My naive, young heart, walked on the path of love, and the sun shone brighter, upon the chrysanthemums growing betwixt our proximate souls. My first autumn in love, was like an enchanting poetry, your head rested upon my shoulder, I baked joy filled cakes for you, and you chased me in the woods. I wrote poems adorning your name, you recited sonnets honouring our love, we spoke to the moon, and it's stars, to let our lover know how much we miss them while apart. But as the day ends at the dusk and night at the dawn, our love got smudged in those twilight shades roughly painted over horizon. The ink in my quill dried and formed a sedimentary stone in my throat, Your voice kept echoing in my ears, as my all my gardenias withered, and butterflies found a new abode, leaving me alone on the grave of fireflies flowered with all the unsent letters I wrote in your name.
~ When hearts get shattered and hopes don't matter, Everyone becomes a poet.
Title inspired from a poem called this is not a love poem.
/In the battlefield of households, She is the bravest warrior./
Born as a daughter, she carries the burdens of outdoing her brother, of being obedient and gentle, to hold the prestige of her father's name, before her own self-respect and aspirations.
Married to an unknown man, she hides behind the crimson veils of a wife's responsibility, her forhead embossed with sindoor, her wrists bound with duty of being a perfect housemaker.
And soon she becomes a carrier, of her own daughter, whom she teaches to shoulder the legacy of womanhood, as she does, till her hearse arrives at the doorstep of her unheard dreams crushed under the heaviness of society's conventions.
/A woman, is never her own self, She is always a man's daughter, wife or mother. /
~ But men, they never value her virtues and sacrifices. They always treat her like an object according to their own convenience.
Since the day you've stepped in my life, it's completely filled with such a calm. No matter how rough my days go, talking to you makes me feel so much better. I love you di. Thank you so much (kinjal xD) for touching my life in ways you may never know. Your beauty is impeccable. Here's a futile attempt from my quill to describe your pious heart ~
L ike the full moon, she rises in the O verdarkened nights, head held high. V eritably wise, her thoughts clear as E vening rain, pattering against my T etherd feathers, renewing them with H opeful bright shades drawn from A lluring sunsets and enchanting rainbows. T ightly she holds me against the storms, N avigating ways with the constellations E mbedded deep in her hazel eyes holding V intage scents of Shakespeare's poems E ngulfing poets in her aesthetic beauty. R avishing aura, brimming with metaphors F illing the seer's eyes, with serenity A nd their hearts with joyful peace, D illuting their misery and melancholia, E mbellishing faith in everyone's temple S oothingly carving tranquility in their hearts.
Many more years of togetherness to come. Yours lovingly Chhoti
Most people are prisoners of their own thoughts but whenever I look at you with a frown upon my forehead, your dim lights whoosh metaphors in my temple and I find myself floating among your greyish clouds. The poetic scents enchant my wandering heart with peace you pour upon me. You adore your bruises with a head, held higher than every atom this surface carries upon itself.
And today the record got stuck on 'likhe jo khat tujhe' again. It was exact 11:11. But no matter how many wishes I make, your footsteps will never echo in my house again. It shall always remain haunted with the shadow of your absence running around, freely, painfully, excruciatingly. Nights are overflowing with peaceful memories of our little infinity, sang down upon me by the low lit stars who watched us fall along and then fall apart. And they still watch me, trying to forget you, trying to step out of false hopes I keep weaving, trying to close my eyes as a fragile attempt to sleep. October is almost over, four years ago, I loved you for the first time and back then I didn't know what it was supposed to be and now I do, what a tragically wonderful experience it is. Love is like sinking and breathing at the same time. Love is like flying but with a high probability to fall at all times. Love is like an enchanting sunset, which eventually ends. Love is like an honour.
~why do my eyes always try to find your face imprinted somewhere around me, just like it is in my heart.
/don't want no other shade of blue but you, no other sadness in the world would do ~hoax, T. Swift /
// A poetic mind lies on a broken couch emanating scents of charismatic metaphors and refrains, undoing all the sour ink spilled upon the walls of his weary journal. //
The sleepless night sky lined with the undying stars and a faint chandelier, which hang in the dark void surrounded by the air filled with screaming silence. Presence of fireflies replaced with the amber glow of streetlights below the oak carved window sill. A few banyan trees that remain are to be soon replaced with a dozen skyscrapers inhabiting more human brains filled with artificiality, by abandoning the sweet melodies that nightingales and cuckoos sing in the holy honour of artists and poets, who died of starvation. Mortal footsteps run against the perennial nature and race against the sprinting time with a fragile wish to defeat them.
// A poetic mind lies on a broken couch devoid of materiality and fresh oxygen with scarred neck and slitted wrists to end his painful endurance, full of lies and false beauty, that a metro city brought over his doorstep. //
~ Everytime a new metro track is laid, death beds of poets and artists are dug along.