Scrawling in the deserts arid, of lightlessness, stricken by the pains placid, and the uneasiness, as I strive hard, to find some words, some metaphors, to use, I am always mislead by the Illusions of muse
The night sky, the moon and the stars, as I try to tuck them all, in stanzas amusing, a rubified heart, some bleed and all the scars, they'd steal the show, with gazes of musings
As I try weaving, flowers, petrichor or mist, pains forgotten rise, head up, top of the list, it's not that I'm like happy, to scribble pain, but the melancholy, keeps hijacking the pen
Despairs begin caressing me, from all around, lightlessness eclipsing thoughts and sound, to retaliate, I try to find solace, some euphoria, but the ripples of writing, they seem like utopia
Defunct and lost, I just sit watching a spider, weaving its web, and the award, it's nothing but arachnophobia Like some frozen frost, words echo just emptiness, nothing's to ebb, as I search for rescue, what I gather, it's just claustrophobia ...
Not all nights are same, you may agree or disagree, but for me atleast, not all of them are same
for, some come, for me, with a gift-wrapped insomnia some others, they keep pumping adrenaline, with illusions of barorexia, some though, they keep me indulged in dilemmas malicious, asking me to choose from agility or inertia
but, this one, the one that I'm speaking of, it seems unique, it's first one of its kind for, the night Queen, she's up already, spreading her armour, of rays, possibly, for me to find
what she's intending, I do not know, but I am feeling like, at me, she's tossing, the balls of snow, and though apparently, this snow, seems like singing carols, with the stars, but I'm already feeling, the ice, spreading, to my bones, to drip, with lucidity through my scars
and the moon, she's deliberate, in her actions, aesthetically, kissing the star, atop the Christmas tree at the same time, she's deceiving me, with vibes illusive, of the chronicles of paradise, she's like pushing me, to the streets, of pain, alongside the burgundy blades of grass, does she too know, I've no more ground, to flee
is she trying to take me, back to simpler days, weaving the pebbles, of past, bygone, in an apparantly charming rhapsody ? or does she want to listen, from my mouth, the question eternal, are we nothing more, than a recycled tragedy ?
I'd never know, if I am really living this, or this is just another scary dream for, I am feeling it now, for when I tried to touch her, she scattered herself, into thousand glorious rays, and started flowing, floating over the camouflaged streams
is she going to shatter me, in umpteen pieces, or is she aiming for my strengths, to turn them into ashes or is she going for the rainbow on my palette, and dreams in my eyes or is she convinced, about my being culprit, for each deed, each of my told untold lies,
but, this, this doesn't seem to be end of it all, the climax is yet to come, how it can be the curtain call as I start, preparing myself, for to be hanged, or to be cut, by nake just then,the climax, it launches itself, the moony queen, she's smiling as if she wished upon a sparkling snowflake,
ohh my, this again us a twist, one that was never on the list, now with her rays, she's pampering me long, and I'm like confused, is this done dream, or I have been forgiven, for each of my wrong
I really don't know I'm like in two minds either to run away, out of this dreamy realm, or just to lie there sluggishly, waiting to hear, the beeps, of morning alarm
It has been always amazing me, the unending passion, the inclination, you guys have, towards Life, in its every format, in its each frame, despite difficulties and adversities, how you hold on, the way you sustain and the way you resist, it always has mesmerized me
Nowadays, we all know, the falling of a star, and some force in this cosmos, making it shine like a flash, in front of us and what we see is its journey, a phenomenon of light and beauty, but tying this phenomenon with some life aspirations, counting it as some omen and using it as an opportunity, to wish for something, you always keep aspiring for, it's too adorable, I think
And may this be a belief for you, for some this might even something like a blind belief too, but at least I won't count this your emotional action as blind, rather for me , the belief you have in your believing power, it's much more an inspiration catalyst than its intellectual analysis
For, we all are going through turbulence, emotional, social, political, economic and of all sorts, we are passing through an unknown unimaginable situation and in this blind walk, it's absolutely fine, if you keep searching for some ray of hope, of light, of inspiration. Now what you choose, as your light source, it's perfectly upto you, but why I think it's great to wish something, seeing a falling star, is my reading that thinks of you, as like you're much more assimilated with this habitat of ours, rather than going for logic or ethos behind it, and moreover, those who aren't engulfed by chaos, they're the most vocal lawyers of ethos, howbeit
So, even if today we know the science behind the visuals of a shooting star, I won't call it as one of the rituals, bad, but certainly I would like to request you all, you keep wishing as always, just for a change maybe, engrave the image of the shooting star and your wish, in your heart, this combo would keep you inspiring always to fulfilment of every wish, you had wished for, seeing every falling star
As you all and I too know, this universe has myriad stars and our minds have infinite dreams, not all stars falling one can see and not all dreams fulfilling, one can have, but let's try and strive, to work towards the fulfilment, of most of them, until we are permitted to see the stars, that much is what we can, and if we do
And now, if you have read this upto here, let me ask you a favor, the next time you see a falling star and you make a wish, try to remember this and devote yourselves, to an all-out effort, to complete your wish or dream
Nothing much to say beyond this, let me wish you all, your each and every dream, it may come true , soon ....
Written in a syllabic pattern 8/6/4/2/10/2/4/6/8/10
Somewhere on the internet , this form with 60 syllables in all , it's referred to as carpe diem form , but I couldn't find the authentication for the same , still the grace of the form compelled me to write one
" I feel a funeral in my brain " By Emily Dickinson
To breathe , to live or to live , to breathe or to just let it go ohh those dilemmas would the Hamlet steal the show
If , I choose to breathe , to live then this audacious world with all it's glossaries it's something more than an heaven , pristine
And if , I choose to live , to breathe then this ferocious world with all it's cracked vocabularies it's nothing more than defunct breathing accessories denying power to lungs , frankenstein
Here enters , in the frame the much esteemed nobility placing asterisks on my living , or rather , breathing ability questioning the very quintessence of my part and parcel , of each of my grain propelling me , towards , the edges of migraine and I start feeling , a funeral, in my brain
Now , I can see the corpses poisoned , of intuitions placed neatly in the caskets of cherry wood coffins some nostalgic remembrance interpretations some freshly printed glossy obituaries and those wreaths , offered by the dignitaries I need to check , if , death of poesies , is it currently trending in all those vocabularies and dictionaries 6 For , I can sense , airs , gloomy and weepy some mournings , half cozy , half breezy some mourners , desperately trying to feel easy some trying to behave , flaunting being lazy my imaginations , they're now in doldrums poor they , they've worked so hard like some bees , busy
And I can see , the ritual going on , last some offerings in the form of farewell songs forgiveness for all deeds , bad or wrongs Now , the migraine , in my head , it's beginning to beat the gongs But I have to find a way , out of the horde , piercing through the throngs and hanker my intuitions once again , to be getting strong breaking all those coffins and again venturing striding along
For , I know , whenever my scars , they begin bleeding oozing out all the pain that every time I feel a funeral , in my brain
Return, In its pristine aura, With the scintillating light, Blotched with ivory, Sacred with all its blunders, And alabaster white ambiguities, Pulchritudinous throughout, Return my, insanity infused love.
Bright scarlet shaded, Intransigent in the choice of a soul, Plunged deep into the entangled heart, Unaware of the psychedelic medley of intensities, Subjugated to stark blue phases, In the smothering cavities of your bod, Paraphernalia of my existence hankers to loom out, Return my, insanity infused love.
then I'll stare at you with a bemused look for a few minutes and answer in a perplexed tone that I'm a v a g a b o n d who carries a transparent yet an obscure heart in the ribcage and forages metaphors in serenity and tries to hear the clandestines that are camouflaged behind the grey walls of my monotonous room.
If you ask me who I'm
then I might say that I'm a subdued p o e t e s s who hopelessly scribbles for the one who made me believe that forever is a "fable" and broke my heart into myriad of pieces and wrapped it in the box of melancholy and gifted me. I'm a poetess who spews the remains of the torment reposing in my heart since long in the form of my poesies.
If you ask me who I'm
Then I'll say that I'm an underrated p o e m made up of broken words, obscured phrases and nubile vocabulary.I run candidly in the megalopolis of literature unveiling my vulnerabilities and insecurities.
If you ask me who I'm
Then I'll say that I'm a s u r v i v o r of the brain wars that plunges my larynx with slender knives and swords, awaiting the very moment when I'll perish. Shortly, when I would be gone , but till then let me persevere to endure all the havocs that the brain wars create every day.
If you ask me who I'm
Then I'll say with a wide smile on my face that I'm an eensy p u p a sleeping inside the cocoon and anticipating for the day when I'll finally transform into a flamboyant butterfly and float from petal to petal blithely.
//I'm devoid of life, clutching the brook of tears for aeons in my eyes until I let them transude to cry. Quick chokes all of a sudden declines , as soon as I Iet my pangs lie supine on my sleeves so well that now, I seem half dead to myself.//
The Breeze this winter feels a bit drier, squirting through the window sill making the hazy glass damp against the all aged walls of my abode, it calls me with the deep notes reciting "you" and "us", which are audible merely to my ears and I being the same lethargic soul, hear that heartbreaking resonance echoing deep within the circumference of my head.
Like a feuillemort leaf tired of putting on the weight of being happy green covers itself with deep scars gifted to her by age, I try to suppress my tears behind this weather of winter, dripping few drops when falling from the edges of pine when kisses the earth beneath them they out in all their might as if this was the only choice their heart had ever made, the choice of meeting the one which completed them
Looking at the meeting I ask just one question to the air around me, when will the time come that I will caress those pink edges of lips with mine, when will I cover them with the few this season has gifted me with?
This season keeps me reminding of the linking we have in between, through the old school pages of my rusted diary, I try to give back the time we spent together in each other's company as one single soul with a smile on your face and a blushing red hue on mine.
Love . A single four letter word trying to sync the happiness around or burn you in pain of unending poetry.‘It was never a lost place but a blend of thousand emotions and presence of him around', she is making her own reflection understand in calmness of air in moonlight with shivering heart of fear . I know she is finding her love again, I know she has lost her own path of thoughts for him. She is engrossed in those childhood memories where festivals were just a reason and eyes were discovering those eyes were peace had godly presence. She is finding herself in those games where he use to argue with others just to hold her hand and find infinite cheerfulness being on her side. She is calming her soul by recalling those old call recording in curves of her ears baltering with his sweet voice.Her cellphone still reveals him in hidden albums where all phosphenes moments are treasured. But what are those memories now? Just a past . She depicts her induratize love in her diary, fetching the thoughts chuckling at own. I was just staring at her with smile and hoping what if she wouldn't forget him... *My heart sobs* for her pain where love was now a memory burning her every breathe for his wait.
I don't have courage to make her understand metanoia irony. But if I lost her .‘She is cicatrize of novel he will write', she always makes herself calm in redamancy.I asked her soul several times ,“Does he still loves you?",The answer screamed ‘yes'.She still believes he could hold her hand and take her alate. She even knows that he buried her memories in lost anxiety.The metaphor of her every phrases is hidden albums for him.But I hope someday she will make her mind understand it is love which is not letting her go,not the person who made her ink to flow of mirk alew.... / Trust says what about heart /
*Hope in heart sings seeing reflection of moon*
//Ajeeb daastaan hai yeh kahan shuru kahan khatam ye manzilen hain kaunsi na wo samajh sakein na hum//
Ps: Fiction :p The words in double slashes is an old Bollywood song.
Suppose I'm telling you a celestial story in the poems I write everyday. _breathe in , breathe out_
The oxygen you breathe daily of an old rusted book mixed with half baked sunlight, still boiling with rosemary on a low flamed gas stove. It utters thousand of voices simultaneously. Some sweet memories some dark truths. And you prepare it like a refreshing morning coffee , thinking and pondering about the person you insanely love.
Sunshine taste's like that first coffee you had back in the december morning. Sunshine taste like the hope, the hope which you often see in the whiskey bottles , eagerly drinking to stop the ache you feel with in your hearts .
// Sunshine melts into stardust when moonlight starts to cover the sky. //
I heard moon whispering the words so solemnly deep-toned as happiness . Those frontiers where the sky is the unlimited limit of all our hopes give meaning to all our lives.
That moonlight smells like lavender every time you find yourself surrounded with love . Every time when love fails it is forced to give us the peace and clean up our mess . The moonlight holds the hope that with each new dawn we have a new start . And hope inspired humans for centuries to aspire and dream.
It's funny how foolishly we artists dare to replicate god's celestial art , Isn't it?
I console my hope Realising the trauma of grief. My heart is taking a revenge Holding the ink of lost philocaly And you know I'm high on indite for you Don't you?
Wild ashes of pain, Inking an aubade of my scars. Twitterpated heart of caged anxiety, Is withering it's petals, Chronicle once with me. You ain't high on memories of us?
Memories are miracles, Hiding the secrets inside me. Trust of destiny , Chuckles at glance of ‘us', Tears are not just flowing But eyes are adbitory for you being You ain't high on horizon of apricity Of being us?
Sadness, emptiness, loss, despair and fear Is what you and me are with, Diary flows the roots of our love, Inditing anagapesis of verses, Murky presence of heartbreak to glow, Ain't I now a selenophile , Aching myself with pain of you?
We are facing an absquatulate, Rhyming my syllables with epitome as you Mess is just a metaphor High on irony of you......
B- They say "poets are liars. They lie about their emotions through their metaphors and they hide their vehemences beneath the velarium of verses." Do you think so ?
J- Poets are irony of vehemences beneath the velarium of verses glorifying the emotion of fetching, aching heart.
B-Yeah and sometimes poets scribble because they can't open up things to others. Is this true or just a saying !!
J- Truth has a floral presence in each syllable they weave. They are Metanoia to the thoughts of wayward person recognised by few arcane
B- Yeah. absolutely.. and apart of those arcane cum furtive truths, do you really think that the poets have any important role in this go-go faster society where we all are hiding behind the mattresses of apps ?
J- Indeed , they make a soul search out its beauty, finding a retrouvaills leaving behind the one's past dark burned marks and make them reach laconic whispers of finding ownself in this solivagant world.
B- Yup, this is so true now-a-days and this poetry becomes a boon companion for us. And to read other poets ; a blessing too. We are knowing each other, their beautiful works and making new friends ; do you think this is right or somewhere we are doing something wrong ?
J- We all are in balter of hiding the cicatrize moments unfolding metaphors of life. Might be knowing each other in these poetic world is blessing of ethereal apricity for comforting us in irenic peace.
B- Of course, and it's a blessing to meet you here on this platform and knowing you beautiful soul. Keep Shining:)
J- Glad to have you adorable writer and meraki soul :)
Doesn’t the moon feel forlorn In the desolation Of long drawn lonely nights In the destitution maybe it feels lost Unable to gauge which way is right Devoid of all light except it’s own Cold and alone in the isolation The darkness must begin To feel like home Left abandoned in the desertion The scents of the night feel So amplified ...the moonbeams Divinely reflect the scent Of loneliness , persuasion and fresh Jasmines in the night The fragrance of wonder, amazement, Awe and delight The aroma of sweet nectaries and White roses alike The essence of the sea, gleaming in The moonlight The whiff of enigma of the starlit skies It is fascinating how the moonlight Is both lonesome and delightful At the same time As the silver beams light up the world The scents of the night make The heart strings chime