Miraquill
Maybe I'll never be who I wanted to be, maybe I'll never once sit again and feel enough to breathe out my lungs, and inhale everything that it means to be a human. The only part of my humanness I inhabit the most is uncertainty.
I feel lighter when he smiles, even through miles sleeping between us. I feel like I can live when a friend listens to my ramble, and tells me what makes her cry. A hope to find a newness, in a not-so-new city, I spend my nights in dreams often.
In this walk, tears seem to be falling, one wrong or right turn ahead. Everything changes, every moment, till the dead end settles in my heart. As long as I forgive myself with every step of the journey, I smile fine.
People are like leaves, when they fall from your tree, you can't ever pick them up the same. They become autumns, except in your memories. It's the strangest currency of your mind, the memory of someone, everyone, a smile, a word or two, a promise, a shared anxiety, something.
Life fades in weird ways. Magnifying and minimising through our lenses. I have sensed a wistful tinge in my lens, that never leaves, and it's painful, yet livable. I'm trying to find myself livable through these lenses.
I garden no grudge for anyone, inside these imperfect fences of my life. I hope everyone enjoys a good sip of tea every once in a while, with a good conversation maybe. I would only smile these days when I see smiles.
On those heavy monsoons of my heart, when I become the last anchor of each dream of mine, and the world sits sun dried on my fears, I fumble, I falter, I soak in the dreary thoughts, barely living. Maybe I'm not a vessel of hopes, I'm just a person of chance.
I will walk when I can, fall when I have to, and maybe that's enough. Maybe, if I keep walking, many eyes won't hold pity for me, when I close mine. Maybe I'd have danced enough and laughed enough, and loved enough. Maybe.
wisteria_
www.instagram.com/_wist_eria_/
Maybe writing mundane everyday things, is better than not writing at all. Sigh.
-
-
wisteria_
32w
Read MoreHaving the whole world settling peacefully beside your table and lamp, is a rare flickering feeling.
Rattle these bones, and dip my flesh in wist,
There ought to be a day one shows up to a mirror.
And the hammer cracks on glass,
Reflection is just the truest thing you shouldn't believe,
This world is a reflection on a passing lake.
You might still ask for a flood, when the eyes dry up,
There's always been a box of all wishes one buries,
And another picks up for a heavy legacy
And rotten beards growing arguments.
You never know where the hair loses its shade,
And you colour yourself in murk.
Roll over the hill, and brush against a rafflesia,
You shall smell half as dead,
As the saddest pebble on the shore
Or the person walking on a road,
As pretty as your gloom, as filthy as your worst fear.
Maybe a mountain would save one,
But empty pockets don't show you realities from top of the world, you must already see them.
You gotta bear many winds just after a rain,
To know the cold you feel,
And the cold that brings knees to cobbles.
Don't forget to breathe every silence,
Between the burns on your left arm,
One for every day, words didn't fall like honey,
No one is the only one with a knife under their pillow,
No one is the only one with no death wish.
You would hear chats on every corner of road,
And skeletons ready to bulge a grin.
The lights are what keep the monsters away,
Unless there are too many of them,
With you among too many people.
Words are only a maze, to say the things,
I'd rather vomit in a sink and forget.
I'm all the same and all too different,
Living a world to another,
Making up stories I'd never live.
Maybe I only write because I'm scared today. -
Let me write,
Before I forget how love felt,
Before I vow, to walk slow,
And walk past.
You packed me a diary,
Of sweet truthful lies,
You looked over them,
And had me smiling inside,
You held me,
Through the winds of night,
Waiting for our senses,
Fading into the dark.
Oh, we laughed,
And danced,
With curtains open,
And the world a little tipsy.
Let me write,
Before I forget,
How you came back
To kiss me,
On the chilly morning,
And I made you laugh.
We looked pretty together,
In the rays of sun,
A little late, a little better.
And through the musical dreams,
And the stars on my terrace,
Long back, when we sang along.
And today,
The same stars, sing back in the days.
We didn't walk on the road,
To find answers,
We knew them,
Long before we kissed.
I knew, I'd watch you leave,
And still I spun around,
Some tipsy steps,
In love.
Let me write imperfectly,
How I'll remember,
What it felt like, in love. -
In this small chamber of the world, and in the whole world created inside this stunted space, I sit and trade delusions like a yearning too close to reality. I build walls of words to hide behind, and peek sometimes, being seen remorsefully. It's the same over-expressed thought, and my pitiable mind rarely grows something new and beautiful now. What could I have expected from a mind kept, about a thousands miles from where a tree lives and some space to wander around is gifted.
I would write a poetry, but the bedsheets are pulled off from corners, and the dishes in my sink barely sing. And I curse the writer who wrote of pretty imaginations as I learn what people think his words meant, to please the examiner. Maybe I can write of curtains, but I want them changed, my new liking is aesthetically pleasing objects, so that I don't have enough time to own my thoughts. And maybe putting a mirror in front of myself, through writing is just self-condemnation.
When I was young, I read of a helpless woman, who called herself a bitch for a young undercooked love of hers. The man had kids with another woman, the man had lived many years further, as she lived the same day over and over. She meets him, and bitch inside of herself lurks slowly, wishing to hold him as soon as a word of affection is heralded. And she holds the bitch by scruff, pulling her back and putting her in place, a reeking chair of pining. He walks away, she walks away hating herself, for losing happiness, for losing any chance at love.
I was young and I related once. Though I learnt soon, obsession isn't love, it's distortions of thoughts and fantasies manifesting in unhealthy ways. It's a calling from within about bigger things that need attention, rather than the object of obsession. And the point of the above story was asking myself a question today. Am I still the bitch for yearning? I'm not unwise enough to obsess or claim to bloat myself in melancholy, for a love unreturned, a letter unanswered, a clean slate of feelings or a decision to leave behind the good, believing it's the right time.
So who am I, when I miss something that was present once, and gave me a breath of relief? Who am I, when I just yearn for the simpler times, that happened to fall in my lap, when words felt like the song of hearts sung equally well? Who am I, when I want something to sprout again, or a frail sapling to never die? Who am I, when I wish behind these empty doors, for something to walk inside, and ease a restless irk I don't understand yet? Something, not even a person, maybe even a book that would walk in, and see me as the person I am while writing this, as this person I seldom jut out as.
I wouldn't want to proceed with any condemnation and belittlement, even in my thought, for the sole acknowledgement of every warm embrace I laid upon my scars when they burned red from abuse. I am unable to hate myself anymore, thus calling upon a long hard earned sense of relief. But my question is unanswered, and just branches out further. If whoever I am to feel this, does this only make me humane, or does this make me someone in dire need of improvement?
Do you remember a delicacy you had, maybe all clattered in rawness, or beautifully placed in expertise, and when it hit your taste buds, in an accidental or anticipated manner, you registered it as something you'll cherish all your life? Knowing full well, being utterly aware of the good you had, while you had it. It had to end with every bite you took. And somehow you fail to find the same dish again, and it has been years, you have had too many foods, so many meals, some ever better. But how do you forget that one taste, which felt perfect when you felt it? How do you forget it?
I tell myself, I gotta live every next day for what new it brings to me. I gotta live everyday with same excitement and accept everything that falls my way. Yet, in the nights, as I mirror my thoughts in these words, I guess I just become a shabby old woman, who remembers vivid, her share of tastes she'll never taste again. Do I not glorify? How does one not glorify their puny existence? How can one live telling oneself, nothing important ever happened to them. Of course I romanticise what little I had, I gotta live. And somehow the little feels enough too. But how do I not miss it?
And for every answer that I, or you give yourself, letting go would be one of them. But letting go is something I'm still trying to analyse, I'll write about it when I have enough observations to make a point. But you can't shed off something from memory by choice, you can repress it, bury it, but you can cut a piece off. And those who demand letting go as the ultimate pay in kind, I can only ask how can one find the required courage to effectively execute the above mentioned 'let go', when what is to let go, is among the very very few things that made one feel alive in the first place?
If you say, in a hope of better future, or to ease a life wasted in yearning, I'd choose the latter. But for now, I feel emptied and will sign off. -
Seeing words on the other side of the road, I'm only confronted by my sheer inability to cross it. Maybe there wasn't any such thing as having words walk beside me, or any such thing as parting with them and watching them from a lonely corner as they sprout with other friends. Maybe it's just the unsettling discomfort of knowing I avoided my emotions for too long, that now if I try to write, I wouldn't know whether to start crying or run away again.
Though the tears didn't fall down easy this monsoon. I cried for a meagre argument and an old letter written by my sister, telling me she doesn't want to see me dead. I yearned for tears because maybe once if I'd cried a river, I could walk past it. Maybe, I don't cry, because I don't believe the hurt resting beside my pillow, maybe because I just sleep to the thought, that the words I say, will always be heard by the person I'm saying them to. And mind you, that's just denial.
You told me, "frustrations will take over our love, the way a cake rots when kept uneaten for too long." It's hard to imagine your face, it's blurring out inside my mind. But I hear your words, I feel our mishaps, I feel your smiles, I feel the ache of not being able to touch you, to pull down your mask and kiss you. I feel our words drying out this soon. I feel myself at the verge of not being able to see you the same. And any kind of transition from here seems too painful.
And freedom is fairly lonely in a new city, although with a sky that makes me want to smile loud. Strangers I met are pretty, and calming too, but they are strangers, they might not remember my name after the first meet. And maybe nobody says this, in early years of life that finding people is easy, waiting for a very few of them to turn into friends is slow and somewhat painful, and then leaving them with ambiguous fate of the so called friendship is a choking silent pain that pricks rare but strong.
Not trusting people has become my second nature, yet I stand far from a cynicism that would prevent me from even trying to find slightest comfort in an accidental conversation. I trust so smoothly that sometimes I think I don't trust at all. And amidst all this, being a human in oneself is such a complex condition. Evaluating myself on scales of productivity and measuring my efforts to secure a future, all these in a chaotic mind, that forgets to eat and exercise, that's who I become most days.
I wish, I wasn't sitting alone right now, but maybe I'm learning something. I just don't know what it is. I still carry the same fears with different names. I still sleep them into my nightmares. And waking up is a fairly funny thing. I don't enjoy the things I want to enjoy, and telling myself I have too little time feels unreal, till I have no time left. And once that happens, I don't know who I'll live as.
Some nights, I only ask myself, with a hint of optimism and a blot of uncertainty, how long before I tire myself, and surrender as a madwoman or a loser who couldn't learn the ways of living or equity markets or taxes. I tell myself I'll earn my retirement early, and hopefully by that time I'll be strong enough to leave behind everything worldly, and live for something that would count as a living without a doubt. But sometimes I ask myself, when that time comes, will I not be tired enough to live another day? -
wisteria_
46w
And it won't perhaps be wrong, a yearning to eat words, to let them slip inside my skin and hold me, I feel life depraved without having read a quote or a line, someone might have written in distress, but is now something that feeds me. What it feeds me is a questions I have been trying to find out through all my words.
It's been long since I sat with a writer, and heard him or her sing, not stories, but worlds, not pretentious lines, but the creeping pain. I miss my conversations of late nights, with my inability to be vulnerable enough to slumber, and someone's sheer ability to have written, years ago, a sentence that would soothe me and hold my hand.
What do we have for breakfast? A song by Plath about strawberry fields and an image of Lamott dancing through her life, filling my mind with her music, bird by bird. And a bit of Woolf's rhetorical uncertainty, that answers more questions for me than any conviction does.
And what even for the lunch? I'd skip some, lost in useless assignments and how I waste my life in drooling black ink on smirking white paper, and with all the chains around my hands, with the shame of not being an artist and not even knowing how to be one. My afternoons are jam-packed with regrets and motivations, to take another step away from being homeless beggar.
But supper is essential, how else would one get through the mellow torment of dark. And if a God still sits outside your window, like a philosopher once said, you wouldn't need any other monster. The gospels will be thrown at your face as the hypocrite hymns seep inside, and where would you take a shed then, tell me, in the arms of Bukowski, who hugged the road on a rainy night, with all the money and awards.
Don't you dare throw me love poetry, I'll lose my appetite. Your every distortion about how my eyelids stoop and what colour the light colours my cheeks, makes me feel naked, thoughtless, and insignificant. You better hear me out, before you talk of how I walk and how my hair sway. My hair are falling out of their follicles, my teeth are crooked, my skin is rough, and tears have made a home on my cheeks. I'm no muse for a love poem. Write me for my thoughts.
Throw me care and reassurance, I'll gobble that like a hungry dog. A woman's gotta live. But let me hold Eriksson, for all that what she wrote of roads reminds me of a humane part in me, I refute to accept. Let me cry some tears, for all the years, I have been my own fault. For all the people who won't recognise me anymore.
At last, give me some wisdom, someone speak the truth, of an arrest, and life lived inside a jail, tell me how I'm clinging onto everything but what does truly matter or someone sing me again how to distinguish melancholy from sadness and take a walk without looking for romantic pleasures of nature.
Tell me how to live my life. I have a morning to wake up to. And a life to live. -
Give me a word, and I'll pour my world out. I walk past my aches, to cry a little, here and there in silence. And when I can't sleep, I wonder about all the things I wouldn't know, and all the people I wouldn't be. I'm the same words, meanings evolving. I'm the same old, un-garnished, scattered, smelling like the mornings after a late night breakdown.
When you walk to the end of the road, do you do it to not meet the start again? How terrifying it is, that every thing you do is a sandcastle. I have been collecting memories and words, and sweet whispers, and perfect moments. A hug when held closer feels like an hour glass turned over, a hug when remembered is a little too less of a feeling.
My voice, adulterated with my fears, talks loud and foul. It talks with pride and pain. It talks, like a knife that stabs backwards. I should let go of illusions of happiness that I reached for and never found. I shouldn't find reasons, for who snatched a horizon from me and why. It was never mine to behold.
There's a crow smashing its head against my window every morning, like a past mistake, that tries to break its way into my head. I can't sleep. I'm never able to, until tired beyond the point of what ifs. Some words, if spoken too many times, become waning echoes, same words heard too many times, become comfortable ignorance. I wonder if I should have begged some people, or never met them at all.
You wouldn't know about life, if you didn't travel from dream to dream, hoping for mere peace, and a few bucks to fulfill your whims. I know those who run enough, and run further, stop and fear, and run better. The ones who live. The ones who try. The ones who tire. They are my sweet ambitions. And my biggest fears.
I wonder if the words I felt safe around, and bathed in like honey on pancake, and every soothing image of that, will they sour, and petrify, when I wake up late for the mornings, and my love would have left to conquer all the nothings and made up somethings of the world. I wouldn't hear morning lullabies to scare off the remaining monsters under my bed who don't leave with the dark.
What two people feel, when in company is subject to a lot of opinions and will. A bond isn't a matter of fate, it's more of a choice. And once the space between two, is held by the inability to feel compassion for what the other did in the rush of a feeling, it starts to decay. Your love and friendship, is just about how you can perceive the one in front of you.
You can be anyone you want. All the definitions of yourself you speak aloud, or in the corner of your bathroom. Who needs to know anyway, who needs to understand anyway. Your life is cycle of changing thoughts. But you do retain some amount of everything you ever felt strongly, and sometimes you choose not to let it play. Some are just too proud to be who they were. What if there were no skins to shed?
I wish you peace, and sleep. I wish myself the same. I'm just a clumsy amalgamation of ideas at night, trying to tell myself, some words when said too much, only make me look bad. It wouldn't matter to me, but it should now. Everything you do in life is a sandcastle, it is washed over by every person who chooses to forget your name. -
wisteria_
48w
Lately, I have been breaking down, tear by tear, and everything just spilled over. All those parts of me, all those words I collected, telling myself if I learn to use them, then maybe it'll feel better, maybe. All of them lie scattered. I screamed, and screamed, for nothing. I didn't know what I wanted, I just knew I didn't get it. I really didn't know what I wanted. It sure wasn't a face, it sure wasn't a song, it sure wasn't just a text.
My bed is dull grave at night, where it's all timid, timid thought, timid words, timid bawls. I lay here and there trying to laugh and cry. And these days it's hard to stop crying, and I'm trying to look for help. But the words don't help, questions don't help me, neither do people. And I stay here in my company, and it's difficult than before. Or maybe it's lesser difficult than a time before. But I know it's not easy.
I made a habit, of waking up and liking my life, or getting up and doing the things so that I wouldn't look back, and regret. I made a habit of becoming someone. And yet I placed some parts of me in the wrong places, again, wrong yearnings, again. Can yearning ever be right?
I don't know how to strip myself on paper and say things like I wanna die, because I don't know what that would mean either. I'm not very courageous. And I'm filled of questions. I always was. And I let them go, sometimes. Sometimes I hold on, and wait. Right now, it's difficult to do either.
When the eyes blur, the whole world blows up too. I'm waiting to hear my name and not cry. I'm looking for another swing to sit by, on some other park. I'm too used to where I live. Why is so hard to try, why is it so hard to live? It is for everyone, I know. But why. -
When we are at verge of a farewell, and the reasons to like each other's company have long faded away, will you promise to remember some things I did right, among all the things I did wrong, will you remember some of the happy moments, amidst all the times I had hurt you? No, I wouldn't ask for forgiveness. I know you'll forget me before that. But before you forget my name, will you promise to remember one good thing about me? I don't have anything more to ask for.
-
I was daydreaming in the night, imagining a few of those people sitting in front of me, who I'd actually say a damn thing to, a sentence that isn't made up, a sentence I didn't know would come out of me. And as I was going on with my confessions in front of people who probably won't even blink at my name in real, they were listening.
I talked about a song, "I fall in love just a little ol' little bit everyday with someone new..." I don't even like this song, but this song feels like that exact moment of realising you stepped on a thin ice sheet, and now it's all gonna shatter. All that you built, all that you pretended to be, it's all gonna come out, clear, and filthy. I don't know why I choose the words I choose.
This songs, especially the portrayal of this song, has a woman, walking across alleys, corridors, roads, places. She looks at people, the people who belong, people who are together. Those people might not even be friends or lovers, but they look like people who have people. And there she looks at them, and imagines herself with one of them, a little less alone, a little more together.
I have lived a large part of my life like that, in the corners, on the lonely benches, on the same roads I walked every day. Maybe that's where I'd bring a term loneliness, a philosophically defined, ill and over used term. The state of being at distance, from people or things, the state of maybe simply carrying one's weight by oneself.
There's loneliness so deep in the world, it can drown everything, everything that was ever made or done, and it's ironical how most things are indirectly an outcome of it. It's in something never talked about, never even considered. It's in thoughts, it's in dreams, it's in fears.
There are words and promises in the world. Maybe loneliness resides in the words that burst out in bits and pieces, and end with silence from the spectators. Is it better that way? Were you even supposed to spill out something? Would it do any good?
What does being understood even mean? Life is lived solitary, half of it being processed in your mind, half of it lived in your mind. There's grief beyond words, there's ache with no bound, there are things you can only cry about, or distract yourself from. Is it possible to understand someone? Maybe the most you can do is acknowledging, that you have been where they are, in the same helpless slavery of emotions, that you're quite trying to figure out yourself.
Where does one go then, to love or to God? To a compromise where you stay for the better and tell yourself the rest is something you deal with yourself? Or to a God that tells you how to live, what to eat, what to drink, who to kill, who to care for, a God who fucking tells you everything because you thought maybe it'll save you the pain of choice or uncertainty?
Where does one go, when the whole day squanders itself in trying to do one right thing, and saving yourself from it by living another life, feeling another world? Where does one go in the silence?
Somebody, who is wise, well maybe is, told me, the love that you give to yourself can make up for the imperfect love you receive? Heck, how'd you teach me love, when all I did was calculate my breaths, and everything that I received or gave? How'd you tell me love is more than familiarity, and tendency to be in a safe zone?
In adult life, there ain't no love, if love is beyond sin, there are only relationships. And no, I'd never say it's good or bad. I'd never comment on an almost necessity. You define love for yourself.
But what's intriguing about love is, they might ask you to make a list of things someone can love you for, which are not the things you can do for them. And my mind drops dead silent. What is one supposed to be loved for if not what one is doing for others? For godforsaken blasphemous thoughts, or for the hair glorified by movies and songs that sold you a cure for loneliness.
What reasons can one list to deserve love? And if it's as simple as, everybody who exists, deserves it, then why do people die a lot early of heartache than death?
And they talk me towards unconditional love for self. Should you love yourself because you are yourself and you have no other option? Or is self love a hope and belief in the better things you can be? Like the dramatic metamorphosis, which in case of humans never happens. Humans live their lives in transition state. Wanting to be something, and refuting to be someone that did them no good. And in this continuous switch, faltering to be everything that'll be a slow death of themselves. The transition.
And how do you understand yourself? How do you justify what you want and what you don't? How do you own your words and carry them on your skin? How do you tell yourself, all that could be done is done and it's okay to sit still? How do you know who you are, when you might only be a product of everything people around you talked about, in loud parties, in secret bedrooms, in chatty bunches? How to love what you see in the mirror?
Sometimes, I hate myself when I scream at my mom. I get angry for petty reasons, and lose compassion for the misery of her life, because I don't know about love, but I'm selfish and I like my whims satisfied. On a very few morally sound days, I realise all that I say and do wrong, and give myself a tag of humane. People tell me that's what everyone does. We make mistakes, hurt people, and apologize late or sometimes never.
Does this make me a cynic? Maybe not. I still push myself a lot, towards happiness and smiles, and love and care, and I know I sleep my nights alone, listening to music that keeps me from seeing myself for who I am. And I know that mostly every word that I type, might not be true, and might be something I invent, to ease myself.
There are good deeds I remember, that's the knot my world hangs on. There's a space for an imperfect humanity, and wee bit of goodness, and a lot less of eyerolls to the news.
But I don't remember this often. I remember the ticking of clock and how it scares me. And I know I'm going to be dead and forgotten and I probably have no valid reason to live a life of fear or unnecessary sadness. I know I can cover up my eyes and live. But somedays, time walks slower than I do, and I fear, I ache, and then I smile and lie.
I don't know how to start a conversation and where to end it. I just do so, the way loneliness sweeps in. The utter human condition. I envy people who scientifically feel lesser than others. I envy those who don't need to vomit to get through nights. I'm relieved for them too.
I'm gonna daydream before I sleep, and work tomorrow. It's a long life.
-
nightwriter_i
15w
Read MoreIn this present environment, with a round pillow under my back it's tough to come up with a thought or two. The exchange of lips is a serene moment. It's serene only when it's safe and respectful or when we look back we see black dots instead of roses. Drop down your chores and dive deep into this for two minutes. You are supposed to trace your fingers on the contours of a waist and pull her forward, worship her cheeks like your life depends on it. And she would lean forward if she wants to, and if she does, don't let her go for a good 5 minutes. Lift her butt up, choke her neck. Make her sit down and giggle all you want. It could be the last time, you could die tomorrow. You can keep your eyes closed, you can keep it open. There are red wires in eyeballs, those red wires come up when the eyes want to cry. This is a very suggestive text. I want to sound as real as Michelangelo did while sculpting bare hands on soft thighs.
And I wish I could write more on this.
I have got some work to do. Until then, read it twice.How to kiss.
-
thefoxisdead
20w
Read Morethere's a place,
there's a place :
we both have been
going;
if everything is exactly
as it seems,
can I be the footprints
to your snow ?
can I be the heels
that you would put on,
once you're ready to go ?
there's something
that you should know :
you're a surefire product
of cosmic wizardry;
and me,
me, I'm spending every day,
every hour, every minute,
every second
and whatever time it takes
for the most delicate hand
on the clock,
to move from one number
to the next one :
just to be next to you,
register every breath,
every time you look
towards me, or,
pull away :
I remember, everything,
I want to remember,
everything,
only with you,
everything,
only about you.
everything,
only about you,
like : how you always wanted
those freckles on your face,
how you used to
love the warmth,
the warmth of the meadows
on a bright, sunny day.
you're much magnificent,
once you lay down
in your red overalls,
the era of rest and relaxation
washes you away;
your fingertips are mine,
as much
as your heart is,
and, is it a coincidence
that all of my favourite dreams
revolve around you ?
you love the sun,
and I have never been
able to touch Daedalus,
let alone be his son :
but, I would gladly be
your winged creature,
your Icarus.
the sun sets slow,
slower, with you —
Evanie, my love,
you take me back
to my seventeenth,
and, by the time
we're back
to our twentieth again :
my words
would wash acrost,
the fane that your face is,
my poetries would meet you,
once the last digit
flips to two.
until then,
I love you.
©the_foxEvanie is back
-
whitewings
20w
Spotting you in the crowd that day
was like seeing my reflection in a mirror.
Someone as broken as me,
as tormented by life as me...
with similar troubles,
wounds and struggles.
But the image was inverted laterally.
You were dealing with your problems
in ways exactly opposite to me.
And although you were at a distance...
with a sea of people and places in between,
the idea that you existed somewhere,
made me feel less alone.
I felt heard
and my wounds felt seen.
That alone was enough
to give me hope and strength
to heal.
©whitewings -
nightwriter_i
22w
Read More
Everytime I have whispered something I have meant it. Vacant chairs scare me, the ones that are beside me and one that's in front. There is a place where I can never be alone. I feel stuck in this loop of information and everything that sucks me in is enabling it. There are some around who never wish better, and some leave to make it better. There is always this cycle of something never ending. It's like we live in a simulation where kids push and pull buttons to tap into our imagination. Paying bonuses when we act just like they want us to, luring us into believing that we are in control of our lives.
We all have this tendency to feel important, I visit bookstores on Sundays, mainly Oxford. I sit there in desolation as if waiting for something to happen, with my eyes moored to the printed designs that speak, I almost forget everything that goes around. One such day I met this woman who was hurrying her way towards the cafeteria and almost slipped infront of me. She grabbed my left shoulder and sat down beside me, wondering what's going on, I asked if she was okay. She looked at me and and asked if she is looking beautiful. I said "yeah mam, you do, what happened?". She was wearing a black saree with white polka dots and she was actually very pretty. She told me that she was waiting for her boyfriend, whom she hasn't seen in 2 years. And that she wanted to look beautiful today. I smiled and answered that you are really pretty and he is really lucky to have you. She got up smiled and left, then she came back with a rose in her hand and a man standing beside her. She gave me the rose and told me that I made her day. It was so wholesome and so inexplicable that I couldn't stand for an hour. I sat there, waiting for the evening to pass by.
If a bunch of kids were controlling me that day, I am grateful to them. Everytime I have whispered something I have meant it and under my breath I still speak as I write.
I just want to pass by, happily. Even when trouble comes I want to pass by without a fuss, even when there's a fuss I want to pass by with tight clench and stiff shoulders, but I just want to pass by. If there's a loop, please be gentle, I don't want to pluck your eyes out and make you blind, I just want to pass by your side glances and assert what I mean.
I mean that I just want to pass by. And if I don't, then sit down with me, I have something to tell you that next time "I'll pass by".I wonder what makes me tap on the pavement rigoursly, while waiting for a sight. I am still looking for something at places I had cried.
I am looking for a smile.
©nightwriter_i -
pen_and_paper
24w
Under pressure (things I couldn't ignore)
Bomb cell bomb gas vents under pressure.
I don't close the lid of septic tanks
and soak pits till I don't provide any.
I don't cry out loud under pressure.
Till I don't find any reason to.
I've heard it all before.
Nib flowing enough then stops,
graph of anthropophobia drops.
The kids aren't alright.
They're heavy of overrated dreams,
human infection deadliest of em all.
It's a pale horse named death.
Coffinated and caffienated drinks help a lot,
these days, ink doesn't.
©pen_and_paper -
Panic Architecture
you’re a cold affair today
and incidentally i’m without a jacket,
but i’m standing over a glistening wok
with a quiet cook oversalting the eggs,
i mustn’t stop the flow of his clockwork
but i’ll wait for the merry men to leave,
for whom hot food only satiates hunger,
and i’ll watch his apron save him again
when there’s no answer
from the number on the argon advert
and the sinews of his heart shred
with the loud thunder
of a moth caught in a repellent.
my eyes can’t adjust to the dark
so i hear pensioners coddling an obituary
second of the two times that they felt love,
if i was blessed with words, I’d say,
the first was like the singeing of your finger
stopping my match in its tracks
and the rain felt like blood from an open skull,
the residual taste of death and a kiss
and a drop circling around your silhouette
my vision tells me to shatter, quickly,
because the blankets that have seen you
won’t let me sleep.
there’s a quiet aisle at the mall bookstore
where great men belittle my prose,
i lie there, nursing the nausea of my panic,
If tomorrow,
I find myself on the wrong side of a car
only upturned as I am now,
the chandelier high above, now a headlight,
a blurry image of us, leaving together,
on a happier trail of congealed asphalt.
©sagnik_sarma -
___7___
25w
Sincerity has gotten the better of you,
no one's talking, who are you listening to!
Stranger's stories, tender stories;
like ingrown toe-nails
stabbing your jittery being.
In uncomfortable steps,
with discomfort in your flesh,
this road you are walking on never ends,
you must not know.
Sincerity has gotten the bitter of you,
you never doze off during living,
you are not able to.
An impulsive kiss, then a caffeinated sink
like an addict's excuse,
making you cross the line.
In shuddering smile,
With a necessary guise,
you subtly bring your case to a justified close.
In darknness you choose a blindfold
Cause what more it could add,
Into the series of patterns
of desperate groping
Cause nobody told,
you might miss out the shadows.
_inside the tunnel that promises a journey, not a light in the end of it. -
There's a different level of excitement, a pleasure in going beyond formulas, beyond the classical theory or scoring in tests, by going much deeper into the underlying principles that govern the reality or the unknown because in this process I feel like an explorer navigating through the various possibilities that could exist and also I approach it like a detective investigating the problem at hand and its finer details. And obviously the size of the problem never matters rather the intensity or depth of it makes me more curious.
-
branthan
25w
Read MoreI 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.
@miraquill @writersnetworkLife 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.
d.t -
thefoxisdead
25w
Read More
the nights are a burden,
an ember in my heart
which is scared of feeling
the burn :
the bur-
burden, of changes,
of constantly thinking
what makes me
less of man,
of being submerged
by a sea
of worry.
four days into my twentieth,
I am reminded
of my father's devilment,
and, my mother's halo —
the darkness of the night sky,
and, the stars that twinkle
at a distance;
the distance that separates us.
only if I could have
the halo that crowns you
and, put it across
the horns on mine :
I would,
I would.
how long would it take
for my ancestors to descend,
and bathe me in the cascade
of death.
lately, writing a piece has been
no less than committing
a deadly sin —
these words,
they don't do justice
to the sorrow
that sits inside my chest.
I climbed to the top
of a dying tree,
the world looks different
compared to what it used to be,
you look different
because you could never
fit the shoes,
that you wished to wear.
misplaced :
misplaced, in a world
of perfect breast implants;
ironic,
it's tough to fill your shoes,
especially, when the anaemia
is hereditary.
despite the things
said and done,
my Icarus would always be
a victim to the Sun :
you still cross my mind,
every time,
the door is left open;
every time,
you leave me undone.
©the_foxi still think about you
