Remember how we used to say that we wished we had grown up together, went to same school and college, well today I wish I could just meet you one day to tell you how important you are in my life. Today I thank each trouble that bothered me and each palisade that I tried to cross. Because it always led me to you and you were the one who helped me overcome that. Thankyou for being my friend ❤️ Stay the same Tooba ❤️ Sarangae ❤️
I might become a butterfly in the next life, so that I could care so much less and live just being proud of my tiny wings, similiar or different from others, and I would still be colorful at the end of it.
I might grow into a tree in another life, towering over the forest to be the shade that protects my home until I get chopped off by the hands of a tomorrow, and I would still look formidable to the creepers.
I might pour down as the rain in my third life, shapeshifting into snowfall, hail or sleet, expressing every inch of myself to the world watching me plummet, and I would still not be judged for doing so.
I might spread like the sky or the sea in many more lives, so that none can gauge the extend to which I can go, drifting away from what I was to what I am, and I would still have the infinite freedom that is not bargained.
But, Why do I hate this life so much, that I yearn for another ? The scars on my pale skin whimpers blaming the limbs, the eyes, the face and that broken heart, terrified if this human life can take anymore of this trauma.
And that's when I asked myself. "Would you trade a thousand lives to see how this one might end for you ?" Strangely, I felt my pain whispering YES.
I have forgotten how to write a poem. How does it begin and end when you are only familiar with the broken part of a story. Find me a word, one that fits so well between the silence you adorn when the snow starts to fall. Maybe that's how you start, from the middle, the one winter when you fell for the snow.
Then it flows one word after another, like moments that fell in tune with the wind when you gently opened the windows to welcome the cold. Every other winter before becomes irrelevant; mere bitter winds that fell numb on your skin. How many fallen winters did it take you to fall in love with the way the cold feels against your bare skin?
Life blooms from out of nowhere amid the frozen desolation of all the fallen seasons of irrelevance; and from the middle of the story, a poem is born.
when the final snow sinks into the ground, the poem disappears as if it was never meant to stay. You sit beside the open window, gazing at the setting sun as it burns the words inked too deep inside your skin. Perhaps that's how it ends, when things that were never meant to stay become a remembrance burned too deep inside your skin.
hiding behind sunday church, little slippers making sound in the dead street, where no butterfly dances in merry. in the evening walking through the shores, fish caught into nets show life stuck in death, as if seeing their own life, young hearts get scared. warm violet hues of sky drift into blank space, as stars don't shine anymore.
sunflowers tucked in tiny fists, whilst, carefully holding onto cupcakes, standing in front of the grave of a familiar old soul, offering the lost shadows a bite. giggles messed up between sobs, as earth shook everywhere. world left in voids of dormancy try not to break through time. yet, some childhoods still stuck in time, don't get to break through and complete that stage of life cycle. real-time blooming souls find tough to believe their homies; scared to open up about anything and everything. scared to be judged and punished. adamant to lie and hide, they find answers from outer world and niches, that do not either accept nor consider tears and hard times. their own dreams ready to pierce those little brains with questions and answers. museums held arts of contemporary outcomes, unknown to their cotton candy souls, hold onto references of petitioner, who requests peace through fight. still, recovering from the wounds and scars of inner child, they run in the same circle/wheel of life.
stamps collected from postcards, flowers secured in books, money or old notes and coins left in the drawer, all are mere memories in the old home. towns rushed into metropolis, cosmopolitan monthly issues of magazines replace 5pm play along the greenery.
moonchild stuck in abyss, adamant to break easter eggs, searching for goodness in the brutal space, finds nothing but daydreams like "timelapse" to enter a stage without proper growth in stages.
while some souls found solace in adulthood, their counterparts dwelling in dreams, portraying parallel universe, still fighting in wars, famines, natural calamities, search for a proper childhood with less of cloudbursts or storms and more of spring and sunshines.