I've had gazed at the skies, moon or nature in the past many a times, but the first time I really ever noticed the sky, saw the colours in flowers and felt them imbuing into my soul, was two winters ago when a shy sunshine crept in my sky. It was the first time I really ever felt noticed. I've had been complimented in the past, loved people, been liked by people, but the sky this sweet wildflower had brought me was unmatchable with what I've felt all my entire life. The first time I really felt loved by another person genuinely, that too without any iffs, buts, reasons, and consequences. This feeling both liberated me as well as caged me.
Certain lines might be not okay with some people. But that's the way it's supposed to be. Everyone's different. Everyone has different perspective, everyone has gone through different circumstances, grown up in different environment with different people. We're eternally learning new things. #learning
We are in the ocean of love crippled with the fear of drowning and desiring to taste the waters expecting it to be our favourite drink, not knowing everyone tastes it different.
Some tightly clutching paper boats of their childhoods against their bosoms, some blindfolded after the trauma of abusive relationship of their parents , some with their hands tied, and some holding hands of their co-passenger and some deliberately jumping into the waves and some waiting eternally for their dream lover to arrive in yachts and swim them away.
The ebbs and tides raft two lovers but sometimes they become the reason to break them apart.
Like half crumpled paper and a fistful of mayhem of undone beliefs: love unfolds from a dull constellation of unaligned fate and still typing keyboard into a universe of backspaced confessions and 'happily ever after' endings.
The soft haunting voice of Phoebe Bridgers sings you to a melancholic sleep and I lay awake reading Plath's bell jar and staring at Van Gogh's starry night; searching for Woolf's lighthouse; the background plays Hemingway's speech and in my dreams I kill myself like I do everytime, only to wake up.
Why do writers kill themselves? Perhaps only time shall show me.
Timid wind blows your hair from your smile, and we both crouch laughing our hearts out, unaware of the slithering time making its way towards us, past the memories, nature plays a nostalgic classic jazz blended with pop for us to dance our heads on each other's shoulders against the soft moonlight falling on each other's face.
Dementia is way too hard too deal with, it'll be hard but I promise to stay even if our memories disappear and love leaves our home.
Like falling leaves on a windy days, our memories are slipping from the webspace of our hards against the bare ground, filled with lava, like that from our childhood games.
Longing and loneliness swing like a pendulum & an introspective violin piece; we never realised: love was never really the ocean, it wasn't just limited the ocean, but the whole shorelines, skylines subtly infuriating sometimes setting the clouds aflame with her hues, and sometimes crying aloud reminiscing over sacred vow she made to the land that got submerged beneath the mighty oceans like a forgotten secret; the changing seasons; stories that we shared— it wasn't limited to romantic partners and romanticising existence, but the little joy in ordinary things which makes us extraordinary; jokes and laughs and food that you share, the way you make someone smile, laying on the grass, walking barefoot, writing poems, complimenting a random stranger, confessing things you were too afraid to, the whole universe, including your existential crisis and not wanting to exist anymore, you existing, crying for your loved ones, remembering them through memories and stories.
Let me stay for a little while and not write any poems, let me gaze at you, a masterpiece in making, save me not because you're the catastrophe I've been waiting for my entire life and the one I'll like to trade my life for.
- Sunshower 18 November '21
P.S. after long trying my hand at long proses. P.P.S - TS reference
Tw: fiction Some sentences might have been inked under the influence of some provocative songs.
"And now that I'm without your kisses I'll be needing stitches" - Stitches, Shawn Mendes
A choking metaphor finds a way To seep between her bones to enter Her poems once in a while, Here and there, ringing a cataclysm, Leaving cathartic musings, Stained time loops And nihilistic reverberation, It all starts with a flicker, a matchstick, Contributing a conflagration to a Larger part of her hands and mind, The fire ain't enough to warm her Frozen breaths, or powerful enough To plant penelopes in her Cracked heart; Clutching onto words Reeking of aestheticism, echoing soft past, She's a crossover of September sonnet And a jinxed June She's searching for a hand That'd spell back f o r e v e r on her palm, But all she can do is put a tired smile, Because when she closes her eyes, All she sees is that face and feel the hand On hers, For whom she once wrote scores of love poems, He was a shy wallflower, and she, a chirpy leucanthemum, She has a kinship with sunflowers and heathers, Whilst she wanders with daffodils, When they ask her about her home, She blows away dandelions petals, Lately she is wearing a pinafore And flared blue jeans, Working day and night in rural fields, Occasionally during a sunset, She grasps for a moment To convert it into a gasping haiku; Tendering the sheep, shearing the yarn, To stitch tilted smiles on her sleeves, Which has been to wars uncountable With herself and the world and her love; Her skin is a beautiful artwork Of battlefields she has been part of; As a souvenir of her endurance Her forehead is creased with waves, A faithful smile always lingering on Her pretty lips, she hopes to dust kindness On surfaces her feet trudge upon, Her soul is a triptych depicting Conflicting perception about love, Family and identity, Trickling drops of rain takes shape of a rainbow In the bleeding sky, Camouflaged with courage and hope, Falling over her face as tears She is too afraid to shed, A constant conflict between saying and Caring too much– keeps her on her toes, When I catch a glance of her heart, I wonder whether he'd have fallen in love h a r d e r with her if he'd met her before me Combustible heartbeats of ours Mush into a dough of silence My words lie often only upon the paper For my tongue can utter Only what my mind considers true I wish for an eternity Drenched in seclusion I wish upon a shooting star To fade away like her, far I have a loose grip But good instincts I'm searching for a moment Only mine to call, Mine to own, It's all only a thought, until the metaphors Overpower my worth and existence, I'm driving the car, To get my driver's license, Only to wake up From this dreamy reality.
I am learning to string the vermillion sunsets and Mumbai's lavender skylines in fragments of debonair vocabulary and poetic devices to festoon it around my collarbones where I hide the "original to some extent" version of my persona.
I am learning not to steal "the reason of breathing for one more day" from that 7 years old ligneous photo frame on my maroon wall where I gave birth to my first poetry. I am learning to wear some divergent hues of imageries by T.S Eliot, to escape the tenebrosity of reality.
I am learning to disappear because it hurts to be so different, it hurts to be a poet.
In sorrow's resign , in pleasure's hour he trailed his hand down my spine Slowly intertwining his darkness with mine and painted the whole city with messy strokes of grey rainbows . How long are they gonna last ?
In midnight's shroud, under moon less sky She painted his neck with violet marks Patiently waiting to be noticed By judges and butchers, who live to remark How long are they gonna last ?
Little love with feathery envelopes circled us as his lips licked the hellish-heaven between her thighs and they heard stars sing "they belong to each other". She heard Joseph Plunkett say you know even he heard them last May .
How long they are gonna last ?
A train of thoughts departed my mind When her tongue searched for love in my dark streets My restless soul found a place to crumble down with words written on walls of that creek Words that read " he's mine " How long are they gonna last ?
Warning among the folds, and the frozen hold , His sparkly digits pierced right into my soul through a suffocating galaxy of pearls and circling around he whispered "Sometime I wonder if you loved everyone like me " And i swallowed scrolls of fire that burned in his heart and sang back "No I never loved someone like you " How long it's gonna last ?
Weight on my heart crushed down the remaining pieces When I looked at that pine and that bench and the solitude Where she sat impatiently, looking at the same trees Trees that witnessed the big bang, the apocalypse I wondered if those tears were of sadness or conformity Confirming the bruised chassis of uncertainty The same question from a rugged past How long? How long are they gonna last ?