Another day and I wake up to the pitter - patter sound of rain. The bed bugs are still resting, for the folds, I made last night on my bedsheet are still prominent . Behind the curtains, I fear the sun is playing hide and seek, just to be a perfectionist in trapping my imperfections. And no where but here today the cuckoo is mocking at me seeing the pastels of grey clouds, knowing not where has it come from.
Those pink barbies still crave for blues( Society mocked
at those boys who loved pink)
(In this piece, Blue is referred to as a boy , and the
poems in between the para are written by me)
My every date went awesome without that colour.I
believed that the sky has been cursed bereft of any pink
shades,crying over her own fate, what would you think is
just a flood.
I've been nurtured saying: " "
But both pink and hot wheels are just two nouns right?
despite of any caste, creed and Sexual discrimination!
Blue loved wearing pink hair pins and the polaroid on the
walls of his room reflected perfect oxymorons. The
neighbouring barbie dolls peeped through the glass
windows into his room got jealous seeing Blue playing
with those pink dolls ,they also wanted Blue to play with
Those wild spider mums wait eagerly to get
circumscribed round his head but the roses wilt seeing Blue
in fear of mocking society .Even the scattered petals of
asters in the Graffiti pots once promised Blue to answer
to his every questions now if Blue asks them "why
others laugh at me when I put lipstick ?" They soon
turned into a post-apocalyptic dystopia .
In the day break elysian consciences kiss him leaving
back a puddle of ataraxia on his cheeks.
And the flag of our socially Darwinistic world soares high
in his midnight querencia when he secretly paints his lips
Society mocked at Blue,when he bravely said ,he is in
love with another Blue.
Society made him weaker than ever, and now when his
heart asks him about his feelings Blue says ~
This is for you Mir (@myrrhc) . I know I can't comprehend what you are going through, but it's bothering me too somehow........ Get back soon.... I'll be waiting to have cupcakes and cookies with you. Meg loves you ♡
Her rusted hair pins like a cappella of baritone hues in the wooden hollow along with other small fallen buttons, a piece of thread, still shines the best out of all .
Those woollen crocheted sweaters won't fit in anymore, still she prefers narrating me a fable under the blanket in winter nights. I have never asked her anyday why she passionately paints her nails in ebony and secretly tries my Fuschia shade on her lips.
She smiles over her folds and caresses them , for she is happy to make separate colonies on her wrinkled skin for "him" may be as grandpa conquered the whole territory of her heart. I don't laugh at her strange malapropism or else I would miss the chance then to draw points how to be better than perfect and in hiding her bruises probably "him" she was a complete Paragon .
She sits with paper balls to save the moths from the lizards on the wall and if it happens to be her favourite pin instead by a mere fault her gaze sets into a long term oblivion . Every time I sleep beside her she never forgets to leave a puddle of saliva on my dimpled cheeks, and then I wonder whom she loves the most.
On every weekend until the ice cream melts in porcelain bowls and until the choco chips get lolled on the brim of hot tea cups she will try different hairstyles out of her grey strands. Her teeth aren't red in tobacco although I find her nurturing poppies than those roses in the pots, she is well choreographed in wrapping betel nuts in two- three leaves and even if her pains slips off her mouth , it will never be "his" name that may create a dull thud.
And unconsciously, she runs, in between the knitted fabrics those pointed needles, to the roads where she refrained a sunflower from blooming at the cynosure, where her lost dalliance may keeps on patting her soft toes. Drops then get closely arranged in her folds, I dare not wipe those out as she might be enjoying her fika in an abditory.
Old memories creep through the walls and all over my legs back then she used to make me forget the red marks of those ants and and wiped my tears over broken dolls . I also get started like her, not to wipe but // : — — - — — — — .//(~)
Some colourful rubber bands and a ring she tries on fitting those round her pinky finger one after another and if I ever throw a "WH" shuttlecock she will pass it into a tacenda as if she tries to rate her as a biggest flâneur .
I often notice upon the wall clock in her room, it shows a perfect timing only two times a day and the rest of the day the hands rest over the same place.Wonder how? The clock hands has been stuck at 7:30 , only at 7:30 in the morn and at 7:30 in the eve an office going chap will not be misguided anyhow.
I won't compel her to say who was "he" but the dandelions and the poppies would blame me someday when only the flowers will smell like her on this earth.
"If sky was a sea, we would have swam more dreams than we see the clouds". I had never doubted the sky even after listening to 'the sky is falling' but maybe I ironically existed to only day dream about 'thousand reasons why would it be' and if I had to convince the sky, I would say, "you don't have to drown me in, I am already a cloud floating, but I hope to capsize soon into your blues" so I keep finding shapes in them like a toddler and finding meanings like an adult. But that evening, a little in me changed, that was the first time, I stared the life into a falling raindrop, slipping miserably from my palms and I looked above the black and gray clouds to only find a sky that was so clear, the winds breezing through the jacket, stopped in the slits and pockets where I always covered the cold fingers. Every morning sky, where the wrinkled bed sheets, where the half filled jug, where the repeated songs, dominated me, she opened the door to the green grasses that waited for my barefooted walk, where the dew drops waited to heal the cracked feet, where her bangles rung the alarm and where the sun rose in my bedroom upon my eyelid, She changed 'the arm chair sleep' into sound snores and 'afternoon unbearable sky' into her shadows that played in me, every afternoon where my unread book was left opened, where the lunch never filled the stomach, where the TV turned blank, she always found an excuse to search the 'me'. She never hesitated to hold the story book for me to find a child in me, she knew the dusk's purple and reddish sky had him color blinded but she knows how to let him see the colors, she knows the biggest fear in me was when the sky turned black again, he will shiver for all the grays. So she never stopped me talking to the walls, instead she let me count the stars where I was left behind holding someone's finger who taught me how to walk and I would today say, 'you changed the skies I had once seen'.
'Now I only the see the fluffy clouds, Romanticizing the shapes we see together'
Greetings Dear redolent souls ! Hope everyone is doing well.
Warm Wishes on Mother's Day. Heartfelt Gratitude #HappyMothersDay --------------------------------------------------------- *Blooming child or fading youth Mother's eternal love never stops to soothe.*