Before you begin to write, understand- poetry is not about fancy words but rugged souls and raw feelings//
A poem begins with an awkward chuckle as restless hands shift the pen to and fro in their palms while eyes search for a reason in the darkness surrounding them; but once the ears adjust to the roars and throbs of the ocean waves and east winds, those eyes will rest upon a butterfly sitting by the field of peonies and the poem will settle on your skin naked and vulnerable with metaphors engraved within and a few veiled meanings hidden beneath the blues
A poem loses itself halfway down the page into a spiral, just like this one and when it'll be hard to spot it's purpose it will try to merge with the shades of someone else's art trying to disappear like a chameleon for cowardice lies in all of us so hold onto it and paint it with something of your own; a poem is not always clear skies, sometimes it is the myriad of colours in a sunset or all the greys in a storm but most of all, the poem is you
A poem never ends, it is simply left unheard but it is always there, waiting to be written again another evening when the hearts are in pain and art needs a rebirth without a death of it's own.
I am wearing a yellow dress today and he tells me that I look like sunshine and smell of lilacs, with my hair falling on my shoulders he slightly brushes them before tucking them behind my ear and rests his hand on my cheek. I smile, with my pale lips as if I have seen a rainbow but as I try to place my hand on his, I do not find it there. He smiles at me and I stare in his black eyes looking for answers within the stars that live beneath those lashes but slowly it turns into a void and he begins disappearing into thin air until he becomes one with the wind and leaves me there, by the window, alone with an ache in my stomach with the butterflies starting to rot and yet I long for more.
I am wearing a yellow dress today but all I see is blue and all I feel is grey.
#picturec this is how you turn a perfectly soothing picture into something sad.
This letter is not addressed to poets, but to struggling human beings,
I hope this letter finds you well.
I know you have been fighting and falling lately, and some of you have lost the courage to stand up again. Would you believe me if i say, you are not alone? We are in this together, each one of us with our own set of pain, is running and falling and crying and quitting in this cycle we are all trapped in.
Life is not easy on you, for some of us it has never been easy - but what if i tell you, your neighbor is mourning someone's death, your friend is suicidal, your enemy is losing in all aspects of his or her life, will it make you kinder? I hope it does because there is a chance this is true.
Be kind to people around you, you know why? Because you know the pain, the fear and the numbness. You are going through it and you are familiar with ever nook and corner. Human hearts are made weak and there is always love in them, even when we are too cold to feel it.
You can not love yourself if you have hatred in your heart, so it is time to let go. Let go. It will be okay.
It will be okay.
Don't compromise your mental or physical health, remove yourself from situations that trigger anxiety. It will be hard to do so, but you have to do something in order to bring about change. So do something about it, do something for yourself, do this as a favour to your mind and leave. Leave things/people that are not good for you.
You can not sit by the side of the road after it rains and complain later if a passing car splashes water on your new dress. The dress is already ruined.
Let's take care of ourselves, let's make life easier for ourselves and for others. Let's not forget to breath.
Take a deep breath.
It will be okay.
With love, A human being
Credits because i don't want to be accused of stealing.
According to the testimony of ancient historian Hellanicus, the first recorded handwritten letter was written by Persian Queen Atossa, around 500 BC. (hi ma'am, i wrote a letter i hope you won't mind) i copied the information from Google. (thankyou google)
All the words i used belong to Oxford Dictionary and i own no copyright.
Writing something hopeful was inspired from pain. Mr. Pain i give you all credits.
˜”*°•.˜”*°• //Hello everyone, I am Raika and you are listening to Mirakee FM 304.// •°*”˜.•°*”˜
It's a beautiful day to live, with sparrows chirping love songs and writers inking about their heart breaks.
Love and pain, pain and love- do they belong together?
To answer this question we have with us, Miss Devika, a poetess/writer. 'Hello, Devika what do you think about this?'
"Yes love is pain, and pain is love. Without pain you won't be able to realise the power of your love.
People say pain acts as a catalyst to bring out the love you have for someone, to some extent it is correct but when there's just pain and misunderstanding and the other person isn't trying to understand you, that's when you have to confront them, and if they aren't able to empathize- it's time to leave.
Love isn't always about perfect sunsets with your loved one, love is about the storm, how you both walk hand in hand in it and come out with rainbows on your head as tiaras. It's about the tears you shed to build your abode, away from everyone else, your home. Just you and your love"
Wise and beautiful. Answer and the person, both! Thankyou Devika for your time.
As we conclude this thought, Love for some is the cure to all wounds, and for some- it is the wounds. Just like @season_ says, 'Love is a two edged sword You love bad, you kill You love well, you heal'
But you see, love is more than just wounds and cures, it is everything in between. It is war, with a lavender crown on his head, his hands are red of that of blood but he holds a precious white rose, gently.
Love is nothing like you imagined, it is something that comes to you one night at a time and fills you with emotions you didn't know your heart is capable of feeling.
I once read a prose by (eurusgrey) Miss Sakshi, she said, 'Someone once told me I was the sun, who turned everything around her to ashes, but believe me Darling, i'll burn myself down before letting even a flame near you.'
Love can make you do things. Big things.
Writers tend to write the most on this topic. I once asked a dear friend of mine, Sakshi (my_cup_of_poetry) to describe someone she loves and she said, "With stars tucked in his eyes, he looks like a poetry that never withers away!"
And now that we are at it, I have Hafeez on call, 'Hi Hafeez, can you hear me? Tell me something about hearbreaks.'
" Heartbreaks are check points that prepare your heart for true love. Hearts are broken so that they may be petrified again with the lacquer of love.
I derived it from Kintsugi, which is a Japanese art where broken vessels are lacquered with gold.. And made more beautiful. "
That is a beautiful message to everyone walking around with a broken heart in their chest.
We are almost out of time, so here i will quote the wisest of all- Hayat, " To be human is to love, and to love is to do so unhumanly.
I don't think one can be a human without 'loving' (and no, it's not just the romantic kind, it doesn't even have to be a person. Emphasis remains more on it being an activity in some or the other form, more than on the subject of its bestowment. ) And the fact alone that a human can love, transcends the mortal confinements of what 'the humanly form' constitutes of. One would be surprised to fathom such an overflow of something so divine, and to be intentionally ironic, not-humanly-possible -- from a thing so mortal, so trivial, so meek, so common, in its existence.
That'd also make sense when an experience of love in our lives doesn't go good, sometimes we may even regret it or be deeply saddened by; in the bigger picture, isn't something to be felt "bad" about or regret to. We loved unhumanly. And we loved so in all our human selves. That experience is a validation of our lives in itself. The journey is something of what it means to exist in itself."
Love and pain, aestheticity and filters and the colours, black and white are so overrated that you forget about what lies in between - The Ordinary and it is the ordinary things that make the butterflies flutter and blood rushing; it is the ordinary that we hide within fancy words and kill the beauty with knives and pens. The world does not end on love and pain, there's numbness and there's peace there's relief and there's a million tiny emotions unsaid and unread
we are more than a song or a prose- we are Beethoven's tone deafness
we are more than pictures- we are memories trapped inside forgotten Polaroids.
we are more than just mistakes- we are ordinary and peculiar at the same time
hotel rooms make me think, more than the lobbies that I've waited around, endlessly, just to get a glimpse of my own reflection; doing the needful, keeping everything in check, but, at times it seems like I have forgotten myself.
my mother taught me to make my own bed; still doing the needful : pillow covers, mattresses and an off-white blanket that reminds me of the sclera in your eyes; and, the white in your eyes reminds me of the eggs that the waiters would try to suffocate me with, the next morning at the breakfast table.
a self-help book, about scientific sleeping patterns might be helpful; for, everytime my back is against the bed, the fan-blade deliberately makes me paranoid — yet, again, doing the needful : the bottle of gin is dying, paranoia and schizophrenia kept in check, tick, tick, tick, like the dashes on my skin; pull the blade back out and—
there's sincerity in this sin, I love you more than Christ loved his own kin.
If you're anything like me, then you too probably don't remember much of what was written in a book, even after a thorough understanding of it. Well, we don't even need to remember most of it. But once in a while comes a great book with relevant information, that we must internalize so we can apply it at the right moments.
For those of you in school/college, this method of understanding can be applied to your study material to help you remember it better.
Today's cookie is more of a hands on version. I've tried to create an active version of the cookie, and I'm already sure I will remember this cookie forever. Its possible, however, that you may not get the hang of it, considering that you have not been an active participant in the process.
Having said that I'm hoping that you would get the gist of how the process works. In case the image is not clear, I'll also upload it over my Instagram story. I will further create another cookie to detail the process of 'Making Notes' over the coming few days.
Meanwhile, do let me know if this pictorial variant is of any help. Or should I stick to the tried and tested version, like the previous ones. See you soon.
we will make it together, me and you; unless one of my acquaintances, shoots the lead to my head for being logical; and, if they miss the shot, there shall be instant regret — they would rather hide behind the post scriptum, in this culture of PC, irrationality earns more TRP than someone's dead mother, left out cold, with bloodstained panties.
clouds do not pour water, not anymore, because, they would rather drop another corpse, plenty frozen meat in the morgues, the haunting, nine in the morning; my sleep is like a lobotomized friend, who has forgotten everything about me — who was talking about some shuteye, when ten of my neighbours died without having anyone to shut their eyes ?
(take an oath of my loyalty, even though we are not on the same boat; and, if we drown — please throw me a rope, not to my safety, but, to help me hang myself; freedom is not free).
The urn at the center, do you see? Where the faint sunlight of dusk Gathers to narrate some tales Which are not written anywhere But over the petals- Dark and covetous, Of the flowers that bloom in the season Constructed by many as "Failures" But over time I've garnered every bit, Every moment when I felt like giving up, When my pink bones and milk teeth Called for a revolution Against the existence in fractions To grow up whole once more And cling to the torn threads Painted in red With the blood and sweat And catalysts to the onset of a berserk
I water the flowers And cherish the fragrance That takes birth when the sun sets; And the gale breaks in Screaming the euthanasia of past And darkness Fluking the contours of the urn To wake me up with the dawn Once more!
What do they mean, when they say I'm a women now. Does it have to do anything with the delusional flesh anonymously protruding out on my fragile body? Ofcourse, on front and back both, to create a balance. Or does it have to do something with these zits on my forehead? None of my friends at school have any on theirs. I'm unique i guess. Or they are slow? Anyways, I've been told to be elegant and 'look out'. I do not quite understand this yet but amma told me now that I redden my panties, i should conserve. So, i searched up 'how to be a women' on google. More beautiful inside than out, secure and content, kind to everyone, has compassion that acts, Has listening ears, Respectful, especially to parents, elderlies, and authorities, Diligent and responsible, Being Humble and what not. And then i came across this question, it kept catching my eye even though the women in me tried to ignore it. How can I be a good woman to a man. It's just-- strange. Isn't it. I- nevermind. Internet didn't help enough with my outgrowing curiosity for this question. So, i asked amma. I could see Amma's expressions growing cautious and how she pretended not hearing me under the sound of saas bahu sazish and extraordinary/overpowering vfx effects. Just how she liked it though. I understood what I was supposed to do. I sulked in this question in frocks and proceeded with a chunni always on my head and mangalsutra embedded on my neck.
"Amma i don't not like how he touched me. I don't not like him. I do not want to redden my, again, but feet this time. No-" These words could never come out of my red lips. I was never careful with my smile and how one should dress, supposedly like a women but, I'm a woman nevertheless, so i hide behind choli, and conserve. I hide everything behind strech marks and preserve dignity, not mine but his and his kids'. I now know, how to be a good woman to a man.
take it slow, they say — maybe today, it was too much of a day, that the blood dried up by the knock of the night; a manic episode followed by cataclysmic nothingness, as if my grandpa's pacemaker is floating around, freely inside my chest cavity. remind me to kill myself each time you watch me, blabber about colors; remind me, that colors aren't made for those who cannot perceive.
time has passed me by, laying down inside this coffin of shame, my vision is back to black and white, once again — it's going to be over, sooner than we all thought; time's up, let out the sigh that you had held in for so long; (goodbye).