Sometimes you feel like an unheard symphony, like a feiullemort deprived autumn metaphor, like a scorched dandelion midst the pages of your unread stories and sometimes you feel like you're drowning somewhere between August's repentance and December's callousness. And at the end of ever July, you feel like the sun shined so fiercely on you that the springs is only a glaucous of poetry.
You chose the darkness that even your night couldn't withstand but then again you worship the poets for gulping up your azure skies. You use your scars as banisters to reach the depth of ink and you use your blood to scintillate the sunsets. And of fidelity, seas and springs, you are a s(in)ombre melody dancing on your own, on the tender tips of happiness. _________________________________________
Sitting on the bathroom floor I smoke The blades don't cut that deep, I remorse Ashes of marlboro, the night's broke Skin's blunt the scissors don't tear I fear, God don't want me there Death's despair, silence's prayer brewing sins scalding wings How many more whips on my limbs.
I remember how you talked to that non-existent sarcoline sky under the shallow blue bruise you've got right there on that morsel of self love you have. You said that if you and I were part of same nights then the stars would have held us together much stronger than our different scars do.
I kept repeating your name till my moon started collapsing. It must be nice, you said, watching the scars on your wrists go blurry eyed. On that summer virginity, you pronounced my name like a poetry then you hammered my heart and clipped the pieces on the one half of your nightskies besides the other half that was worn out because of your ink and placed your moon inside my empty ribcage and stuffed stars inside my scars.
You said you could see the sunflowers turning towards me and that their yellow talks to you about my silence.
You looked so pretty when sun rose and we were under the same sky, even when I close my eyes you drain out my tears to water your cactuses in spring. You did so until I had nothing to cry for and then I lost you somewhere on the horizon between me and your nightskies.
Isn't it beautiful, writting for someone or maybe being written by someone? I wish to exist as words. Sun is at its finest when the letters bind themselves together with rhythms to be a single melody and when all these words fathom into poetry, a young sky is lifted up to carry all your blues aloof.
We all are surrounded by letters and the way we tie them defines us of how we want the pages to be. All the pages that I have are unruled and the words are just strewed on them, I seem to have everything scattered and I just don't know how to align them. I believe when something dies, words battle with pain to bring it back alive and then they gradually seems to fleet away making that something naked, mayhaps this is why my words are flaccid and crouched. At times I can see the letters around me gyrating in my breaths and everything seems to be going so quickly that i feel like drowning, then i hold my hand out to get hold of some letters but all I get are some wounds and the blood flows down in the sink painting all my greys in one shade.
I don't have anyone to write for except my insecurities, and I swear in that moment when I write about it I feel the touch of words on my body and the way they steal the colour of my ink and gamble it with night makes me feel complete, they scour their way inside my soul, battle with my grief but in a wisp of time they fleet away and then the memories are left naked, they are so bare, bare enough to scuff my whole heart out.
If I talk about love poetries, words get drunk on evening skies and splits you in mauve, silence then worships you and half of sun's yellow becomes yours. Love is the art of being the beat of someone's heart, the art of being someone's sunset fidelity and the art of being the salve of someone's moon. For me, love is a distant thing, I do not even have a full heart. I bend my knees on evening's sin, how can I sanctify someone else's silence. The words around me don't hang me on the gallows of love and I don't coerce them to drive summers all around my ink. But, there is a kind of schism inside me, a void. Something whrils in my head, triggers an urge inside to see different coloured eyes, a smile or maybe a new set of words, a new page? Even if I don't have what they call love, I'll have to pay my liability to it in blood either way, ( I guess the poet's would disagree.) I don't seem to understand this chicanery of existence.
All my pages are pasted on the ceiling of my room, just like stars on nightskies. I gaze at them with azure virgin zeal just like my anguished bruises look at stars. There is no new set of words on all these pages, it is the same story that keeps on repeating down all the corners, it is the same blood that lingers down all the corners of my teeth. Just like stars, they do not quieten the silence of this night, neither do they veil darkness but still the blue and grey fathoms at their sight and the finest constellation of memories would form and they'd rephrase the preamble of nights and in the farthest corner of my heart the blood would break free from numbness. What more does a ink indigent poet wants? Nothing, but only something to feel.
-- And if the light that your metaphors glistens were to fall on my skies even for once, I swear that my sunrises will never be sinned again --
Just how gracefully he rises the dawn in his poetries and how impeccably he makes this night fidelious with his ink. Let alone the sun envy his noor and let alone the nights gnaw its own stars because even the mere words of poetry can't befall the beauty of his soul. I have seen him caress the flaws of summers and I have seen autumns becoming crapulent on his metaphors. He rides the chariot of springs with his scar's folklore and being the maecenas of sunset's tailored rue he allays winters.
~ He is like the shore of an infidel ocean, like the skyline of silence and prayers and the nepenthean of laden echoes.
Midst the moon and stars darkness still glistens your ink, so what happens to your quill when the sun blooms prosody of tranquil?
The souls will shoot off from cosmos taking rebirth for the sake of my artistry cause till the darkness was my ally, I calmed the chaotic ones but with prosody of Apollo, I shall tranquil the dead inside me.
But what is fear If not an illusion, Your mind perceives to trap your feet from flying. It is nothing but smoke and mirrors. Nothing, but smoke and mirrors. ~Ben M
We stumble like lame footed fools Inside the iron cage of Fear's chokehold, Trapped on sand like an upturned ship, And like the ship, we dream of the Sea and her conch while her waves giggle: Arms wide open; Like a mother, a lover, A golden autumn dream on a silent blue winter night and it tastes like LIFE on our sleeping tongue.
But how many times have we lingered on the shore with not enough fire to flame awake our wings, to take flight? And so we go back to wearing gilded armours, kissed black by fear; Our fears, that multiply like dotted houses on maps and we dream again; Of mountains on fire, of meadows our feet failed to run alongside the black-eyed doe.
We dream of the sky and the wind on our wings, of Icarus kissing the sun with his burnt lips before his fall, Of how he must have laughed when he tasted life straight from the sun's mouth. We dream and cry in our sleep while our feet beg to fly because it still dream of flying alongside David, whirl dancing on the Wind's back with his slingshot when he threw down Goliath despite his fear.
But life dwindles by as we dream, Like the song our mothers hummed when she rocked us to sleep... Of a life that is, but a dream. Ah, but had we dreamt less And feared less, We would fly more And drink straight from the sun's raging inferno. Burn or live to tell a tale, Life would've stayed on our tongue At least once, like salt on food.
~Ben M 19th May
(Here's a song we all know I thought I would share)
Row, row, row your boat Gently down the stream Merrily merrily merrily merrily Life is but a dream
I smacked rose tinted gloss on my lips Another insecurity slipped from my pocket I white washed social stigma And continued eyebrow contouring Braided my hair and tucked the anxiety Odds on my skin shone bright as jewels The gold choker would have choked my trachea If I had tightened it while trying it for first time A craving stooped down to seek the answers And clichés continued to play the hopscotch Is it right to blame the mule For the one night stand of donkey and horse? A four square tic tac toe was on the bed My father hurled a Y and mother sanctified a X They completed a row and the game was over A child was born but it ended in nought I clutched feminity and smiled behind the pleats They nullified it and switched to next row No one asked permission before my birth I chose my identity and mishaps adopted me The sand bullets and red bricks are being kind Towards the cavity holding an arrow And hollow fond of plus sign This cuckoo nest is a quagmire welcomed me With a bogus smile and goblet of bigotry I am the crow stuck in the same row
I'm the moribund sighs leaving air around me breathless. The silhouette of my virtue is fading, my eulogy is weeping putrified blood and bleeding tears of respite.
The chewing gum of hope stuck in my brittle molars refuses to abandon a warm place, to breed its deceit.
My mind is nothing less than a crumpled tissue paper to wipe off turd stains mapping the sulci of my timid brain. Morality seems to have evaded me long ago since I embarrassed euphemism.
I dive fifty feet deep into ocean of my thoughts, swimming with sharks, jellyfish, piranhas. They are more friendly than the humans I've greeted informally, for they leave me alone bleeding to my bone after biting me instead of handing me a consolation prize for participating in a social event.
The scarred moon gets drunk on the champagne dripped by the lustfully blinking stars. I succumb to a migrainous dream watching the moon feeling beautiful by the end of the night, maybe it takes escape from reality to get into one's own skin. Circadian clock wakes me up before the alarm buzzes, my overslept body runs low on fuel no matter how much it relaxes.
Spiritualism is an old rag hanging on the hook of faith, moulded by wonders of sins, corrupting its core essence.
I'm inhaling the smoke of funeral inside my soul, my weightless conscience is levitating around me in its greys. Morbid satiety settles in grooves of my marrow betraying the indefinite hunger flowing along the serpents engulfing it.
Resins of venom taste sour when dipped in happiness traded for gullibility without feeling guilty. Cyanide turns me cherry pink, lilacs blooming on my skin.
Vignette of bittersweet memories fade in my vision, a carriage carrying the burden of atonement left astray somewhere on a road leading nowhere.
I chug sobs of misery choking my throat with lump of their inherited depravity, purging forlorn silence reverberating in the room crowded with melancholy.
you know what's hard ? to let go of someone who you think you can't survive without. you know you want that one person for the rest of your life. you know if given an option between all the riches , comforts of the world and that one person.. you'd still chose them. letting that person go is effing hard . knowing that no amout of effort will be just enough to stop them from walking away. leaving you all alone, longing to be around that one person. I mean if you're walking away just like that Tell me how to survive, Tell me how to not need you , Don't just walk away.
So if you're chosing people above yourself. Just think twice .
As I always say, you're special. For me, for Mirakee and for everyone else. I'm so glad that I've a friend like you. We don't talk much but whenever we do, it never feels like we ain't good friends :"))
हमेशा से मुझे ऐसा लगता था कि लेखक की उम्र उसके व्यक्ति से दोगुनी तेज़ी से बढ़ती है। उसकी थकान उस पर बहुत जल्द ही हावी होने लगती है। और हाल ही में, मेरे भीतर का लेखक भी जर्जर बूढ़ा हो चला था। उसमे प्रेमी बने रहने का बल अब नहीं था।
"मैं अब तुम्हारे साथ नहीं रहना चाहती" काशी ने कहा। वो जैसे ही झटके से उठी आंसुं की एक बूंद उसकी खाली प्लेट पर गिर गई। उसने पलटकर मुझे देखा, उसकी आंखें लाल थीं। फिर प्लेट उठाकर वो किचन में चली गई।
मुझे, और शायद काशी को भी इस दिन की महक बहुत पहले ही लग गई थी। मुझे याद है आम दिनों के मुतबिक़ उस दिन कैफे में भीड़ ना के बराबर थी। "तुम्हारी उंगलियां कुछ कहती हैं। मैंने उन्हें सुना है।" उसने अपने कप में चमच घुमाते हुए कहा। "क्या सुना है तुमने?" मैंने अपना लैपटॉप बंद करके किनारे रख दिया। "वो कहती हैं कि लेखक बेरहम होते हैं। वो हर इंसान को अपनी किसी कहानी का पात्र मानते हैं। और फिर उन पात्रों की भावनाएं उनके कलम की स्याही हो जाती है।" ये सुनकर मुझे ऐसा लगा जैसे मानों मेरी चोरी पकड़ी जा चुकी हो। मैं सकपका गया। "नहीं.. नहीं ऐसा नहीं है।" ऐसा कहकर मैं खुदको ठगने की नाकाम कोशिश कर रहा था।
पहले-पहले प्यार में पड़े लड़के बड़े ही दिलचस्प होते हैं। कई बार, या यूं कहें कि ज़्यादातर, बड़े विचित्र भी। इसके 'द मैन' बनने की परिभाषा अक्सर प्यार कि परिभाषा से टकराती रहती है। वहीं लड़की के लिए प्यार में गिरना कोई नई बात नहीं होती। ये आए दिन फूल, पौधे, तितली, बिल्ली, कुत्ते, किसी टीचर के २ साल के बच्चे, बारिश के मेंढक, घोंघें के प्यार में गिरती पड़ती ही रहती है।
लड़के के पहले प्रेम में वो नज़ाकत और सावधानी होती है, जो कि उसने शायद ही इससे पहले कभी बरती होगी। कहीं चाय से जले होंठ कॉफ़ी पीना सीख रहे होते हैं तो कहीं स्पिनर उंगलियां, झुमकों का मोलभाव करना। उस एक लड़की के लिए खुदमें ढेरों बदलाव करना भी ठीक लगता है और दूसरी लड़कियों के तरफ देखना 'चीटिंग ऑन हर' जैसा।