wrong hand
    and taste some poison,
    or if the kiss is right even,
    you chose to become one.

    With a flower tucked behind ears,
    eyes sunken like the sun in the ocean,
    some love on lips, so cold and dry
    to come out in words,
    your soul is tired and
    you still carry a sword.
    To kill, to heal,
    to show up something concealed,
    who's going to see, who's going to hear,
    life is so confusing to all, so much fear.

    Flowers are plucked
    and leaves have to fall,
    both of the ways are death
    depends on how life makes the call.

    -Shruti, never pluck flowers out of its home in the name of love because somewhere, someday, it is going to fall anyway.��

    Read More



  • shrutitripathi 5w

    The moon from my window,
    the girl lying dead,
    men being abusive,
    man's cry is a threat.
    The sun is out again,
    the market price is so high,
    someone orders food
    to eat half-heartedly
    meanwhile, I saw an
    empty stomach crying.
    The evening is beautiful though,
    probably bisexual for the dark and glow
    when shadows are longer than before,
    same is the route yet long is the way to home,


    Read More

    A sonnet.


  • shrutitripathi 8w

    Close your eyes again,
    again for maybe nth time now?
    Close because you
    don't want to see bad
    Close because you fail to
    identify what's good
    Close because you cannot
    find or create peace, and love,
    and hope, and faith.
    Close because, no,
    just close, as you should.

    Cry for one more night,
    curse the night for
    not waiting for the morning,
    curse the morning for
    staying way too long.
    because O you poor heart,
    you just cannot let anyone
    and anything stay,
    you never knew you're blind,
    so blind to find stars in day.

    How many more songs to play,
    with this damaged headphones
    you carry like your crown, a crown
    just to ignore the mad crowd?
    What song do you listen to?
    Where do you find yourself?
    In which verse, in which tone or line?
    You liar, you liar, you liar
    telling everyone how you breathing happily
    in a world so fine.

    Who expects a sad poem from a clown,
    not even you, my damned soul,
    for what purpose you're here,
    What you are playin' is not your role.
    Who's in the poem that everyday you write,
    Who set the battle, who's here to fight?
    I heard multiple cries,
    it's definitely not just you,
    your problems are common
    in fact, the same with few.
    There's no solution,
    they said it's an illusion,
    life's an unhappy story
    and happiness, a hallucination.

    Someone said - you're not alone
    Why? Why? let me make it a home!
    staying together in shattered homes
    isn't safe, or happy, or a matter of pride,
    it's like a roof with no walls, no rooms,
    where everyone's lying, everyone's crying,
    indeed home is big but where to hide?

    Another evening, another sad poem
    I don't even know if it's called sad even.
    Isn't anything that's repeated
    becomes a habit you fail to recognise,
    like that of breathing, you don't know
    when you breathe and when you sigh.
    Come on, me, and you, and other few,
    let's tell everybody once again that
    nobody's alone, everyone's sad,
    there's a huge crowd together, going mad.
    No one's afraid, but everyone is in fear
    laughing their heart out, eyes full of tears.

    -Shruti, you're not here alone,
    there inside, is a huge crowd,
    yet no home.��

    Read More

    Close your eyes again.


  • shrutitripathi 8w

    Some mornings when I get up
    and avoid looking into a mirror
    and the moment I see it,
    I whisper apologies to the reflection
    so mad at me, so full of hate, and anger,
    so scary, and I never saw a pinch of love
    or any warm feel or anything that,
    that wants me to wake up another day.

    The eyes of my reflection in mornings
    like such, ain't home, no.
    It's a storm, a really mad storm
    so full of dust and drops
    that I wonder if it's crying or just angry.
    The lines on my head look
    like the lines on the hand,
    shrinking a little more every day.
    I step back, I step back
    because my reflection is, it is, scary.
    I hate it, I hate it for hating me.
    It hates me for loving,
    loving them who don't, just- don't.

    I step back.
    I'm not brave enough to hold it
    and beg it for not staying mad at me at least,
    because i cannot take so much.
    I've three pockets in my heart,
    three of the pockets are heavy,
    slipping down every time,
    pulling my heart with the weight
    and I sleep with my chest against my palm
    that said it does ache and I, i ignore it.

    I'm scared of loving,
    I'm scared of being loved.
    I'm scared of waking up another morning
    and whisper prayers for an easy death.
    I'm scared of telling brave stories to people
    and I'm scared of exposing
    the coward in me.
    I'm scared of the reflection,
    I'm scared of my shadow,
    I'm scared of people seeing me,
    I'm scared of everything I show.

    -Shruti, there's another morning to wake up.��

    Read More

    Some mornings when I get up.


  • shrutitripathi 10w

    On days when evening arrives a
    little earlier in my soul meanwhile
    I see the sky sunken in sun outside
    with clouds shielding the land
    which never knew the love of the cloud,
    and kept ignoring, living static,
    preserving roots of trees in it's heart, too deep.
    Too deep is the cut and the color of blood
    is colourless, and world paid zero justice to
    the cut and scars and pain of this unannounced war.
    Blood of the land was never blood but water.
    Maybe, maybe- the clouds knew this
    untold story of the land and was sure that the phase will pass and maybe this made them keep moving,
    shielding the land that never looked up
    to understand the shadow of its lover
    that has some appearance too.

    On days when night arrives little earlier
    with the plans of staying longer
    for the day to get more time to sleep,
    to rest, to breathe.
    I feel the day within my heart
    burning, burning till I scream out to
    trace voice of agony and pain and hatred
    and what comes out is nothing but a
    pale, dead silence, which in air gets evaporated,
    and welcomes the unwanted arrival of the rainfall
    which falls on my paper in a sound of poetry
    and I swear I have heard my poems shouting.
    I wonder why people read other's poetry
    and find a home in it, to live in,
    meanwhile my own poems disowned me.
    So i dwell into poems of others
    that's not a home..
    but who cares what a home looks like
    when the storm is within.
    Anyways a storm one day shall pass.

    On days when nothing feels right
    and you don't know how to explain
    and understand and make others do the same,
    you forget to weigh the pain
    because the weight of carrying it
    on tongue, via words, from a dead throat
    to blow it into ears and hearts of others
    is way too difficult to think even,
    implementing is wholly a different story.
    So you decide, no, you assume it's just a phase
    and a phase too shall pass,
    even though you know it doesn't pass..
    it just hides sometimes in your
    pseudo laughter, and words, and other actions.
    You named it a phase
    to lie, lie that -
    this too shall pass.
    this too shall pass.
    And with every passing day
    you saw it becoming your own part.

    --"Shruti, what makes you write sad poems?"
    "oh that's something-"
    "something that shall always pass."��

    Read More

    This too shall pass.


  • shrutitripathi 11w

    I've been unlearning everything
    that feels heavy but is still empty
    putting my hand up in the air
    letting it hang there for a while,
    O, hand, a land of vacancy
    in any cold island probably,
    which isn't seen or heard
    or touched or tasted,
    but it exists, the cold land,
    not me but eyes have felt it.

    I count more and more lines
    and the counting goes wrong every time
    as if, as if those were made only
    to get mistakenly identified, acknowledged,
    ignored, forgotten, forgiven..
    forgiven for something that feels like
    any fault but actually is not.
    Taking a deep breath,
    no, swallowing it,
    if I be more honest today,
    to see how many times more do
    we've to swallow some air again and again
    with every breathing that's out
    sounding like a moment gone in vain.

    I let one hand hold the other,
    one cold as father,
    another warm as mother,
    both ultimately ends up burning,
    no fire I swear, I've smelt ashes but,
    and eyes decided to deny-
    to put the invisible fire off
    because it fears of becoming a desert,
    in a body so cold where blankets
    are sold outside in the market to earn,
    to earn a living and to live like any dead.

    I hate it. I hate it. And I hate to hate it.
    Ask me what I hate and I have no answer.
    Ask me what I love and
    everything is my answer.
    Yet I feel cold,
    homeless in a house of people,
    there's an ocean within me
    with the warnings of tsunami
    and destruction all the time,
    and I made it look like a river,
    letting it get flooded, letting it get dried.
    I hate breathing, but I live lying,
    waiting for some sort of death
    where I don't feel like dying.

    -Shruti, you turned into a good liar where no lies is a loss for anyone, anyone else except for you.��

    Read More