This wasn't meant to be a poem. I'm just expressing my current feelings. This is just venting and I would've done it on a chat with one of my friends but they're all offline or busy so I just needed someone to listen.
There is a transparent ocean inside your eyes and a frozen tear on your cheek, that won't melt away for you're made of cold and dolorous flesh in which you stand. The quivering blood running in your veins isn't red, it carries the pigment of fear. Your anxiety sits in the corner, singing you lullabies, to sleep, while you hold it gently and put your head in it's lap for you've never known the address of peace. Your existence is like a wound, that won't heal and you braid a fresh noose, every night, but you fail to leave your body breathless, every time the moonlight falls through your window, wearing the scent of memories, the happy ones, haunting you the most. Breathing anguish, you walk into your garden and witness wilted daisies and their dried brown broken petals, which used to be cheery white in the past days, but those are gone, so is your love for your favourite flowers. You lie there on the bare ground, covered with dead grass, and your eyes heaved under the weight of a hundred days of insomniac nights, in which you drowned in your own tears. Soulless, you stare at the sky, as if looking for a tinge of hope, but you choke on fireflies sent by the heavens to help you, and your muffled voice, remains unheard. The pain struck in your throat, forms a poem, but your hands are too fragile to pick the quill, which your mother gifted you on your last birthday. The poet inside you, died a month back, due to the absence of metaphors in the air you breathed. Since that day, your thoughts went numb, your poems swooshed along the air and your heart broke into a million little pieces. The soil of your garden feels suffocating, eclipsing the canvas of your eyes and they shut slowly, leaving behind your corpse, carved out of agony.
"there is no exquisite beauty without some strangeness in the proportion." —edgar allan poe
i don't know which phrase do we have to leave from edgar allan poe's statement, should it have been something that makes it clearer but doesn't deviate from its particular meaning. formula derivations, from a particular root, which alter the equation in proportion to what is needed in play. does the worth of a dollar change if you substitute its first quarter to its last?
"there is no strangeness without some exquisite beauty in the proportion," and i couldn't tell if synonyms commit the same crime.
my brother always preferred milk over coffee, and i the other way around. mornings with either cereal or cream don't really have much of a difference for lactose intolerance. whenever the body reacts dramatically, mom would worry while dad would just nod. he'd always come knocking to say "you should avoid it for your mom at least," but a little rebellious to sneak in a portion of his ice cream when chances aren't at bay.
suffocation always fit the ocean, mom once said when she refused to go swimming with us. dad never understood what drove that fear when time grew. he said that there was something always in link with the sky and the sea, not the color, but the way it feels. yet i always knew that the moon wasn't much of an interest to mom. "it's just the moon," she'd say as she spent just a split second fraction to take a glimpse of it in the binoculars, yet it only looked the same for her as to every moment i'd tell it's following us back home.
there were instances when they left for a walk and the night was quiet for some time. i'd play chess against myself, but always tend to lose over the best probable moves thrown back. i mean, i do give way for recklessness to allow myself to win. definitely not biased that way. yet to think of it, perhaps time and its courses have the same thought: to remain in a straight line whilst staying secondary to space impingement. maybe one can always claim victory against itself when consistently in a battle against constancy, and that's only if a partial has the right to claim a win against its whole.
Drops dripping down the window-pane As i walk through a nearby lane Soaked supple surface setting in preface As i tap my feet flat on the terrace Panaromic petrichor perfume drowns me in As i feel zephyr puffing a kiss to my chin I ponder how softly it falls on the ground Dressing the green in a dreamy crown Magpie chirps melody as it pins to it's nest With raindrops filtering away her day's dust Legion pits enticing rain to fill them up And i bring back a souvenir clutching the cup Sizzling symphony pours the lonely hearts And a wisteria wills an aid of healing arts Does the wind make bells chime or it's the sound of Rimjhim? I wonder how it turns me up His love or the sirimiri heat? I find myself flitting to every beat