Nearly a month ago, I alienated a close friend of mine, We had so many similarities when we were together, we felt so right. I have social-anxiety, but it's okay I was fine. But one day I alienated her with my bad temper, indeed I can't control my anger. I felt estranged by my close friend, I felt so terrible, I wanted to talk to her. So, I apologized! Things were going well, I was polite to her, but she started ignoring me, Now we are just strangers. She was with her new friends and I was by myself, ALONE! But thanks to her, I've come to appreciate my own company, I learned to vibe with myself, Because I didn't want to feel small or not good enough in a group of people. It was the first time I alienated anyone, but I guess I did good. I have trouble fitting in with my so-called friends. So, I don't need friends. It's okay! I'm all on my own. I'll be with myself till the end! :)
Once upon a time I was alive I was a lovely flower once, But my only fault was, that I was born in a place where I didn't belong, I was born between some wild and ugly bushes, So for everyone I was worthless I was also ashamed of myself, As days passed by, and the rain stopped pouring. I died of thirst! I was just a little flower bud, Who needed care and a little bit of love. I spent my short lifetime thinking about, That I didn't deserve the things that my heart desired. Now I am dead but I shall re born again and this time I will bloom with grace without any regrets, no matter what! I won't stop.
It was just another sleepless night. I had promised myself that I would not touch my phone. As I was tossing around in my bed, I saw a lustrous light. I got up and walked towards the window to see the Moon's radiant light. I sat down admiring the charming illumination.
Slowly, I witnessed the moon descending. I saw stairs adorned with white and red roses moving towards me. I was flabbergasted to see a sight like this. And then I stood there watching people climbing the flowery escalier. Dressed in white, embellished with smiles, walking from all directions. There was an air of calmness. From their smiles, I could recognise that they have left behind all their worldly burdens and miseries and are ascending the stairs to paradise....
City trees, weak and stunted, bear relentless mockery by country and wild cousins, though everyone agrees that suburban trees are least esteemed, paltry excuses overcompensating for their deficits in diversity (of size or shape) with excess pageantry
The enlightened ones, city and suburban, wave manicured tips, speaking in whispered thrums - how relieved they are not to be unprotected forest trees, in constant danger of the ravages of capitalism and neglect
The forest trees laugh at their ignorant cousins - they know the freedom of the wild places where true peace can be found; they will gladly face the danger proudly rooted, in wild ground
The older trees, between naps, wheeze of many, many spring times ago, of cleaner air and bigger trees, of simpler lives and clearer skies and creatures long since gone; they know change will come, And change will go, and Still they will root on
A hieroglyph (Greek for "sacred carvings") was a character of the ancient Egyptian writing system. Logographic scripts that are pictographic in form in a way reminiscent of ancient Egyptian are also sometimes called "hieroglyphs".
You may embrace the scarlet envelopes and not not the letter dressed in white but it is the letter which is the memoir of a loved one. The Taj Mahal is one such memoir and the history of the memoirs in general.
Everyone has seen Mona Lisa and her smile is a spectacle. The painting hangs on the wall the walls are peachy in contrast to the painting.
There is a portrait of the sun breathing the dust at the horizon; it was morn, sharp 5:00 then and now 10:00 at night. The night sky stares at the ocean While the waves blink in silence.
Pointing out a lamp back then, I thought it was moon until I knew that moon is a pale face engraved with scars and there are stars at her threshold, they are job holders in constellations.
I am a dream that lives through the day I am an illusion that's true. A vision , nearly complete. A masterpiece in making. The Work in Progress. Da Vinici may not "Mona Lisa" me I am not David. But I am a Norman Rockwell painting Come to life! In all the other words and ways I am Art. And what a spectacle that is? . .
When describing my vintage house, For the high ceilings ,and the distinctive aesthetics The Venetian blinds controlled the sun in through it, Posing as curtains, louvers made peeping simple by the house full of energetics.
The blinders of the house have lots to unfold, They held hidden stories,for generations untold. The Jalousies as named, offered enough room for histories to create, The window became the signature, remembering the glories to relate.
Months rolled into decades that changed to century My window stood tall and elegant Witnessing many members come and go, Capturing moments and making them a memory.
Today there’s nothing open about you my window. You've shut yourself in and out. Holding the legacy of the vintage house, You still smile quietly without a doubt.
Battered by the strong winds and chills of the air, Fighting the perilous rain and the sun with all its glare, A day will come when I will never see you anymore. But you will hold a special place in my heart. And I will always mention you in my sweet folklore.
Time is the ruler of all magicians who spell the magic of tranquility on the veins of people who despair about life which do not embrace splintered fragments of euphoria as it goes in an artpiece of impressions that they didn't paint on their canvas.
Time is the enuthusiastic artist who exuberantly compiles those incomplete sonnets of a mourning poet's muse into a serendipitous spectacle that gently caresses the bristles of a brush on the bruises which injured the art itself.
Time is the melodious music rising from the old harmonium and it's zealous ghazals sung by the grieving heart of a lost lonely lyricist turning voice into beats of waves on the ocean of dejections and incomplete solitude.
Time is the mudra blooming between the fingertips of an ambitious nautch-girl turning her expressions into rendition of knowledge and experience and the ideas sharpening at the edges of her eyes transforming her eyelids into a rivulet of longings and hankerings for love.
On shopping saw a strange sight, some unsatisfied, sophisticated and lavished souls were confused and trying precious and expensive attires one after another, whereas some are sufficed and fulfilled with some common stuffs,some were grabbing whatever they liked at first sight, whereas, some disheartened heart standing outside and trying to forget the only thing liked by their hopeful eyes. ____________________________________
There goes the paper boat, leaving a laugh over the face of that 2'3 being. Amidst the splashing rain and blowing wind, it goes and disappears soon in a world so unknown. The next boat comes and gets engulfed by the tide once again. The chine continues and more and more smiles get vanished until the rain departs.
Under that heavy sky there stands the tiring face of a man, choosing to stay away from the isle of rain. Every drop of water falling over that frail sheet yells a story of past where an unusual war started to end something. There seems a great fight between what is destined for you and what you wish to have and in the end it's your fate that wins.
•R A I N•
Heading high to the sky, it shows how far the clouds are. Probably your wings can touch those but the wind reminds of the dripping drops of broken faith. Indeed the light after the dark sky evaporates the leftover scar, reaped after a huge struggle with your own book wrote with dark red stain. The man near me looked at his wet slacked creases, accepting his destiny as the driving force. He looked up and smiled, Ironically it was the helplessness in him.. But He smiled.
•P A P E R B O A T S•
The raw cellulose moulded in thin sheets and unblemished, always held enough power to recite a man's best. I remember my mother carrying hopes wrapped in these papers which often made her eyes shimmer. Everytime I fold it into a paper boat, she asked me to sail it in a direction where lies a land of desires. Isn't it funny, the way we once enjoyed this little thing once, is now a homage to our dead aspirations.
Seeing a child making paper boats don't cherish the child in us anymore rather it shoots the acquaintance with the upcoming future.
Today it's raining and I wished to sit by the pond and test my fortune once again but the lapse of time covers my head tightly. Perhaps nothing is gonna change when there is no war between those paper boats and rain again. And the lost boats are struggling to return once again. And they are lost again....
P.S writing after a long time , please don't judge.