I'm watching the gray clouds overpower the enormous sky, and all I can think is that, the world is beautiful with all its gloominess. If it wasn't for the gray clouds, I wouldn't have wondered about the world, and contemplated my life. With a sad surrounding comes sad thoughts, and the world has always been sad, all the dead poets were sad and so are we while living, breathing and writing. I deeply breath in the brumal winds that hit my skin, and the winds hit my fragile heart, making me a fierce poet with mindless miseries and metaphors. I have always questioned a writer's obsession with nature and the world, a writer always in an existential crisis, a writer so ordinary yet distinguishable, a writer with a heart beating like no other, a writer who is friends with many mortals and yet questioning morality, a writer who is unknown to himself, a writer ignorant of his own self. The hours before I write or rather lament, I think of the time when I first fell in love with a boy- who was miles away from me- and I feel myself smiling and I also feel my heart weeping blood. And my momentary relaxation gets crushed by the realisation of how much of a fool I was for falling for someone so unreachable. From then on, I keep telling myself- that when we fall for someone, we should fall for someone who is reachable and someone who reciprocates. I will always get hurt though, I will meet people who are unreachable, and I will have to be with them. I will meet people who don't reciprocate, but I will have to keep expressing and giving, hoping they will hear my internal shrieks. But, I assume, that's how people and life work- screaming internally hoping for someone or the Gods to hear their cries, reaching their hands out in the darkness hoping that someone will hold on. The hours after I write, I feel as if sharp and long claws of an animal are ripping my heart apart, and my soul- my poor and alabaster soul- sits in the corner, cowering away from the havoc, thinking the animal is no one but my fading love and a stained childhood.
I felt it in the pit of my stomach, I felt it crawling under my skin, and I felt it in my heart, when you left without a word. Was it because I don't deserve your last words, or was it because you were coming down from your high of being so happy that you forgot a sad girl like me, or was it because you were simply happy to get away from me. There are many questions, swirling and swaying at the back of my head, and I know my heart, my poor and stupid heart won't be able to take your answers, because my heart would like to live in a house of no affairs, afflictions and affections. But there was something in the cold air, as if the small and suffocative room was screaming at me to stop you for few seconds, and ask you to stay for awhile, until my heart would feel brave enough to let you go. I can also remember, how you lingered in the room, just for few seconds, it was as if you were waiting for me to say something, but you and I both know, how I cannot amount to words, how I cannot speak words, but my pen can. And in that few seconds, I also felt the hurricane, thunder and butterflies in my stomach, I thought that something tragic was going to happen, I thought the ends of our different worlds would meet, and would make us a whole new different world. But you left without a word, and what is the world without words?
I found you In a flagrant alleyway Where the constellations In your strawberry scented elflock Sway to the sound of starts colliding
You carried a forlorn bliss On your shoulders Like a backpack of flustered nostalgia And once in a blue moon You unpack and rummage Through your flooded bag of yearnings And I always drench in Somber waters of your epiphany
Many a times I took you to A brazen land of zeal Where the stories of past in your eyes Unfolded with gleaming poems
For you, I camouflaged into nights of uthceare And rose back as mornings of weak kisses To soothe The laments you puked After consuming fulsome silence
Canopied beneath the azure sky, counting the endless stars, who owe no shine, lighting the whole sky, I was dipping in eternity, terrified of the abyss, epitome of ecstacy, not for the death, but of the love, death issues mortality, where, love slits through the ancient pain, detaches all of nothing.
Sings the heart, tales postponed! From every window to the sun, from every confluence to estuary, from every brokenness to the feeling of newness, brave enough, to banish the timidity, weaving through the years, the air breathed, the dawn raised, the words slipped and the ways mended.
The sky began to decay from horizon and my heart's already rotten into crimson peel of an Apple plum, its scars are up- rooted to bloom along the oasis in desert of a parched tongue.
Love costs all of me, nude emotions, flawed scars, glittered metaphors, hidden behind the bitterness of my past, kissing rawness, cheering birds who carry faded stars in their talons, once festooned by that moonless night.
I thought I needed battles to win love. Until love defeated me. I thought I fell in love, until love had risen me. I thought love was blind, until the horizon undraped it's blanket. I named love, suffering, until it ripped away my soul from the bondage of formalities. I thought love is sought out, until the eternal, internal love taught me the art of holding on was just by letting go.
Oh Ghalib! I'm raising storms under my skin but I don't wish to become a catastrophe soon, I want to romanticise hope to leave behind halcyon days when love speaks of miracles and not of aches left unfolded & cocooned.
When thy love arrived, I abandoned collecting the shooting scars, oozing out was thy love, all the stars, the nights, stilled in you, became mine. ~Vanshika and Purva
A Collab with my favourite and a talented writer here @mellow_wings ❤️❤️
DO NOT STAND AT MY GRAVE AND WEEP By Mary Elizabeth Frye
Do not stand at my grave and weep I am not there; I do not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow, I am the diamond glints on snow, I am the sun on ripened grain, I am the gentle autumn rain. When you awaken in the morning's hush I am the swift uplifting rush Of quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft stars that shine at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry, I am not there; I did not die.
So, this is personal but being sick for almost two months nearly made me go bald and I had to get a hair cut. It left me sentimental. @writersnetwork thank you for the repost and the ec. Ben adores you ♥️ #benecc
Twenty-six seasons of wintry indifference and Life begins feebly at the heart of a titanium wheelchair.
This must be solitude, I tell my wheelchair, as I sip the cheery red horizon of a fading sundown. This could be solitude but misery clings on my skin like an old dissatisfied lover, fearing rejection.
We take a roll down the hills, My wheelchair and I. And I wonder, should the sky come crashing and bury us six feet under, would I still have the clouds to crochet a shroud for me to sleep in?
Twenty-six seasons of grieving Autumn's fall and it took Death's frosty breath to jarr awake my bones. This must be freedom but my legs stay suspended mid-air and my knuckles pop under the weight of my apocalyptic percepience.
Twenty-six seasons of living in blindfold indifference and the unadulterated wind sits for the first time on the tip of my tongue. I crawl, lamefooted towards where the damp soil beckons, and feel, for the first time, life gurgling inside my bulging veins.
Thou reckoned up thy thenar-virgule refulgent to the idiosyncrasy of Arcady and vignetted the tapestried life with meritorious and surreptitious threadbare of nonpareil set of thirty-two teeth following with one hundred and thousand hair follicles
In upcoming evolutions maybe that zenith of being a perfectionist will be able to burgeon the Cacao blossoms on the crown of trees rather than finding home in those bole and boughs /This kind of perfectionism will be cryptic for their existence/
And those elliptical eclipses causing the contour of cosmos can be the continuum to old wives' tale and will comely thy flaws.
•The average human head has about 100,000 hairs with a similar number of hair follicles.