These redundant hollow breeze resemble a sheer voice of defeat. It's stillness at obscure pauses murmur a name that I feel have been mine. Gloomed air trespass words of silence, alike a gesture knitted for disposal. Shallow flares of deemed sun still ask, a question illustrated for arcane truths. The coffined room tend to verbalize pain today, recklessly urgely my wails to activate more. I'm barely knowing the mild pounds of heart, conscience been at a plight for reassurance. These winds try to make your escape a moscot of burden, plausible rant for a hindering great perhaps. I sit here doomed by presence of my own being, awaiting for the night to shimmer it's validation. Tonight when the moon arrives alongside faint stars, a doomed act of condolence will be performed. With a sense of your torment words about veracious agony, I'll see you reside on the moon, a home where you'll always prevail.
P. S.:- A poem l penned today to dedicated the sudden death of an aesthetic actor Sushant Singh Rajput. May he prevail admist the stars he admired the most.
The tenders of lust run all over the edges. We speak with gripping hands which drizzle ashes of uncanny. Our tongues share diversion with outlines formed in haste. His is more stubborn, rigid, indicating how it overrule insecurity and hatred. Mine is much of blunt, rougher, demanding of the scars that slit my speech. We decorate words on gouged wounds which illustrate mending as a rescue from feelings. Our brain zone in various dimension that glue rehabilitation with veiled fatigue. His mind revolve around stability, sanity, recklessness, words that split voids in applied behavioral mechanism. Mine evolve around reverie, vanity, companionship, words that delay healing over and over again. Our eyes perceive amidst differences that montage circular resources to kneel when seeked solace. His glint rays of confiding, alike sunbeams volatiling to proclaim it's regime. Mine search for opaqueness, alike stars bearing night to foresee it's lucidity. Our hearts recite rhymes with wavelength as similar as of a sonnet. We listen with veracious ears which conceal sounds of withering.
Broke pendulum with doomed timeline sync along the creeks of faded phatom. A traced remark of insanity withhold shallow steps covered in art. Fragmented phase tuned for havoc knit a mosaic of veracious disaster. . One minute:
A glimpse of forgotten tale frame my heart at a twisted display. Unraveling thin strings of sustainability with knots fabricated in a relic time. . Two minutes:
Silent echoes of fear slip through weakened creeks of conscience. Reincarnation of devastated abuse brush a life in the yester wounds. . Three minutes:
Friction of communication withdraw from regions of senses - touch, hear, smell. Clenched hands force a trigger for ranging a enitity of aliveness. . Four minutes:
Distorted vision of trashed memories sway hints of tendered wist of calm. Redundancy of drenched eyes reach for a figurative halo resembling you. . Five minutes:
Tremors linked to uptight redemption shine alike fireworks greased on a night. Urge for a relief hinder beneath this flesh of bewailed remorse and vanity. . Six minutes:
Ringing lullabies of silent monologue proclaim isolation over the calamity. Signs of stability murmur through sealed lips covered in fragile tears and naive blood. . Seven minutes:
Rhythms of smothered heart croon hymns of faith weaved at his name. Chaotic breathes exhale debris of love slowly forming a cluster of your warmth. . With opaque mind and melted skin, I scribble the sights of everyday hazard. Journals stained with dust all over, I begin to peal my scars again.
Bits of clenched hatred resides on the creeks which encircle the pit. Prolonged strings of agony swell the insights into vacuum circulation. Veins with concealed truths gratify the ethos shunned from intangible audience. Wist of grappling some tender recognition revolve on orbits sustaining empathy. Bizarre entry into the veracious pit consume the voice buried under negotiation. Dull breathes within emerged opaque walls submit the hindrance of prevailing pit. Words stitched on burnt canvas release a shield evoked in name of solace. Presence of entirety is felt amidst smoke ignited from greased ashes of relic abuse. Air that manifest the bewailed pit timelessly inhibits beneath hazardous flesh. Urges for awaited rescue still knit threads of despair consumed by my own being. Penned journals fortune a way out only to reform the dwelling essence of the pit.
With treasured destiny, I catered intangible glimpse of affection. Tranquill phases filled with faint smiles, cast the unwired circulation of a timid pendulum. Time turns into phantom, evading hours leashed for liberation.
Twisted notions of nurturing, bounded the relic urges revolving inside us. Recorded facets of hindered nostalgia, stitch faded patches of awakening. Love turns into venom, trading bits of solace for sanity.
Bridging remotely from sights of love, reincarnated laments that formed your name. Deciphered agony in segments of art, fabricate creativity that glorify my existence. Tragedy turns into epos, confiding wails released frequently for redemption.
Figurative pleads rendered as prayers, fastened a mascot which murmur fragmented vows. Crumbled notions about recovering brekage, triggered the pulses to ignite bewailed words. Poetry turns into religion, assuring lost retaining voice evoked for recognition.
A mundane occurrence about love escaped from sheer ochre stained coffee prints/burnt patterns. The stiffness of dark sky and timid breeze was enough to entertain the urges of vanity.
Desk full of sticky notes portrayed as a landscape of languid murder, where the only witness remains as feelings. The smudged and elegant ink called out the reasons why love felt like autumn.
Conversations enclosed by an endnote about well being declared fatigue as the first trespasser. The drenched sheets and glinted emptiness across the room, registered the day I felt occupied with excessive emotions.
With gulps of opaque coffee and forlorn paper about world in despair, I murmured words of your last visit. The echoes about forgetting sprouted a knot on how you still bleed within me.
Depleted eyes search for a ray to hold, withstand and leave. The sun fills corners with beams of faith, something I never asked for once.
Glimpse of anguish fall upon distorted rough drafts, deciphering prayers seized too close to free them. The despondent desk read out fable remedies alike a veracious holy book.
Trading stillness with lamentability revolving around and within me, I whisper goodbyes to you in prayers. The brisk newspaper lay disclosed with a plot of your escape, alike a silent monologue chanted aloud.
We bribe for a wisp of mirth with strangled notions about fantasy. The uncanny rituals of reality slip away between the gaps of our fingers. We hustle for a receipt of sanity, while regaining fractures manipulated by chaos. The weaved multitudes of retaining knit somewhere within the blocks of our skin. We hinder for a room of faith, disregarding tremors felt by the weight of the word. The ranging wavelengths of uplifting veil broken tissue encircling the thorns of our heart. We preach for a quest of validation when no trace of gratitude surround the havoc. The surreal turns of destiny carve faint dates of union that cast the burns on our wrist. We request for a glimpse of love, forbidding debris of tendered gestures breeding inside. The whispered solicitation of belonging conceal laments that render the mist of our breathe.
The body of resilience, sleep within isolated plains of lucid skin. How the flesh breathes inside a intangible time bomb. It bleeds answers, justifying the formation of destruction. How the red venom purges, unnoticing marks carved out for identification. It consumes hints, proclaiming the veiled web of torture. How the tissue conjures, every remain of prolonged grief. It sustains brutal, leashing fibers that speak my tongue. How the cells evolves, disclosing present stains of vulnerability. It weaves mobility, ensuring the sanity fill up the body. This body which revolves around clutches of hatred, fragility is still questioned. If I wear my name as a camouflage mask, will you foresee the dripping abuse? Yet, when I deliver this dybbuk to you, all you desire is my ruthless identity.
Summoned under all the tackling chaos of aliveness. I find myself amidst a land of retaining. Where lies a river that withers wallowing. The lucid water scatter drops of satisfaction all over. Oblivion beams of grief volatile the birms. Each night, the river croon to the forgiving moon. Brisk halo of validation allow shallow passage of vain. In the morning, the river strangle for a new aspiration. Clenched weeps of hopelessness recite a tale of reincarnation. Away from the fable land, I sit and mourn. Resembling the same dried cries shattered by the river. Chanting a name, sighting for empathy alike the mystical moon.
17:54:09 Somehow I still seem to remember the broken fibres of my faint memory stitched together by the sense of a longingness to forget; somehow I still seem to sew them again, with folded knots of 3 A.M nightmares. I always want to die, sometimes.
There was a limped plastic stool that used to fall over the third corner of our kitchen. I was sitting on the marble platform, peeling off onions with my bare hands, my nails used to sting and my grey eyes were already wet before gliding the knife with it's plastic edges melted by placing it on the stove. She came in, her hair tied in a whirl of another abused night. Somehow; she saw my tears, somehow, I deliberately believed hers were dry.
"What date is it today?" She asked, weighing over the stool. "13th. It's the 13th of November."
I had never seen her spring up to her tiptoe after she had found herself in love like I did that noon. She left; yet to smile at me again, bringing her sepia toned past memories drowning in that Maroon 1993 photographic album. I pushed back my hair by the aft of my carpals, with no interest in the backyard of her excitement.
"We looked beautiful that night. It's been a year since." "It's been a year since you looked beautiful together."
06:47:32 It's been a year since I looked at my cracked skin against the mirror with love. I know how miserably my soul peels off its veins; smiling at itself, I was told, it would get better; but tell me, does it ever? The reflection of my eyes still haunts me. There is a scar on my stomach, a dent over my knee; a love in my heart, a life it could be. But I hear you still, "You're beautiful; a little less than I am."
You came in like a heart attack. I'm sorry that I bother; exaggerate just you and I. That evening I gathered the pieces of my failed attempts to be transparent to your opaque eyes. And I wonder, if it would ever change; if you'll ever wish to be with someone as me.
It's been over a year since you told me that you're over me now; yet your presence still kept making me nervous to my bones. It's been over a year, why can't I let you go?
*I've told you So many times before But you never take it seriously And I know that it doesn't make much sense But you keep making me nervous, I wish you would feel nervous.* -MARO; Still Feel It All
15:14:13 I still reach out to the roots of that tree house you last touched me in. There lies a pair of boots that you lent me when I couldn't bother to wear my slippers on a rainy Sunday. That mud from your intentional jump to spill on me still sticks to its crust. I wish I could fit in; yet they don't accept me anymore.
Beneath that bed of yours, there still is that scrapbook you used to collect your inflorescence in for botany. I open it up, and most often I find a jasmine on the first page, with a dried edge yet fresh perfume. Other days, I see you plucking it off of the hair of a newly wed sitting in front of us in a fully loaded public bus, sniffing over and then placing it on my head. I still touch the corners of the pages of that diary you stole from me; the letters we wrote to each other, two inanimate objects; the photographs you secretly clicked of me.
I see you, in those photographs, and I still cry. I see, I still love you. A little less than myself.
I still look at that broken mirror; the day I held your hand and made the mistake to trust you. The way you stared at my face after giving me a temporary scar that made me bleed in solace, not long after I shared my cup of truth to you. Of who I am; the reasons of my being; the way I choose to love you, the way I never was given the choice.
And you blinked, "I hate you." I died, seven times in those seven minutes.
I still find myself sitting on your damp stuffed blanket; that evening when silence left me in hold of you, those lights, just like your eyes; bright, a little less than we were, a vibgyor, with no clear boundaries; a little more than between us. I still feel your torn hand running across my neck, beneath my jaw, I closed my eyes and felt sweet on my lips. "You simply stood up and left." Perhaps you forgot while running your pen in that letter; but I still remember how you whispered, "I love you." And my lip still hurt from two months back, I opened my eyes and saw my face in that broken mirror just to stand up and say, "I don't."
I still remember; standing at the edge of that river, I slipped, in black. Your voice still echoes in my heart, "13th of November. That's what's it's gonna be." 13th of November, I still remember how I called you and you didn't pick it up.
I still remember the way your mother looked at me with a smile so broken as mine on your funeral. Your body, with a broken foot; a face disfigured into an answer I don't wish to recognise. The way your letter melted in my hands; the way I felt those lies.
I thought, perhaps I loved you. A little less than you said you did.
19:04:00 She looked at me as if she didn't realise what I meant in a mundane brook of innocence. Yet her pulled down sleeves told me how those bruises held her veins in a territorial gaze.
"What do you mean?" "Why do you love him so much?" "For he does too."
That stool broke, flat on the floor, he came in my sight and asked her to hold his hand to the room. Keeping the photographs by the stove still burning in vain, she left in a blindfold. I dipped them into the fire, wishing they would melt without any ashes left for her to reminisce. I saw her smile burn to flames, hearing her screams from that room, those four walls I wish I could've broken down. A tear ran down my cheek, perhaps from the onion, or maybe from the fire blazing upto my eyes.
13th of November, I entered the room at 5:08 pm. I saw her sitting on the floor, watching over those broken bangles laying bare like an eclipsed moon. She was bleeding in vain, I sat down, with no interest in the backyard of her excitement, removing that blemish on her lip. It reminded me of a hatred I've been trying to forget. I touched her, and I had never seen her spring up to her tiptoe after she had found herself in love like I did that evening.
"He loves me, it's just a rough day for him." "Of course he does."
07:56:07 It's been a while since I felt you. I remember that jasmine you so loved; it had died but it's fragrance still alive. Still fresh. I wouldn't have held your hand and run mine through your hair if it wasn't for a stranger to ask me, "Did he know that you loved him?"
Tell me, did you know?
I stood by your grave that night. 11:54 P.M I asked you. And I heard, a voice so bleak.
*I'm just a-waiting for day to break Is this love or just a mistake? I'm just a-waiting for day to break How long will it take? Waiting for day to break Do you love me? Do you love me? Put somebody else above me Just don't leave me here alone.* -Daybreak; Cody Simpson
I felt my lips sweet from yours. I heard your beating chest, your smell over me. I saw you wear that un-ironed shirt of yours that I had gifted you. You hated it yet loved it for I did; just a little less than me.
I heard you whisper, "I love you." To who I wasn't. And in that moment I had my answer, "I don't." To who you never were.
She looked me in the eye and with a clench on my wrist she whispered, "Even if he doesn't; I always will."
Was it born while Van Gogh was painting 'Starry Night Over The Rhone'? Was it born when Charles Bukowski decided to be brutally honest? Or it was when Sylvia plath submitted her thesis 'The Magic Mirror' after getting electroconvulsive therapy for fighting depression after months.
Was it in the pain and havoc that the moon created dejected by the idea of never meeting his unrequited lover Sea. Was it born right after that shooting star fall from the sky, maybe in love or tragedy. Or was poetry born when you decided to keep grief and sadness within yourself?
You talk in Half finished words The sentences appear To be suspended On the edge Of a cliff And I wait For your lips To take the Plunge, the seconds Pass by, one After the other We try to Live an infinity Not knowing when The next one Might pass away.
I watch your Face, as white As a sheet Bars of sunlight Fall upon your Scarred wrists, and The ochre shadow Holds you prisoner It reminds you Of fire, but Not of warmth The embers start To fade away And the last One dies with The midnight sun.
All these words We speak with Such pride, have Been stolen and Plucked from the Graves of the Dead, all the Stories we tell Have been told To wide eyed Children sitting underneath A starlit sky We could have Been pioneers in A different age But today, we Are thieves, and That's all we Will ever be.