i write poems to sort out life.

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  • reflections__ 2w

    I am

    I'm a content little woman,
    or a lady with yet no big mansion;
    I'm a voyager still at home
    or a traveler sick of motion.
    I'm a little tired face,
    with a long list of to-dos;
    I'm an untrained belly
    for today's trendy looks.

    They say I'm too less womanish
    to be a woman,
    and too more the same
    to be a man.

    What's wrong if I'm,
    a little too odd
    for the world's


  • reflections__ 2w

    A bit of myself

    There's still
    a little bit of me
    left in me,
    abandoned perhaps
    but breathing still.
    It's struggling
    to live,
    to break free
    of something that never
    held its own grounds.
    I'm writing a story
    of mine in the same
    old diary,
    but the chapters
    keep getting shorter
    or perhaps,
    I'm forgetting how
    to write;
    for myself,
    about myself.
    It's just a paper
    and I'm placing
    these bits
    and pieces
    against the blanks
    on its surface.
    I can smell its hesitation
    blotting with my ink.
    But there's still
    a bit of me left
    to write;
    It may take years,
    perhaps a lifetime
    to write the whole of me.
    Until then, I'll pretend
    to fall in love
    and hurt myself,
    then fall in love
    and hurt again.
    I'll wage a war
    within a war,
    then call it pointless.
    And I'll look down
    on myself,
    then seed self-love
    in my home garden.
    I'll love,
    and I'll love again.
    This will be
    the bit of me,
    and I can't just,
    give up on myself.


  • reflections__ 5w

    #end #wod

    Thanks a lot @writersnetwork ��

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    Love poem

    I am not in love
    but tame a hurricane
    in the name of a heart.
    The only thoughts
    that make sense
    are some 12 am musings,
    neither dark nor light.
    I've grown to like it,
    that way
    when in the dead of the night,
    there's not a hooting owl
    but mere silence that fills
    my spiral canals.
    I say a peaceful prayer
    in my own name,
    for my alley is deserted
    and home makes up
    for a battlefield
    I never chose to martyr for.
    There's still silence,
    and a vague sense of belongingness
    that hangs in mid-air.

    You look at me,
    with open eyes
    and a closed conscience.
    Your eyes speak of guilt
    and your mouth reeks
    of condemnation and contempt.
    When the world tricked you
    into half-feet mud,
    I saw your eyes flicker
    and cry in one;
    Now you've tasted pain
    and you think you've,
    fetched karma on your sleeve.
    You throw darts,
    half suspended in indecision
    and half by gravity.
    The dartboard hangs
    beside my origami owl,
    wasted of purpose.

    What are colors?

    I ask you,
    and you smile.
    Home is a beautiful place
    You and me are playing fair.
    And for an end-game,
    everyone becomes a poet.


  • reflections__ 5w


    you touch
    was meant to be
    more meaningful,
    but it hurts
    now that
    your hands are
    a corrupted lot
    and you,
    a healer
    terribly wrong.


  • reflections__ 6w

    Them, too?

    Today I walked past
    my insecurities
    to a nearby lake,
    two cuckoos in love
    sat with their partners
    perched on
    a wiggling branch,
    singing a hymn
    to their god of flight.
    Are they religious too?

    Today as waves of anxiety
    rolled away from my shore,
    I built another mind castle,
    studded with pearls
    of curiosity and oblivion,
    wondering if I can home
    myself for a year whole,
    with them as company.
    Are they enemies too?

    Today I saw a grey woman
    with camouflaged hair
    and plastered smile
    tug at her husband's sleeve,
    already worn of carrying
    the snowballing weight
    of an untimely demise.
    Are they grieving too?

    Today I stand alone
    waiting at the farthest end
    of the hiraeth
    for an unknown milestone,
    in a land where they speak
    a different language
    in a familiar tone.
    Are they homesick too?


  • reflections__ 6w

    #end #wod
    Trying to write again.

    Thanks a lot @writersnetwork ��

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    Last night I slept,
    half-a-tear tucked away
    into the deepest crease on my pillow,
    willing it to never resurface
    through my wakeful eyes;
    but nights are mysterious,
    ridiculous too
    and I laid supine,
    a little too awake
    for the insomniac demon inside.

    My windowsill is broken,
    it spares me a glance
    as if pleading with its nonexistent hands
    to undo the sinners' knot I had tied
    last night,
    but 'last night' is a vague term
    it dates back from yesterday
    or at times,
    a year and a half.

    (Did you call me?)
    I often wake up to
    the suffocating silence
    left by the last letter you wrote
    more for yourself than to me.
    It sits over me
    like a manuscript in gold,
    that could never be mine
    for you gave it away
    to land on my mailbox,
    for you knew I'd breathe
    through these wars
    (and I couldn't bear with
    what you called
    a happy-go-lucky binge.
    You were a crazy drunkard!
    I wanted to tell you,
    Didn't you sin enough for the two of us?)

    I still sit on the yellow fields we walked on,
    hold my hands up to the sky
    to collect the dandelion seeds you blew
    the other day,
    but all I grasp on
    are fleeting threads of a memory
    when we held hands
    more for the cold air of November,
    - -
    we were too young
    to love and hurt
    ~ but you never really grew, did you?
    You loved rainbows
    while I filled canvases
    with the color of your smiles,
    What are rainbows anyway?

    We were too sober for this world,
    I thought.
    But you were always drunk
    and loved your hands on the wheel,
    while colors made me blind.
    Oh how I wish I could save you,
    but you made yourself a heaven
    and I became the best demon
    in the hell you left,
    only for me.

    I thought love would
    last forever : I was wrong.


  • reflections__ 9w

    Dinner time

    When the dinner table
    is but
    a silent warzone,
    there's a grave heaviness
    in the air we breathe,
    It's not unusual,
    this silence
    Yet the more familiar it feels
    the harder it pulls you
    into the mud.
    Now you're sunk,
    half a body in retrospect
    and half in fertile cramps.
    There's another battle!
    You stab the remaining pieces
    of your favourite lamb
    and slice them neat,
    but blood gushes from within.
    You drop half a heartbeat
    and half a sigh.
    It's a never ending war,
    an eclipse that overshadows
    the shadowy shade.
    The table is now clean!
    What did you miss,
    the bugle or the ceremony?


  • reflections__ 11w


    That's a first time for me!
    Thank you @miraquill for the honour ��

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    It sun-ed and it rain-ed

    What died before death
    were inhabitants
    of flooded terrains
    turned into drought lands.

    It was only yesterday
    when I cursed the rains,
    called them-
    bringers of misery,
    and wished
    they'd never come again.

    I was dismayed
    at the pathetic waters
    flaunting their pale face
    where giggles and smiles
    should've filled,
    homes that were now
    a floating abyss
    of the unknown.

    I walk on highlands
    lower than well wishers
    and yet higher than
    star-crossed childhoods;
    (It's not just lovers
    who fall into doom)

    And yet today,
    the sun tan-burnt my homeland
    as if compensating for
    a week's reign by deluge.
    It annulled my sister's
    exhausting explanation
    for a fair marriage,
    and took a hundred lives
    on parallel tracks
    under pen-name of
    thermal expansion.

    I cursed the sun,
    this time wishing
    it'd dive into the waters
    and rest unseen
    like the unsinkable ship.
    But the river has already dried
    and I'm nowhere nearer
    to an ocean.


  • reflections__ 16w

    #season #autobiography
    (Just in case) -
    Fire, she - autumn
    Water, he - monsoon

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    a relationship
    like fire and water
    opposites and yet alike.
    the same supremacy
    binds them
    to the elemental tag.

    he was the counterpart
    on the calmer side
    and she was aflame
    in aspects of life and love.
    he swooned over seeds
    embracing tiny grains underground
    while she awaited an eventide
    when life would be worn of hanging
    upside down from clay twigs.

    they'd meet in october
    a featureless September bridging
    the gap between
    a happening and an end.
    they're change makers,
    fighting for peace in a chaotic farm
    they rebel against chills and sweat
    hiding behind tales
    of an overflowing tub seated
    on crater studded tiles
    of a burning room.

    on the last day
    of a September
    she holds his hand
    and pulls him inside
    they now embrace their identities
    like two tiny sea creatures at land,
    trying to alter
    a predestined roleplay.

    the sun rises on October,
    she takes the name of monsoon
    he carries a tag of autumn
    fire and water found a way anew,
    they merged and emerged
    two new destinies
    two new seasons
    ever so much in love
    yet always apart.


  • reflections__ 17w

    Better than worse

    For a sunday that's brighter,
    I toil on soils as barren
    as modish mindsets.
    For a monday that's gloomier,
    I sail on ships made
    out of holed beliefs.

    The harvest I've reaped
    mocks a late singing moon.
    The Titanic on oceanbed still
    out-sings my cry of gloom.

    Farmers in my land are
    poorer than their bread,
    Sailors in the sea return
    to drown in insolvent land.

    A wise moon pulls at
    ignorant ocean tides,
    A brave sun gives way to
    a hope for sanguine nights.

    For better or for worse,
    Duality of the world never finds
    a way to grandmother tales.
    Cosseted mouths never eat dust
    unless stuck in black blizzards.

    And as they say, life goes on.
    Well, it does.