#brave#wod#writersnetwork@mirakee#mirakee#pod@writersnetwork Chronic illness and Chronic Pain have disastrous effects on lifestyle, productivity and mental health. In fact, chronic pain, chronic illness and mental health issues like anxiety and depression are interrelated and they form a vicious cycle where, when one thing flares up, it causes the other to do so too, and so on and so forth. To me, people who suffer from these are nothing short of warriors and are the bravest people ever. This poem is a tribute to those warriors. #fearless
I know your dark circles and the people behind them. I know your straight lined face, and the emotions behind them. I know your wide open smiles, and the more genuine tears behind them.
I know the nights you text "goodnight" aren't often the nights that are good to you. I know the days you wake up, texting "good morning" are the days you wish were really good.
I know the people you send hearts to, both the beating one, and colored ones are the people you wish would be there when your heart lacks colors. I know you see the sky, in a few hard moments and wish you were anything about you.
I know you wish to be someone people loved coming back to, and not easy enough to leave like an envelope gets delivered under doors, only to be ripped. I know, you also know that such envelopes manage to carry the truest of love written in letters.
I know you have seen pain upfront, like a friend who sleeps next to you, whose snores keep you awake many a night. And I know, try as you may, no number of pillows or blankets help you cover its voice. And, I know you know, that it is because you let it have a voice and let yourself be the echo.
I know you want to be free. I know you want to quit. I know you look at the sky, the soil and nature and whisper your struggles to the wind, in hopes it shall reach another stranger and the wind shall carry back a stranger's message to you. And, I want you to let me be that stranger to you.
The wind has been kind enough to let me in on how your heart feels heavy, even when left empty and how your life seems like a rollercoaster that you never wanted to ride.
Trust me, love, I know all that and more. But, I also know that the pain you face isn't the only thing that defines you.
I know you have faced a lot, and I know you have fought a lot, while losing many. But, the sky is still yours. It hasn't given up on showering you its blue stare, even when your skin turned red. Let its showers wash away pain, but not the scars they leave behind.
I know you own stories along your skin, and I want you to know that they aren't meant to end with pain, but begin with them. The fullstops you yearn aren't the endings your heart deserves, because trust me when I say, beating through the dark isn't something all hearts can do, and yours did.
I know this letter is long. I know this letter sympathises more than it should. But, I just want you to know, this too shall pass only if you let it to. Allow pain in. Let it break you. And the voids it leaves are the places you must fill in with life.
And, whenever you see the wind brush against you, I hope you be this stranger that I am to you, and I hope you tell them how you know they are a soul of glass, not because they break easily but because light finds it easy to pass through them, just like through you, too.
Love, A stranger :) _____________________________________ _thoughtfulbrain
Just a reminder to all the Beautiful soul here that *you are love*❤️also I don't want likes I just want that people atleast read this post once :)
I stare at norms and grab a pretence. The tale of the orange sky is an epitaph on my flaws. It smears a vast blanket that I spread throughout my flesh to let stains on me glide through folds in vain. I swear on every irregular poetry I have turned into paragraphs, punctuations are still my last breath. I take one before dying, out of breath, out of words.
I feel pity for the girl in me. I ain't a merciful sphere that shelters billions but I hate to see her feel incomplete whenever a story ends without a happy ending. She still hopes there will be a second part of it that will end well. I hate to see her hope so.
How much will she let her hope win with tantrums when one day the castle she builds near the shore will be washed of by the ocean ? Will she command the ocean waves to not reach heights above her merrytory ? How will one not let tragedies to hit their merry bones and stir them until they are chilled with a bleak winter sneeze ?
I feel pity for the girl in me. She embraces the petals of a marigold. She doesn't choose rose while admiring petals 'cause in high school she has never been considered one, as judged by mates. She doesn't pick flowers that smirk at her whenever she gazes at it.
How much will she let her inferiority win when one day her sweat will be the last to stay after self-worth escapes her way ? How long will she let her flesh melt in cardigans thinking of people who will judge her skin if exposed during a hot summer afternoon ? How will she snatch envious eyes and judgmental throats from a nest of reptiles who craves her bones ?
Life's a ride of ups and downs. Often says the crowd that frowns. For hoping the giant ocean waves to not wash off a merry castle, aren't mere hopes but rigid caves where you cage your major battles. Later you feed yourself petty reasons for losing wars and building prisons.
I sit underneath my favourite mango tree and try to write something meaningful. It's a funny thing, poetry. The harder you try, the more it slips away and it feels like I've been in a sandstorm since ages. I look up to see the leaves swaying rhythmically to the soft whispering of the wind, it always calms my mind a little bit. How much I wished to just fade away in the tranquillity. I try to write how the winds, the trees, the sky, and everything in nature makes me feel, but my words don't do justice to the feelings. I crane my neck to see the yellow bird that's chirping, hidden somewhere amidst the green. I try to whistle and mimick it, again, hoping it'd come sit on my shoulder, I laugh at myself, thinking if someone saw me they'd probably take me for a lunatic. I remember the time you looked at me with a look I couldn't decipher and when I raised my eyebrow in question, you just nodded and whispered, "You look adorable when you get excited about things and become carefree, it's rare." And I just blew a Pfft and looked away, what else was I supposed to do? You smiled and kept poking my cheek to make me smile, and there I caved in. How was I not supposed to? Random memories pass by and I, like a bystander, wait for them to fade away.
The sky calls for me; like a mother waking up her baby, from the grave by the seashore, shall I sleep or shall I drown...?
I just leave it incomplete, words these days seem like a luxury I can't afford.
Here I am lying beside you on the bed staring constantly as you fill a blank page with scribble after scribble. Its as if you uncoil all the weight in your mind and wrap it around this white sheet so as to exorcize yourself of the invisible chains clamping you down. But then I wonder how would you be able to do the same with me? Maybe I should find a way to disintegrate myself into words and scatter around that spotlessly white paper. Perhaps then it would lighten the load of my presence from your existence. Just like the freshly lit cigarette between your lips does.
I ask you what you are writing about but then the fluency of your silence makes me shut my mouth. Nothing unexpected. I just stare at the frown in your brow and imagine how many words would fit into it. Would they be enough to be counted as an explanation?
The way you sit just an arms length away from me bounded by an unknown territory of mysterious words, makes me scared of the words that pop up in my own mind. Words like 'refugee' or worse 'infiltrator'. Now, all I wish is for my own words to have remained a mystery to me. Perhaps then I may find myself in a state somewhat similar to yours without the formal thread of words. But guesswork isn't any good at this point. Its either you know what's going on or you don't. Or atleast this was the ideal state that we strived for all this time. Instead of blindly believing that I'm your's and you are mine.