Distance between words
is our home.
I hang my words on the
red thread around your neck
and everytime I look at you
it reminds me of the fact
that my poems and you are one,
Talking about chills
I never met anyone like you, none.
Your smile reminds me of the sky
under which we first met,
and the summer breeze
take me back to the mix tape
you left on my table,
Yes , I’m not over it yet.
The only thing I feel anymore
is you and poems,
My skin is poems and you.
Ever looked at someone and thought, is this what poetry in motion is?!
Because I do think that sometimes, like right now, sitting here while my mind is dwelling in the vast sea of profound memories of all the people I have come across and I am realising all of them were beautiful in a way it’s not possible for me to put them simply into words.
There is this distinct memory about a long lost best friend. The way she used to put my head at ease during the wars and how she almost lost me to my irresistible urge to finish the “due project”. My single second was a light year for her and all the waiting and chatting still warms up my heart whenever the wave of grief try to sink me down. Looking back at time, I have realized, it’s always those tiny, funny and unexpected moments of seconds that add up to most of our minutes.
There is nothing specific to talk about a person, but also there is nothing that is found in every single of them. We all are maybe looking at the sky at the same time but none of us have the same sky. Same is the case when it comes to people.
The part of someone I see maybe is the part that is only for me. And all the parts of all the people I have, will always be with me like the specific alphabets running in my blood. And with every passing second, I’m here, hoping that you all have had a poem, your own specific poem written for you, atleast once .
It’s raining almost every second day,
and I’m learning to bloom from the earth,
From life less branches to bed of dead leaves,
something inside of me is telling me to know my worth.
Sun is always shining over mountains
still, there is this darkness in the woods,
dripping down the lifeless branches
in a way only hope could.
My mind feels quiet than usual
sending the shivers down my spine,
these fingers gripping core of my skin
bringing my stars back to shine.
Sun rays are claiming my body;
reaching the places which need hope the most,
With every breath, life is teaching me to live a little;
I’m falling for love, almost.
Once I met a broken sunset
stunning in pink and beautifully alone,
He was tip toe-ing through twilight
asking me to step into unknown.
My inside and out felt like stones
but I was willing to know what it has to say,
For sometimes the most ordinary things become blessings
and I had nothing to do, anyway.
He took me to the core of colours
and said he can give me all of them,
And he asked me:
Humans talk about the lonely hearts that bleed in silence whole night, but what about the open wounds that stinks at 2 pm?
This constant pressure someone feeling that they are entitled to talk to you daily can be draining ( and can break the bonds too). When going through things, the most creative people can also run out of words and the answer to every question can be nothing more than “okay”.
We keep checking on people , which is a good thing, indeed. But too much care can be toxic too. If everybody starts with “How are you today?” then what else can someone say other than ” I’m fine”.
On some days the best thing we can do for others is to just listen or just be there in silence or just give them the space. Because sometimes, the best thing we can do for others is not to do anything.
~ Let them be.
Silence knocks on my window everytime it snows; I have an ache every time I hear your name. This time, spring came with the bittersweet memories, my kitchen smells like your favourite street food and the aroma runs through my veins, urging me to run away .
We are oceans apart yet its heavy on my heart. This sweet scent is telling me
find the way
//They say time will heal the heart
but it hurts everywhere//
Like the apocalypse your memory is playing in my head, vivid imaginations peep into my soul. Convictions constantly trying to reason with the cause. Metaphors climb, chisel and breaking my vision, as I curl into my fears.
From silent poetry to screaming voice of art
I have met people, creative from the heart.
They tried to teach structure and rhythm but who they are to decide what we are?
I have seen pioneers of colours
and words – the weapons which give scars and help the world win wars.
From Van Gogh to Franz Kafka
all the names make me want to paint stars,
Sometimes I resonate with Rupi Kaur’s wolves but my heart is trapped in Sylvia’s “The Bell Jar” .