Smiles are costly and I'm not much of a bargainer, so I pay with blood for the happiness you see plastered on my face, because pretence is the new reality these days.
Words come cheap to those who dwell in bars with a broken heart spilled on their clothes, like the permanent ink of sorrows, tattooed on their skin.
Kindness echoes fiction, many say a fairytale of our time, for children to believe that poverty is a monster which can be defeated.
Hope is a graveyard kept alive with the flowers, stranded strangers leave behind, perfumed with guilt and amnesia as they forget everything but the scriptures of faith
Life, a beautiful lie and death, a hurtful truth they say, so when I've lived my lies as truth, bury me with the smiles I held dear, nail them to my coffin, so that whenever they pass me by, they will know pretences are opaque promises not meant to enter afterlife.
Bury me with words, immortal in an honest love lost, so their story may live in my epitaph, for the stranger kissing goodbye can believe love is the strongest force of all.
Bury me with kindness in the way you lay down my body, for your faintest touch of warmth may keep me warm, if my soul finds solace in the broken hut you walk by daily, but never stopped to spare a morsel or a penny.
Bury me with hope to forgive yourself if you forget, the moles on my body or how my lips were bow shaped, for eyes are but illusions and faith is in the love, in your heartbeats that rage.
For the uncertainty and certainty meet like old friends in the aftelife, bury me with both, a taste for life fulfilled and an adventure yet to take.
Don't ask me for words to soothe your heart, nor for words to bind some peace. The lies look beautiful on your skin, complimenting those treacherous orbs. If my lips were to ever touch yours, my verses will wilt those plump roses you adorn. Don't ask me for words.
Don't ask me for love to drown your sorrows, nor for love to wound the hate. The void vase plummeting nothingness in you, hides black holes. If my heart were to ever sync with yours, you will be nothing but a debris of dead dreams. Don't ask me for love.
Don't ask me for rain to quench your thirst, nor for rain to replenish parched eyes. The sandcastle memories are stored in a hourglass, far from the waves of time. If my mind were to seek solace in yours, you will find amnesia knocking at your door. Don't ask me for rain.
Don't ask me for death to bring winters again, nor for death to be your lover. The autumn breeze braided in your hair turns graveyards to shrines. If my life were to ever entangle with yours, her summer warmth would burn you on a pyre. Don't ask me for death.
He waltzed in spring and knocked twice, Waking up the hibernating hearts, Disguised as a cupid's arrow sometimes Or a sunset at lover's point. His skin, love letters in the sky; His hair, strings connecting miles; His eyes, a wishing well; His heart, the open sky; February, they call him, My fetish, the verses ink him.
He is the second son, Ringing bells of spring And warming winter's grave. Ask a lover what's his name, For all I remember are poems Carved in his essence.
When you practice gratitude it makes you look at things in a better way. Leaves will rumble when the wind is gusty, wilted ones too. And who says that a dead leaf isn't beautiful. Grey is always associated with Gloomy mood, I have great reverence for people who have decoded what grey is. I have great reverence for people who are resilient. Not everyone can tolerate and not break, but you don't have to tolerate when you have a mouth to speak, you should. Anger, sadness won't subside if you won't treat it. Silence could be an antidote but the hurt won't fade if you won't talk about it. When the grey clouds gather up in the sky they protect you from heat, sometimes the drops are forgiveness for your sins, sometimes the drops sting like nudges from Scissorhands. Many of us are not what we tell others, we picturise how we want to be perceived by others. Many of us don't talk about how we were bad to others but won't stop for a minute if someone does the same. When you get happier, you forget these things. It's so liberating to forget things, to forget how people looked, how they sounded, how they had lit up your day once and how they ended up ruining you.
As I have already said, a poet is a poet only when he is writing a poem. I will be a human again as I go back to have lunch and forget about what I had written.
Imagine a tiny world where sunset lasts longer than few minutes, where children of all ages gather around a fire to sing, smile and write about water lilies, where nobody is chasing time and where everything is a story– shades of sky, wilted lilacs, pink men, young women and absurd poetry.
This is the world where I entered more than three years ago and my journey so far has been no less than magical. I call my Hogwarts, Mirakee and today Mirakee has turned FIVE. Period ❤
This collaboration is a tribute to this beautiful place and I am highly grateful to all the contributors for agreeing to be a part of this. Join us in the celebration, will you?
poetry is the art of the poor the rich rarely have a flair for it the ones who are stricken with a dark life, who rummage their pockets but don't find a single friend, who are neck deep in lonliness even while smiling this art belongs to them it is their only inheritance it feeds their starving souls when the world denies to help and in december when the winter gets so ruthless and slits through their bare wrists poetry covers up people like a mother hiding a child in her shawl when everyone looks down on their existence, poetry hugs the untouchables
So, this is from a different pov. usually when people change, and lose a lover- in that time period, it's often labeled as 'I changed and he/she wasn't okay with me changing' which is true most of the times (I've been there) but then sometimes, when you are in this phase of changing - you yourself forget the person who loves you because of all the new flowers around you and it's partially you who lost them, and they tried but couldn't keep up with your pace for they are only humans.
all of my favourite songs, movies, books, poems, cars, people, have gradually started to hurt my head; usually, I'm never seen indoors, covered with poorly painted walls, usually, I'm known to abuse the accelerator — but, there's this stretch of road, across the NH-48; it has a great deal, of barbecue places, of hotels, of transgenders and of prostitutes. call me an asshole, but, one rainy night, I picked up a prostitute from that very spot, it wasn't my first time with a hooker, but, it was definitely, my very first time with someone who had the same old junk, as me; call me an asshole, I had to throw my fists and limbs to get her out of my car's backseat; and ever since that night, I've started to think twice before picking up a female inside my car.
I pay for my monthly music subscription, however, the rotation of tracks inside this car, have been so repetitive lately, that it almost, manifests into prominent patterns — patterns of clear confusion, I would rather listen : to the engine roar, to the next-door butcher finally getting his meat to rise for that underaged girl, I would rather listen to myself cry, everytime the radio plays a David Bowie song; and, what I wouldn't give to have all of my idols back into this world, I can't love, everytime that I do, I find myself turning, indefinitely, into my damned shadow — so, they ask me to breathe, for them, love is in the air, and, I'm still breathing but, I've had enough. enough of the bad news, enough of the starving because, I have not eaten since the last two, or three days; my ability to recollect has taken a left turn, all I could say, is that, I haven't eaten for days, for all the things that have been eating at me.