My fertile soul is a home Many crave dead heads upon , Mistake goddess for no good , The colour of my womb is No grey , the patches on my dried Lips are no mistake ,
I sip my nostalgia in bottles, And I puke out his love , I am no monster , A girl , A nice girl, Who hasn't been treated right, Someone stole her skies, And she is all dark now , And you mistake her for doom ,
What if I tell you I wanna die , Will you cry if I show you my tarnished Sky? -Anshika ♥️
You promised that won't be the last goodbye, While you were painting sunsets on the canvas of shivered skies, While my fingers drew broken gypsies on the melted seashores, Foraging for the sand castles that got washed away to the lovers next doors;
Under the maples whose shadows cradle inside my auburn hair , And the 11.11 wishes etched on the lines of my palm like distinct constellations, I still cherish that we share the same Moon, the same stars and the same Universe !
Driving by the moon, Through the shadows of the night , Thinking about you And how my cicatrices shine under the Moonbows as Van Gogh's empyrean , Where the fickle stars breeding lucid Memories, crack open holes in the Universe and stained rainbows peep Through the eyes of broken skies;
How you turned colourblind to the roses Tucked on my collarbone, but Complained of the thorns giving you scars How you nestled daylight in your chest And weaved poiesis in the dark, You but ask what makes a great poet Although you portray your own broken heart As a piece of art!
Isn't spring supposed to be All freesias and no weeds? But for me, it's just dead Tulips tapered on my naked Shoulders or drowning lotuses Gasping for air, where the Basking sunflowers burn in Repugnance and cedar tops Nestle my seclusion;
Barren deserts breed Pale roses, crescent voids House cactuses, fragile Bouquets rot on my doormat And embers embellish my Garden's heart;
My hands save some colors For the sunset, probably Pitch black paint brushes To draw my mind's muses on The canvas of withered leaves And fallen flowers, where I Dance to the halcyon time When wilted petals started To bloom with the slightest Touch of my rhymes /
He paints saffron skylines through the edges of his eyes with dead birds hovering over the horizon's blood, where pale rainbows die on the water's cheeks and the boats carrying the ashes of life tumble over ocean beds
The sky merges Into the shades of grey and the sand digs the voids of seas petrichor chokes the tranquility of waves and lust begets cataclysmic rain,
Ripples breathe their last on beaches' hourglass and fireflies steal the night's stars moon weaves mangata on floors where parachutes catch fires and melt doves and moths with a candle's heart and lovers burn in meteor's sparks!
There was a sky near the feelybow of the city wearing the blue gown of my mother without any green hei-tiki or silvery anklet ; without any blanket, the sky was sleeping with the croons of crickets, on those hot summer days, I went for stargazing while standing on the stillness of that sky. Then a storm came and broke that sky shattered the lines of town's bow Then There was no sky There was no moon There was no moonbow There was no moonvines Suddenly I became an urchin I found myself near the horizon where only earth was crimping the cinders.
I died ; I died that day without tasting three haikus of winter and seven iliads of hot summer I failed to become the poetry of the sky but darling ! everyone becomes a poet.
There's a salvation when, your feet don't long to melt in the footsteps of chaos and you share this breathing space word by word on a blank leaf. A home you made, a temple it looked; where whole universe is draped in an explicit cloak of a rhyming poetry.
There were times when, the world was painted in green except for the blue skies and sapphire oceans, where we made love in epilogues of rainbow and loosened-letters called stars of dusk. Moon did brightened, twilight borrowed some hues; when the geometry of our souls was drawn amidst the syllables of a beautiful poetry.
There's a closet opening in my arms, of flowers that smell of hope and books that read self-worth when sunshine wraps around me and clouds leak pride. A wound I kissed, It bloomed into a rose; where scars are sown and raised as strength into the empty spaces of a free-versed poetry.
There's peace in silence when, the words turn down to ashes but are still sung upon in poems admired by each passerby. A dream you weaved, a beauty that flourished; where the midnight rustle of leaves and the blow of air is treasured in the collection of poetry, and in a touch of moment with ink I understood, Everyone becomes a poet. ~Purva