|She reads books as one would breathe air, to fill up and live.|
Perhaps the case is, you never get over things. You decide you will no longer engage with them. In the process, you either cut yourself off from the world or engage more than you require.
You answer with silence, the questions they demand, until you are reminded once again of the wound and are requested to be human. The world sees you as hurt, emotionally unstable or withdrawn and austere.
But, are you inhuman to block the flow of feelings running in your veins, rushing to reach your core? Certainly not. It's just a mechanism you think would save you, from your pastlife and from yourself. And once you reach your much needed stability, you begin to embrace your reality, your world. You spr...
The rain has dampened the cemented street of the unknown,
Shredding the roses off the rose tree, in the corner,
Disturbing the silence of the eerie nightfall.
As I stand on the wet grass,
My feet curl up,
As if holding onto something it let go.
With soul buried deep inside the earth of my being,
I claw my own walls.
And amongst shadows cast by the moonlight,
Are wet wild flowers,
White and smiling in between the weeds and shrubs.
For how long had I been standing here,
Wet and cold,
Calm and confused,
Exhilarated and starving.
But CATATONIC, I STOOD dazing.
And as people always want something from the dead,
I gawk at the lights
And they gaze back.
There's fear and mome...
She, a jigsaw puzzle of scratch and scar, of hurt and vengeance, of captivity and freedom, of fragility and courage, of fascination and repulsion, of fire and ice, of black and white, of chaos and peace, of shivers and warmth, of lava and snowflake, of draught and downpour, of turbulence and tranquility.
Took me awhile
to make words rain on my window
Been residing in silences for long,
I now find my repose in chaos.
The quite dungeons of my being
Are filled with voices of the old.
Cities of surrender
Have paved pathways of audacity.
Sometimes I run the streets,
sometimes they run me.
I’m the body of a queen, in hoods
filled up with backstreet imprudence,
Mad moves, grooves and beat of drums.
A patch of wet grass
On sun-burnt fields of tangerine.
And so the depth.
The sunrises and sunsets.
Walking through the corridors of the senile abandoned house,
I pass through my grandmother's dressing room,
Vintage and neat.
I lift a winter coat off the wardrobe,
Still warm, with narrow bodice
And a handwritten label.
Bringing it to my chest,
I walk towards the tall mirror, standing beside me.
The old coat blushes.
This pocket may once have sheltered something
precious — a diamond necklace,
A red rose,
A sweet little present,
from someone unknown or close?
As remembrance of a day spent.
A letter, unsent.
Or a goodbye note?
Or just the warmth of emotions withheld.
And the pink of the coat smiles,
In the refracted light
of the summer-sun.
You need to breathe and rest in the fact that you can not keep everyone you love.
A letter to a known letter box.
That day when you came into my room, lay your head in my lap, trying to sleep, I saw your fragility.
A child, scared to lose his mother. A guy, breaking down seeing his mum in pain. A man, crumbling under the weight of life.
I'd always seen you strong, more so cold-hearted-emotionless and self contained. Never had I seen or known this side of you. From a friend, rushing to hug me outside the airport to a boy, talking about his mum, with trembling lips. From a worried son, waiting in the hospital lobby for the reports to a guy, clutching my hand tight while his mom was being taken inside the operation theatre, I saw shades of you, which were no longer grey. ...
#SKYLARK CHALLENGE 134
In late lavender evenings of spring,
I see wild lilac flowers bloom,
Amongst winds of NOSTALGIA
and ESSENCE of gloom.
And beneath the doves and rainbows,
I see the LUCID dream dancing.
Her chuckles, INFECTIOUS amigos,
A memory, so liquid, it rings.
For potions of radiance
And sanguine HALLUCINATIONS.
Where migrating thoughts
Pause to sleep.
Near my pillow's crease.
#SKYLARK CHALLENGE 133
Moon throws a river of DAZZLING silver,
Stirring the black expanse of the blue.
For angels are myth in colour,
I chose the curse of a mermaid's hue.
Empires shine and VANISH in waves,
When revenge and justice resonates.
The beasts are found.
And I, devoid of wings to fly,
Beauty does terrify.
Flooding a future,
Not even in picture.
Mind pause to desolate thee,
And echoes that perturb the sea.
Love, hope, resounds the pause,
A catachrestic applause.
Swimming through the umber,
I pity the grays of your slumber.
For you could FATHOM not,
The plague and the revenge I sought.
Yet, for the glowfish and hyacinth,
I orate, I sing.
The pleasant songs,
Another day passed with letters unanswered and the lark listening our midnight maladies.
Between long episodes of monsoonal rains
And petrichor that follow,
I see the Sun creeping up.
Trying to keep you locked in my head,
Residing in structures of yesterday,
I keep running from tomorrow.
What you see,
Is the surface
of dwindling sanity.
What's grey and aporetic,
Is the very meaning of life.
For if not for this dementia,
I'd slip under the hull of loss
And silences of the dark.
Let me stay so,
A little longer,
#SKYLARK CHALLENGE 132
For the blind have vision,
Though they can't see.
For the deaf have something to profess,
Though they can't hear.
One, lent the eyes, other, the ears.
Blood BROTHERS, bonded with trust.
PATIENT and kind,
Deep and undying,
Their love, like the WIND,
Pure and ever flowing.
Where belief thrived,
Not in the eyes, but the heart.
No words needed for assurances.
Where MISUNDERSTANDINGS never crept in,
And none felt the grief,
The weight of life,
For they held it together and walked,
As free as the river,
As tied as the soul.
Singing shapes of fountains.
Where Sun glows in meadows
And twilight speaks of forgotten vows.
We drove so long
To find, we forgot where we belong.
Been twisting and turning,
From what were we running,
Hiding, ranting whines?
On our truck, we vagabond,
From afflictions and perturbations, we abscond.
To walk barefoot on damp grass,
To sprawl, reading stories across.
Our space, the highways.
Where raw but beatific are the days,
And nights conquer the conquering needs,
For, wild flowers are beautiful, also the weeds.
For luxury never appealed,
And love never repealed.
We found our dove, flying to peace,
And the yellow butterfly, kissing the crease.
"Woman must not accept; she must challenge. She must not be awed by that which has been built up around her; she must reverence that woman in her which struggles for expression." - Margaret Sanger
The best thing I read this morning. Empowering!
And so, I wish to spread the vibes.
*A quote to read on days you question your existence as a female. You've immense power within woman. Just have to feel and embrace.
Time to put off the crown and put on the armor. Stand firm against patriarchy, find your voice and fight the unacceptable. Wage a war against oppression. You're all the strength you need.
Inhale courage, exhale doubt.
"For amongst illusions and delusions,
I walk, wearing a coat, adorned with desire and hope."
"For his artful similes and metaphors,
I stitched him a pillow of proverbs."
A fracture across time and place,
Where the past and future hold their gaze.
Among the rescued in the corner bar.
We were caught,
To lean in and touch your fingertips,
With stilled eyes, resting on your upper lip.
To grab a moment,
And pocket it as a memory.
For having felt with your fingers,
The sky so blue.
And so, far from sirens,
The stillness of our moon.
Beside the float glass pool,
With our feet in water and intertwined fingers.
We barely linger
in this midnight space,
When words lose way to passion,
Do you remember?
You once walked over wooden boards
To a house that sat on stilts in the sea.
You have wandered lost a long time then.
The fairy tales warned you,
Of love and fear,
Of Angels and Beasts.
The moon painted me black,
Those sketches you believed.
You and I
Will become a memory,
Of a memory of a memory,
Shut and lost
in that house on the sea.
Sunsets and glaciers.
Vase of glass,
Bunch of sunflowers.
Sun on the high,
Leaves drinking blood.
What words scud.
Black and lark.
Vague and stark.
Dawdle down to the creek.
Rains swell with brewing coffee,
Storm, a beckoned sheet,
Attempts to foment a riot.
Desire, a valley with a wide rift,
Clouding, erupting and dying.
Fingers, painting the red in black,
Of straight paths and disoriented thoughts,
Of blueberries and scoops of cream.
Lips, a purple venom in pink,
Eyes, oceans of blue with chasms at the brink.
Immortal letters kept hidden under the casket,
Lose remembrance with clipped billets.
Yet, the fireside awaits thee,
Can't let go of what hithers me.
And so, further, painting storms in black,
On numerous whites.
A known little coffee table,
in the corner.
The plane old wood surface,
A see-through vase of daffodils,
Two full coffee mugs.
Dusky skin and wandering eyes.
A fleeting emotion beneath a pulse,
A skipped beat,
A thumping vibration.
Memories clouding the
Train of thoughts.
Smell of caffeine.
Coffee mugs emptying.
Mumbles around the house,
Conversations that build up and die,
And loud silence,
Filling us up.
You still look the same,
Though the roses have dried.
Most times, in rain or snow,
In moonlit or no-moon nights,
The beach has always had a visitor,
Me and my solitude,
Singing you like a lost-love-song.
The uncorked bottle of red,
With quarter cups of sneak-peeks
Into that rusty box of memories.
And your song,
That grows tall on me