I'm watching the painted skies, Creasing at uneven edges The blues from the skies Seep into my soul A poem buried into the woods The sunset rhymes with shades It is the 18th winter Yet again Spent by the bonfire Do not ask me, What I burn Or about the fuel It is the season Where they ask you The coldness of your words Or why do you write But tell me, What is poetry, If not another call from the blues.
Your eyes shift shades Like weather forecasts This is the season Of Hozier by the fire Reciting free verses Like he lived through his songs, All of them I love how winter is so deceiving You can always lie, About your bloodshot eyes Or your baritone 'It's just some cold'
The city gulps a strepsil The morning newspaper lets out a cough Your forget-me-not blue From your favourite t-shirt Settles on the foggy skies Your resignation letters float, Like paper planes. The burnt pasta doesn't knock, On your insecurities. Your messed bedroom Starts to make sense
But no, This is not a lazy-sunday-morning-poem This is how your healing will look like
lunaticsilversI remember the day we stumbled over each other's smh, however from there the story might've turned, I'll always be glad that I've got to know you. From all shades of skies, and everything that you adore and turn into poetry, happy 18th. ❤️
It has been one whole fall; A pretty hectic one I saw the skies last time Through scarred branches And broken twigs You were there to pick on my flaws It has been one whole fall Spring is almost here I look at the skies After one whole forever And you're not here To pick on my flaws The sky looks pretty Through flowers on branches I look into my wrist The scars have healed The flowers bloom aloud, So do I.
You've left me, Fading chemtrails While he gently crosses the state lines I shouldn't have knocked on the blues This hard. The clouds break into rains anyway He hates monsoons I love the rainbows We were supposed to watch the sunsets They're so gloomy in his city And so pink in mine, The stars pair into a galaxy While I await their fall.
I want to etch a universe Where the ebony and ivory skinned Dine in the same platter Where they do not name castes, After bloodshed and feud But after faith and oneness Where nations hold their flags Together, while keeping Their geographical neighbours in hearts.
I want to etch a universe Where dreams are not fastened To one's destiny But to the chariot of capabilities Where slums manufacture gems And stand tall amidst the city fringes A universe where humanity serves, As the mightiest of religions
I want to etch a universe, Where they do not scrap out the artist, Out of the scientist, But water the bud of art So that it grows to be a mighty oak And give shelter to its offsprings Where they measure books and paints In the same scale And this poem, the worthiest.
I want to etch a universe Where they don't draw a horizon In gender bias, but As a string that holds the children Of Adam and eve together Where they paint sunsets In stains of equality And hold the seams of skies in unison.
I want to etch a universe Where this poem isn't a hushed desire But a far cry to rebel To remake, To rebuild The world in a better place, A call to that art and science To blend a miraculous mix For this world to be the same universe, My quill wants to etch.
Monsoon plays the gramophone Its tender echo against my windowpane The rains have a saviour complex It checks on me every while You don't explain feminine tears, Or rains in tropical zones But it's so humane to leave Yet so natural to stay The thunder knocks upon my reverie, You're never here when it rains.
Skies suffer a 2nd degree burn While the skylines bleed poetries, On my bare forehead Pastels of sunsets Paint my soul The festive moon Is a caretaker of gloomy autumns And dry monsoons It's when October Lets out a muffled sigh Into the pinafored horizon I realised it's hurting A little worse than lovesick poets I feel a metaphoric tap, On a left shoulder October whispers knowingly "Tell me aren't you hurting too?"
I love how History never loses the taste of melancholy, On its tongue Like a broken stereo That plays the same Elvis song Over, And over Again. Yet time lives on its amnesia For all the times it witnesses A story, A pause, A revelation, Or a loss that fuels poetry, A poetry, that's often not just words For I knew a man Who gave away wishlists folded in paper planes To a girl that resembled his dead daughter A woman who'd stop wearing blue A kid who took after his colonel uncle It's such a shame To be a poet When I don't know how to poetrify a loss. I didn't know Until today, That loss Is written In braille, To fathom it, Feel it first.
The city fidgets with a sleeping pill In a dilemma to break the myths Isn't it what you too said, You're a city that never sleeps So it's been some 88 sleepless nights And an attempt to write a poetry Pandemic poetries are truly a saviour It's where we're binge watching a new web series Or you teaching me to tame catastrophes But on days I'm somewhat of a realistic I know you've left the city Yet, winter creeps in through my leather jacket And the empty pavements smirk at me They're so akin to your gravestone So dead and so cold.
The priest says, the grimacing fireball, Sits on the driver's seat of your horoscope Which is to say, your sun sign makes up for your rage, This poem is its personification For all the times You pushed me towards uncertain cliffhangers And unannounced tragedies Intimacy is extremely personal But we struggle like racing cars Who make it to a dead end I forget your zodiac sign is leo Sun governed Yet the grimacing fireball smiles at me 'You've been strong', he whispers The sun has your back But it sets drowning my sorrows So that the nth time you don't mean your sorries I can still manage to say it's okay When it's really not.
You once told me, About the grey fogs in your hometown And how everything you see Is painted in greyscale And here I sit Under a blue blanket That tucks its seams at the ends of a spectrum And a sky so blue, Unapologetically, Reminds me of you. So when autumn comes Draped in a satin orange shirt I mouth him an apology 'I'm sorry, he's kinder' While I pray to skies 'Be less beautiful than him' But then Be it skies, be it you, The things I fall in love with, Always look down upon me.
I etch drenched poetries, For a man in Egypt, Who folds paper boats In a land, where it rarely rains He's unaware of the symphony of rains But I wish I could tell him, The song of rains is silence in its utmost beauty It never goes noisy And while he thinks, he's an outcast to this land, I cry him an oasis in secret
I've been to vernacular ruins of the city that witnessed cobalt skies through barbed fences and tangled skyscrapers. Civilizations lose their essence inside cracked cements as this city watches the world through grey filters and opaque glasses. The skies there, taste like the briny tears of a poem who tried too hard to hold on to smiles while a storm brewed in decayed cold hearts. Far beyond the monochromes of the fringes of this lost suburb, there lies a pale horizon that shares a jargon with the splintered skyline. I write about wastelands that look like an array of discarded poetries aligned together in a monotone. Here, the sunsets hold their colours till the time poets find their muse. I'm seeing the welkins run out of blues so I end up writing another sky-poetry for skies to bloom like wildflowers, unapologetic and those cold hearts to heal.
In God's grey reign Where perfection Is a lie, I stand 17 summers later Nurturing a sunflower in my palms And grey promises on my forehead Growing up Feels like painting a sunset On wooden fences, You never get the colours right Or planting a skyline On both sides Of an uneven smile Growing up is a story Whose end is a two-way street, But your feet are heavy From carrying the weight, Of faint memories While your name Is baptised by the clouds Growth knocks on your foggy windows An apocalypse disguised as home Growing up is a poetry Metamorphosing to a song A Vangogh's sky in the making, A dried paintbrush, A dull panorama And it's okay, If your painting, Is not an art Remember, In God's grey reign All artists Have a story But growth, Is an abstract poem
~M e g h a / Growing up is like painting a sky picture