The warm I feel in ur arms can't be described in words. The peace I experience with my head in our shoulder, can't be experienced anywhere else . The sense of secure near you I undergo can't be sense in any corner of the world . Known for long, I started loving you,but this feeling is not new. Don't know when I started falling for you, but it's too hard to hide it now. Though it's late but I happily accepted that you are my first as well as my last love !!
Those foggy morning with a cup of coffee reminds me how passionated I was 6 years ago about my dream. But today it's me who wants to bury that dream in the soil far away from me, So that if it re borns,it can't find me. --A.Kashyap
You know the days when you get the mean reds? Paul Varjak: The mean reds. You mean like the blues? Holly Golightly: No. The blues are because you’re getting fat, and maybe it’s been raining too long. You’re just sad, that’s all. The mean reds are horrible. Suddenly you’re afraid, and you don’t know what you’re afraid of. Do you ever get that feeling?
A good writer feels and thinks his words in the shades and tints of the same color.
If pain is red, burgundy is suffering, agony is scarlet, and crimson is tormenting, ache is sepia, hurt is dusty, anguish is vermilion, misery is rusty, throbbing is carmine, excruciating is bloody, lava is deep, and soreness is muddy.
and then there is dard, vivid and intense, pulsating in tones of maroon with a tinge of darkness in the brightest of reds.
Will you love me when I am gone? Will you relive the memories of me? Will you touch the petals in the gardens that we walked? Will you inhale the fragrance of flowers like you smelled my cologne? Will you look at the moon and talk to it about me Will you unlock the songs hidden in your heart with my thoughts key Will you smile the way you used to smile when you looked at me Will you be able to wipe your tears as I used to Will you be able to hold yourself the way I used to when you needed me
I know this is what I want But the thing is I want you to be happy And lingering on memories for long won't make you strong. So just write me in some sweet rhymes And once in a while sing me like a song.
Tonight, when my balcony doors bring some phosphorescence towards my stygian heart which is busy enough in intonating the verses I once wrote in the rustic pages using a lit matchstick, it refuses to get some newfangled air inside since it is already addicted to the hallucinations accompanied by the aroma of wilted roses which smell of melancholy and nostalgia all around. The very axiom that some signs are overlooked when in love is being reflected to every wall of my rooms so that it echoes to the extent where death feels inevitable. I've undressed the golden attire faith wore and burnt it down to ashes near my graveyard holding wild sunflowers in the garden where blooming was prioritized earlier. But for Satan's pleasure, everything has changed over time. /Ninety nine, ninety eight and walking towards the balcony where nineties and eighties are drinking champagne together/
The mellifluous melody which sung lullabies resting my head on those solacing laps and ruffled my blonde hairs with smooth hands has started roaring like a werewolf in search of a prey with paws clenched to grip the feast tightly by 12 of the blue moon nights. The clock ticks slower than before so that pain flows through my bloodstream the slowest way possible, sucking all of my halcyon days inside, while small cyanide doses of memories eject out from the lymph nodes and end up harming my thoughts and expectations, bringing death ten steps closer. /Miles ahead come sixties accompanying fifties n' forties n' all dirty numerals sleeping in between/
I go deep inside the warehouse of my brain cells and find happiness stuffed inside a box with the toughest lock ever found, while scars are wearing high heels and finding their couples and cousin danseuses even in absolute darkness. Memories are sidelined in a separate corner with legs broken and face distorted by acids of rancour, and the screams of those are making me feel my fairy sides flying away towards the stellars, the ones, which children fail in counting with their elfin fingers which cannot hold more weights and numbers. /The distance from thirties to twenties was just a kilometer, the end of my survival is not afar from my toes/
Nineteen, eighteen and seventeen, handling the pressures of my resumed life is no more possible as those cameras which once captured smiles has negatives which are haunting me day and night. Months feel like hours passing away from the hourglass slowly and silently; the sands seep down with the air holding my survival. Thirteen, twelve and ten, I'm choking with blood in my mouth. I try walking upstairs, but crawling like a toddler is what all I can do, but unlike the innocent one which then knew nothing but happiness in the roses back then. Nine, eight, seven, my legs disagree to move forward, my hands tremble vigorously, my heart prompts me to continue, but the brain sends wise warning sirens which are ignored, as always. I don't want to, but I want to, and I will. I have reached the terrace now. /Six, five, four, everything tastes sour/
With bloodstains all around me, everything seems crimson and black to my poor sights; the visions, which I curse now for making me what I'm today. I somehow manage to walk to the corner. In total haste and rage, I throw the bag filled with expectations and memories. /Three, two, one, and thud! I fall too; I'm finally dead/
~S r i K r i s h n a P S | Oct 22, 2020. ___________________________________________________
@raika Thanks a lot for helping me out with this ❤️
Yesterday I gazed at my wrist little more than usual wondering where exactly do I slash to feel less pain. Will I be able to chop my skin in the corner of my darkroom? When my mom will be chopping vegetables in the kitchen. Last year my mom painted my room pink to make it more alluring but what's the use of pink when my heart is cold and blue. Those shades of colours, hues aren't visible to me. I'm colour blinded who sees everything black. When rainbow appears in the sky, the atmosphere seems bright but my world reverses which is keen to provoke my verdict. When small stuff starts to bother, you must be walking towards the path of darkness. There's a thing about depression. The more you try to push away the tighter it grips. My mom bought me a cup of a coffee this morning a little earlier than usual, even tho. I was already awake her presence didn't excite me the way it used to do. She glanced at me once, twice, thrice her gloomy eyes boosted my despair even more. Mom, space between us was already so wide. I couldn't even sip or heave the coffee. Those words died inside me like our relation. We haven't talked since months just a mere stare morning. Mom, I wanna scream my lungs out. I haven't touched her since long. I miss her smell, the fragrance I once loved. Those endless hugs used to warm more than the heater. The tears I shed on her lap. Are all those things forbidden now? Mom, please hold me, soothe my irregular heartbeat just for once. Will you listen to my last wish? My breaths suffocate me more than opaque life I live. But here's a thing, Aren't I? dead already. My soul which was supposed to make me at ease betrayed me long ago. My pierced heart carry the arrow of somnolence and grief. I'm just waiting for my eyes to rest, my soul to get freed and my corpse to greet graveyard.
I'm having war with the world when my opponent is dwelling inside me.