i know/ memories bite/ goodbyes throb/ love can't be held with hands that look like claws/ i've heard about it all/ have gulped down/ platitudes of metaphors/ poems that looked a lot like unkept hearts/ it's my habit to relate with anything/ that looks like you/ desire and love and regret/
listen/ i have nothing more to say/ nothing to write about/ an empty paper/ my eyes/ stare back at me as i search for what used to be mine/ you, your promises, this body, my words/
the corners of my eyes burn/
with a nerveless sense of defeat/ love lost me/ kneeling down under a spreaded night sky/
silent/ trying to infer what i'm fighting for/ you or love or an escape?
if i'm losing/ my sanity, self/ then who wins this game/ where does it all go?/ the squandered feelings/
i am trying restlessly to fit into the arms of hope/ since you've nibbled its edges already
last night/ i dreamt of raging blood-waves/ washing the horizon/ and i woke up with a raw ache/ an open wound seeping regret/ like always/ i don't know what hurts/ and you can't heal what's cold.
i wish i could stay shut for a while/ but is it fair to seal a mouth that *hardly utters a word?
i can recite what i've lost/ until my tongue melts with shame/ and my bones break with heat/ but i can't, in any way tell you/ what i've gained/ for i can let my words go/ but not my pain/ it's a lesson i need to, have to/ keep.
*i practice this often
whispering in deaf ears that
i e x i s t
A habit - day 24
When people ask me why I follow Chef Vikas Khanna, I fall short of words. He is a blessing! Poetic Letters To God reached him and this is what he tweeted keeping aside his super duper busy schedule. 😍
If he hadn’t taught me the power of dreaming, this book would have never come into existence.
Thank you so much, Vikas Sir ❤️ @vikaskhannagroup ... Forever grateful to you!
Two or three hours by myself listening to the river roar post-winter, swollen with melted snows from the Chermon. I had never seen a snow-capped mountain range in real life before I glanced up out the right-side window of the passenger seat this morning and felt astonished. It truly is as majestic as it looks in the pictures. (Whaddaya know.)
The water and riverbank funk smell like good, clean skin and growing green things stretching tiny limbs towards the sky. .
The water is music, cacophonic, raucous, joyful, childlike. Families shriek as their thin skins encounter the icy tendrils of water snaking around their toes and ankles. .
I wondered as a child how nobody seemed to see what I see. If the world is this luminous, how are we not all in constant awe? My tired adult body has no good answer but a grateful and knowing grin. Awe is just a blink away.
Especially at the riverside in spring. .
I do not know the name of the longing that the trills of a bird play on like strings. And the rush gush shush of the water water water. (So much water, such abundance, how can we ever dare be afraid? What a mockery of the Unnameable to risk fear in the face of such light. What an abominable mockery.)
They say we will be like woken dreamers laughing. It feels absurd as a delicious joke to imagine reality as anything but wondrous at this moment. .
ושמחת בחגך. .
Перекрасить себя. Переставить посуду.
Вымыть-выбросить все, что здесь плохо лежит.
Я теперь никогда уже прошлой не буду,
Буду правильно жить свою новую жизнь:
В синий — небо, в зелёный —траву и деревья,
В рыжий — летний закат, в белый — яблони цвет.
Мне осталось чуть-чуть, а я все еще верю,
Что ошибочно выдан плацкартный билет.
Вот он, розово-серый, лежит на ладони,
Скорый поезд к перрону тихонько ползёт.
Все что было и будет, что душу затронет,
Все останется здесь, я поеду вперёд.
Дальше сумрачный отсвет морозного утра,
Чёрный чай целый день и вечер без сил.
Только в памяти тех полустертая умбра,
Кто на поезд меня даже не проводил.
Давайте договоримся, что поезд 🚆 ( очень❤️ их люблю) — это только аллегория. Тогда сразу все встанет на свои места. Вообще, мне очень нравится в искусстве этот тонкий момент: рисуешь цветок, 🌸подразумеваешь любовь, говоришь о любви, подразумеваешь вечность, имитируешь трели соловья, а вкладываешь смысл «счастье».❤️
Я уже лет сто не ездила на поезде ( Электрички - это другое, правда ведь? Там же нет этого запаха бойлера, дорожек в узком проходе, попутчиков на сутки, а то и несколько, нет курочки жареной в фольге, нет особого крепкого чая...).
Сейчас все больше передвигаются 🛫самолетами — быстрее, удобнее, комфортнее.
Какой вид транспорта вам понятнее, удобнее, привычнее?
Day Twenty Four; Prompt: "Truth Or Dare"
____ "Truth or dare?"
They'd always ask,
everytime that empty bottle
would point at him.
it was full of secrets,
full of revelations,
full of adventure.
"Truth!" He'd always choose
for he knew he could lie,
and nobody would ever know.
they'd keep asking,
and he'd lie to each one of those.
"Who's your crush?"
"Who do you like?"
"Who would you like to kiss?"
They kept asking,
he kept deceiving, until
he chose one fateful day.
They'd hoot like idiots,
crazy bunch of kids.
"Kiss the one you like",
one finally suggested.
Stuck, for he couldn't
stuck, because it
wasn't just words.
He ran to reach
the teacher's table
and placed a kiss
on her rosy cheek.
As everyone stared at him,
it was pin-drop-silence
[Poem] by Palak. (@so_not_a_writer) | Withered Weedy Writers.
Introducing #napowrimowww, our fine collection of heartfelt poetry written throughout April on fascinating prompts to celebrate the National Poetry Writing Month.
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Today, I wrote poetry.
Sloppy poetry. Crappy poetry.
All mush and no literary sense.
After writing it, I leaned over the balcony rail and shouted out that I had written bad poetry.
Cute guy next door had his headphones on, his head bobbing to heavy metal or hard rock, I wouldn't know. He never cared.
Opposite door orthodox aunty muttered holy profanities under her breathe, as she tried to scan my tank top and torn jeans with her roving eyes. She never cared.
Third floor little girl rode on her Hello Kitty bicycle, waving to her girl friends enthusiastically. She, they, never cared.
Mum, dad and brother came running to the balcony, thinking that I had fallen off. Looking at my Moleskine notebook and my spidery penmanship, they sniggered and asked me to join for dinner without wasting my time in writing crap. They, obviously, never ever cared.
I finally realized that not a single soul cared about something that looked so Instagrammable. That which could lead to my fame or infamy, I wouldn't know.
I skipped the dreaded dinner consisting of bland pancakes with spiced vegetable filling. I was so full of words that my hunger pangs went unnoticed.
Later, I sat down again to write some real poetry. Or so I thought.
Nicking all the cottage cheese cubes from yesterday's leftover sandwich, I scribbled something literary on a fresh sheet, chewing on the cubes to make my mind churn words.
After writing, I leaned over the balcony rail and shouted out that I had written good poetry.
Alas! The entire apartment complex had gone to sleep. Silence. Shattered only by my unasked bawl. Yes, they never cared about poetry, be it bad or good.
But something glinted, illuminating my forlorn cheeks. I looked up and saw the moon. I think she smiled.
I popped a champagne, took a few swigs and read out both my sappy and sterling poetry to my lone listener.
She always cared. 🌙
~Kavya Janani. U
PC: @yourquoteapp Chennai Open Mic 12.0