Obnoxious clouds covering the horizon each corner, every bit, of it but, but this ain't be the eternity it's just an eclipse and it would be over soon and there will be light sublime and bright
what we are seeing today maybe it's mayhem of a daydream, bad or deprivation, a nightmare, ugly and sad but daydreams won't last after Sun down and nightmares are short-lived, every sunup, it's there, to make them die so, let's not lose ourselves in the hallucinations, of fear, of terror, of anxiety let's believe in ourselves let's believe in our fight back, let's hold on to our path, clarity and brevity let's be servants, humble, to humanity and soon there will be bliss, the only ethos, the only identity
for, bliss, it's like those doors without handles you may not be able to find the handle as of now, but you can still open it just you need to have, in your armour, knowledge patience know-how and a dedication to perceive it with consistence
this is my letter to the world, though I've addressed it to nobody for I meant to include in the mailing list me, you, he, she, they, everybody Come, let's join hands let's unite together in giving eloquent voice to an emotionally exhausting epitaph Let's epitomize this utterly sorry state, of things, of livingness, with some handsome garnishing, of compassion, of care, of sympathy, of precaution, of prevention, of comradeship, of love
And thus, even this will pass
We always, in our lives, remember our ancestors, and if ever, had they believed in afterlife, let's render our this abode, such a soothing, happy and vividly vibrant heaven, one such, that'd force even our forefathers to think of a rebirth
You and me in August conclusions of inclusion, utopian it may be a best thing, to daydream to let myths prevail, in airs cosmopolitan to dump realities rude, somewhere in ninth downstream and nine is my favourite number
You and me in August some realistic myths aromatize it fantastic, when my stubborn heart beats a melancholic rhythm numbers un-memorized encircling facts surreal playing opportunistic favouritism, love-hate it's a new number nine algorithm and nine is my favourite number
You and me in August dreamy passionate outburst villainous burden, possessiveness starts playing foul, deciding goals, hands covered with yellow paint and mouth sewed with ruined eulogies obituaries to the closeness of nine light years between two souls and nine is my favourite number
You and me in August Meanwhile I sing come September for, nine is my number, favorite, robust and a calendar, to it, nine means September and only March, it's destined to play the prelude to sing, April come, take this heart away farther than each month and each month's attitude March, none but him have the certitude, after me, you've still nine more symphonies to play and nine is my favourite number
You and me in August though we have burdens to carry there are still hundred and twenty days meanwhile, come let's craft some trust out of doubts and its molten slurry, come let's dedicate this whole of September to adding rhymes, to put more metaphors, still, to write some beautiful piece, in hand, we'd be having ninety more days and nine is my favourite number
You and me in August let's try to be fine, though pretending to be for despite the apocalyptic disgust September would come carrying hues, petrichor colored and mirages painted grand despite horizons slumber everything's gonna be fine for, September, it means nine and nine is my favourite number
On the esplanade deserted, semi-lit it's 2 a.m. already a long drive casual it's turning out to be an imagery surreal a fantasy strived it's like constellation ethereal
at this hour when the world around it has fallen asleep you are in a car with a beautiful boy hearts left to pound sounds amplified beep glasses rolled up dopamine glides rollercoaster trips
interlocked hands time travel faster dark light strands sentiments foster as he moves and moves a bit closer denials deceptive fight to evade closure
fog, thinner membranous makes night scintillating Triggered ignited hues passion desirous calling as if portraying fall chills keep riding the wind either to or not to mind resolutions keep falling
unleashing aura of touches intimate jeopardy finds flora repentance to hibernate colder airs shouting excitement and thrill despite air-conditioning backseat seems trademill
bodies entangled breathes colliding interlocked lips expressions avoiding green each, turns yellow orange red and brown groovy mazes shallow uncovered mellow skin thrown away velvety party gown
his fingers attempting to display workmanship record graphs fluctuating charms spelt of body worship sprinkling aurora Autumnus sets the harvest a night of assumption becomes home to craftsmanship Horae rewriting seasons allows flow of bewildered zest
Monarch butterflies seem getting off to travel intimacies untwined smears foggy to unravel moans fill the clan silence after the storm eve eats the apple cocks crowing, it's dawn fort each joyous charm creases boasting crumple
Patches, abrupt, of time, unassented, unkempt, doped with spillage, turbid, of musings, keep adding to the skyline, vulnerability of being painted in chaotic gray, peace, or for that matter sanctity, appears to be a drain, utopian, and we keep consoling ourselves, every time, to find a hideout or a rescue, we keep it calling a day . .
The mourning sea breeze whiskers us away and willingly or unwillingly though, leaving convictions left along the shore, we just tend to allow ourselves, getting drifted away. It's not that we cannot fight or retaliate, but the reason behind this, it's just a fact, that we have left the way, purposely, to put our righteous say. We're just lost in our favorite recipes seasonal or not so, we just keep shunting in between rhapsodies and ballads, their legacies, to hide our inefficacy, each risen day. Nowadays our musings too, they have mutated, they too tend to follow limitations or scopes predefined, neither do we care for our thought processes. We think a damn, about them, their being transperent, crystal clear, or even their being refined.
We're a newer version of this species of homo sapiens, we're cognizant or concerned about our favorite loud music and blacked thoughts, we choose them to be left undercover, using every rabbit hole as a dumping ground for thoughts provoked profound. And thus we keep proclaiming ourselves, a clas apart, stupendously astound
Swooning over every adoration, parched, arid yet with a pretendence moist, we keep tripping on a hole, in our loudly flaunted paper heart, we just keep pampering our alter egos, letting them ride over every solidarity. Our narrations, alongwith our narratives we are busy making them ooze radiance nugatory, we are our own favorites, busy keenly in just filling up the middle void, we are like addicted to turning every blessing into disguise, we're grooming a pathetic identity .
Not feared of anything, we tend to smoke, sitting on the rims of storages volatile, enacting always, to be Ignatius, writing a letter every occasion, as if to tell, don't you worry child, soon everything's gonna fine, we're turning out to be a clan, whose favorite tendency is to be fragile. Taking blatant opportunistic stand every time, cowardice is what we tend to hide, through each act of our so-called bravery, that we perform each time, just as a mime. Vocal sporadically, opportunistic deafs and dumbs, we're a concoction, deceitful of paradigms, contrast and weird, it won't be exaggeration, by any means, we're happy boasting, we are all peaceful cowards
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