laxitha

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Flowers have fallen. It's winter time.

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  • laxitha 100w

    White chess set, white gown, white sail, white fin, white flower, white night, white font. I am white.
    ©laxitha

    And that's the last one. I take adieu from being a poet, or a writer, today. So for the last time, if you do. I shall write occasionally, but that would be a diary, maybe. And someday, when we all meet, remember me?

    Thank you @mirakee For giving me everything; home, love, life. But that's it. That's all the words I have today.

    *cookies for everyone!*

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    White

    I always wondered if I was enough,
    If the galaxies in my coffee cup
    Were sweetness of his cologne
    Or the morning sunlight.
    If i caught fire on feelings and
    He'd be there, because well,
    I knew I wasn't enough.

    I met a fairy tale, a questionable game,
    And as the world came down on my feet,
    I went offshore to fight, as a warrior,
    The soldier sheilding my king.
    I took one step at a time,
    Killed across, some pain,
    But I knew I wasn't enough.

    I shipped the sail, and made a flight,
    Became the wrong fin, on the right,
    I carried half the weight,
    Half the life.
    I blew hard against the wind,
    Yet the ship sinked,
    Because I knew I wasn't enough.

    My angel looked over me,
    I looked over the sheep,
    I howled when a wolf came in,
    My master heard me.
    The wolf still took a bite, and three sheep,
    I wagged my tail, and broken teeth,
    But I knew I wasn't enough.

    The tanks were feuled with religion,
    The garlands went unnoticed,
    A God plucked me from the wrap,
    Shoved me back in the garden.
    The garden didn't cry,
    At the death of me,
    Because I knew I wasn't enough.

    I loved a man, a beautiful man,
    I wrote him poems and dreams,
    I played my heart on flutes and tunes,
    I drowned on the shore.
    I became a dreaded day, one human,
    One night of sleepless dream,
    I knew I wasn't enough to keep.

    ©laxitha

  • laxitha 107w

    So the three signifies that i have two poems more under the same name. If you feel like reading them too you can find them under #ifievergo Although i don't expect you to, but hey human mind is vivid. It sometimes likes things that are inappropriate (like so many of you like me, haha slef depreciation alert)

    I'm not sure if you know what a sea star is, because I think that's the cheesiest metaphor here. In ancient times, sea people didn't just follow the sun, they also followed the pole star, so meh.

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    If I ever go - III

    Hey you,
    It's been a long time
    Since we did this.
    This is pain and sweat combined
    In words I put out for you,
    So hear me out,
    Because this is important
    For you.

    I remember the petrichor
    Of the sun kissed day
    Hands in hands
    We walked on cotton clay
    And the sun went down on us
    One last kiss of a goodbye.

    I knew pain
    When I couldn't make us last
    And my efforts fell like
    An already broken glass
    Now I try to know it
    A little less, everyday.

    Never had I been so quiet
    That the story of my Cinderella
    In an aureate gown
    Left my trail of thoughts
    To collide in your blue dreams.

    Of dreams, I'm sure you know
    Because that's what helps
    In a nightless sleep.

    I have loved, I tell you
    Like two birds
    Under one feather in apricity;
    Like stone and water
    Across a blank meadow to the sea;
    And dead bark in an autumny land
    Away from its tree.

    I have loved you
    Even if it wasn't right.
    Believe me when I tell you
    I knew this would end.
    We were not circles
    Looping dead.

    The deep sea, I gave
    All my secrets and truths
    So that if I leave
    You have my all.

    All of my chase
    Before we stood.
    Cat and mouse for
    4 months and sixteen days.
    Books by my bed
    And breaths between tears
    Pepper on conversations
    Telltales to hear.

    My place I would take,
    My chair and my lips.
    But I'd leave behind
    The story of our first kiss.
    I would take away warmth
    From your fire every night
    But I will leave behind
    An unburnt log.

    Because undead loopholes
    That we are
    I'd be a cloud
    Facing the sea star.
    ©laxitha

  • laxitha 112w

    @hoshi I write for you today. Because you make me happy. I don't know if I have felt this warm in years, when you gave me the happy news. And oh, I'm not putting our bond into the 'forever' category, but your happiness will keep on making me smile, so I promise it is perpetual.

    I hope you read this someday (because it may be short, it took me 2 solid hours to write), just enough to know that I miss you. �� And I miss long comments and conversations. Come back, sometime soon.

    _________________________________________________________

    I sit on charcoaled wall of my newly made house. The colours of the sky are deep purple, bright orange and tint of blue. The house broke down and yet, our conversations stood. I asked my husband to rebuild this wall, in similar fashion. No questions were asked.

    We talked on starry nights, of pain, guilt, regrets, likes and somehow ended up meaning a lot to each other. I wrote to him in poetries and he called me magic. He wrote to me with love and I called him star. On numerous occasions, his wrinkled hands fell on the wall and he told me how life was similar. You never purposefully colour it, and yet somehow end up doing it. He rambled about his theories on life and we ended up scrutinizing stars into our plates.

    His was the Pole Star. Mine, the Betelgeuse. He wanted path in life and I always ended up being the second best. "Coffee?" He'd ask. But would end up giving me a purpose. And so, when he wasn't there, I'd still verse.

    Today, I am two years short of 40. And my kids know him a little. I know him a little. I told him to take road trips and fall in love. And when he returned a smile never left his mouth while he enjoyed newness over cups of coffees and cans of beers.

    We had a lifetime of conversations, wrapped in a wall. We had bricks of hearts and spades, and an ace of club tucked under a diary. Some diamonds of Jupiter and Saturn etched in memories and a throne full of crazy fantasies. I laughed over his silly questions and he chuckled as I made dad jokes. Win-win for us, as we ran smoothly into fullness after being only on the edge of a breakdown.

    Well, now that he has settled, he visits me sometimes, and I hope to keep this place, this wall even, even when we have fallen out. I will verse, from the uneven conversations we made, laughed, cried and read.

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    I verse.

    The old man stands wrinkled
    From guilt and pleasure alike
    He teases his name
    Like its his for life.
    ..
    ©laxitha

    (not it, Hoshi writes in caption, so Laxitha will do the same)

  • laxitha 113w

    I talk when I shouldn't and don't when asked
    And it takes pauses and tears, sighs and breaths
    To get the inside out; if you have patience.
    ©laxitha

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    Soliloquy

    He asks me
    What I feel
    And why my eyes move
    So much
    My hands shiver
    And my lips quiver

    I forget to tell him
    That I fell last time
    And the ground swallowed
    My heart and soul
    And took my breathe
    And gave me a debt

    He asks me what it is
    To be in love
    To feel a heartbeat in your ear
    To read lips before
    The words they bear
    And wrap love in packets
    He asks me my regrets

    I seldom talk
    Because my head is in a cloud
    Above and away
    From reality
    I still tell him
    To love is to feel at home
    Which I do in his eyes
    That search for something
    Which is not me
    Which say something
    That his lips defy

    My regrets are those moments
    Spent with him without living
    And sweat drops that fell
    Instead of tears
    My regrets are nothing
    But quiet lips
    And every single second
    When he asked me a question
    That he himself answered.

    ©laxitha

  • laxitha 113w

    Dread and People

    Beside love, and season; books and colours,
    Every person I have met, has left a mark on me.
    Sometimes I dread meeting people
    In the bright of the day.

    I see dead souls, walking around the summer,
    And rains speaking curses, to the ground it's fallen on.
    I have heard winter shiver, in broad daylight
    And people appreciate seasons and write on them.

    Books sometimes painted black on my mind
    Led me to more people than I thought,
    And colours screamed severance from detached bodies.
    And here I am, dreading a painful encounter.

    ©laxitha

  • laxitha 113w

    "Ever met someone who thinks everything they hear outside their own brain is stupid, but when asked, have no answers or theories to offer?"

    All I remember is this line, and that, that he said he loved me. Past tense.

    #pod @mirakee

    @thehemantkashyap

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    Settlement

    There are three stages to life.

    Stage 1. Realisation.

    The autumn wind blew, and turned the sky brown,
    It brought a bittersweet memory along the rusted heart.
    A boy told me that I was born, to fall in love
    And be unmade, right from scratch.
    I wrote for the boy- phrases after phrases,
    Until one rainy day, he got bored of my verses.
    I fell in love with the boy that full moon night,
    when he told me i was his moon when one already existed.
    "Silly, girl," his lips echoed my name
    and I never felt more alive,
    When he left me feeling questioned.

    Stage 2: Acceptance.

    I questioned my verses, and scribbled them right
    And threw some flowers on the dead night.
    The sun burned the flowers next day, and I still
    Crossed my t's and dotted my i's.
    I had a heart, broken but loved; in pieces but whole.
    So I took my time, learnt my lines, accepted that I was me
    And love always could happen twice.
    So I became the night.

    Stage 3: Settling.

    I flew my hopes, and charred my papers,
    I burned right into the moon and claimed myself stardust.
    What came next, was a theory of discrepancies,
    Where I paid my debts and denied being broken.
    I learnt a lesson, and learnt what was love,
    I searched for no-one
    And now everyone found me whole.

    ©laxitha

  • laxitha 113w

    The waves fell on the glistening sand
    Of castles, rocks and little dreams.
    The waves carried a shell to the door,
    Where stood a little kid with a summer coat.

    ©laxitha
    _________________________________________________________
    I wrote.
    I wrote after a long time.

    But he forced me into writing and since I had nothing else in my head, I wrote about the stuff happening to me. Pass right along, because this does not make sense. And it's half hearted. But it's still there.

    But you @thehemantkashyap, you have to read this.

    #pod @mirakee

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    Dreams, not mine.

    I live in a world of trespassers who wander through lonely streets.
    In nights, they walk into my room, with eyes that struggle to sleep.
    They walk into my dreams and tell me stories,
    They take my inglourious sanity, vanity and me.

    I once met a person, shy and slim.
    He had few words, too many gray hair and a slippery skin.
    He told me I looked like his lost Queen,
    Of his barren islands where he was the King.

    So that night when I slept, I held his touch
    And dreamt of a girl, clad in green.
    I had a sword on my back, and one in my hand,
    And I walked through fire, into a world unseen.

    One another night, a little girl walked in with flowers
    And told me her grades weren't good.
    She told me she was afraid of becoming a failure,
    A burden not recouped.

    I felt the pain, and saw her break.
    That night I dreamt a fight on horseback against grades.
    I tore down marks, papers, pens and societal threats,
    And everything that terrified the little girl's dreams.

    Once my friend cried on my shoulder and told me her mistakes.
    She called herself Hazel Grace, a bumping grenade.
    That night I dreamt of an Augustus Waters,
    A smirk, both good legs, cigarette between his lips.

    I've lost good sleep on countless nights,
    As I was looking for stories from every soul.
    I dreamt of sharing chocolates with desperate eyes,
    And writing emails to a boss I never had.

    I dreamt of climbing mountains, wide and high,
    And breaking my legs in return of the thrill I had.
    I dreamt of some suit buttons get caught in my tie,
    And I dreamt and swum in coffee eyes.

    I didn't know when my thoughts would be something black,
    Or trespasser would ask me "what's your story?"
    And even today, while I wrote my days in bleeding ink,
    A new person just broke my windowsill.

    ©laxitha

  • laxitha 128w

    i fell in love with my language, first
    when I learnt how books were read.
    my first english teacher, told me
    i was a poet, a bad one at that.
    -Laxitha

    @_nishtha

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    Off.

    ...
    and if the mountains fall,
    in love with the skies,
    who will be to blame?
    the suns or the stars,
    or the wailing rain,
    or the mountain itself,
    big little thing,
    of lost many trails.

    be known to
    the fact that
    the mountains are not human-made,
    to fall in the trap of good and bad.

    so when the sky comes,
    to fall me in his words;
    tell him the sun burned out,
    and the stars bled,
    and the rains died,
    before the mountain fell.
    ...
    ©laxitha

  • laxitha 133w

    Unholy and odd.

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    Measured words

    I wrote my first poem
    When I was six
    About butterflies
    And their colours.
    The words came to me
    Unlike now
    As they were unmeasured
    And unwise.

    My father wrote a letter,
    First time when he was twenty
    To my mother, who was
    Younger to him by five
    After the seventh attempt
    The letter was done
    Yet, it felt novice.

    Often times,
    When I was small
    My grandmother knit words
    In fire and, wool in ink
    And delivered a story
    To give warmth in winds.

    I have known a boy
    With witty fingers
    And staged mind
    He thinks of words,
    Heavy words together
    Often ill-sensed
    And yet, rhymed.

    I, now, write words
    Because they come to me
    Like my grandmother.
    Every night, I write letters
    To an estranged lover.
    The words come to me
    Because they are
    Unmeasured
    And unwise.

    But I need a start
    When I write poetry
    They are staged,
    Ill-sensed and rhymed.
    When the first words
    fall on the paper
    Like a blunt scythe
    They leave no wounds
    Just a mark
    Brown and red.
    And crumpled, the page
    Goes to waste.

    So, dear reader,
    If this seems to you
    As measured and wise,
    You are my muse
    Else, an estranged lover.

    ©laxitha

  • laxitha 134w

    Timeless and harmless.

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    The Happy Man

    in words and actions
    sings a happy man.
    sings of the old and gone
    sings of what is left
    sings of all that is torn.

    in the heart he fears
    fears the happy man.
    fears of mead and bread
    fears the fate of time
    fears the living dead.

    in the eyes we see
    of the happy man.
    a brightness like that of stars
    see a painted world so red
    see a scab turn to scars.

    but he sings,
    he sings what he sees,
    and what he fears,
    'cuz that is all he needs.
    to be merry and content
    and to stay alive
    even after his death
    unlike all those
    that came and went.

    ©laxitha