The moon from my window, the girl lying dead, men being abusive, man's cry is a threat. The sun is out again, the market price is so high, someone orders food to eat half-heartedly meanwhile, I saw an empty stomach crying. The evening is beautiful though, probably bisexual for the dark and glow when shadows are longer than before, same is the route yet long is the way to home,
Close your eyes again, again for maybe nth time now? Close because you don't want to see bad Close because you fail to identify what's good Close because you cannot find or create peace, and love, and hope, and faith. Close because, no, just close, as you should.
Cry for one more night, curse the night for not waiting for the morning, curse the morning for staying way too long. because O you poor heart, you just cannot let anyone and anything stay, you never knew you're blind, so blind to find stars in day.
How many more songs to play, with this damaged headphones you carry like your crown, a crown just to ignore the mad crowd? What song do you listen to? Where do you find yourself? In which verse, in which tone or line? You liar, you liar, you liar telling everyone how you breathing happily in a world so fine.
Who expects a sad poem from a clown, not even you, my damned soul, for what purpose you're here, What you are playin' is not your role. Who's in the poem that everyday you write, Who set the battle, who's here to fight? I heard multiple cries, it's definitely not just you, your problems are common in fact, the same with few. There's no solution, they said it's an illusion, life's an unhappy story and happiness, a hallucination.
Someone said - you're not alone Why? Why? let me make it a home! staying together in shattered homes isn't safe, or happy, or a matter of pride, it's like a roof with no walls, no rooms, where everyone's lying, everyone's crying, indeed home is big but where to hide?
Another evening, another sad poem I don't even know if it's called sad even. Isn't anything that's repeated becomes a habit you fail to recognise, like that of breathing, you don't know when you breathe and when you sigh. Come on, me, and you, and other few, let's tell everybody once again that nobody's alone, everyone's sad, there's a huge crowd together, going mad. No one's afraid, but everyone is in fear laughing their heart out, eyes full of tears.
-Shruti, you're not here alone, there inside, is a huge crowd, yet no home.
Some mornings when I get up and avoid looking into a mirror and the moment I see it, I whisper apologies to the reflection so mad at me, so full of hate, and anger, so scary, and I never saw a pinch of love or any warm feel or anything that, that wants me to wake up another day.
The eyes of my reflection in mornings like such, ain't home, no. It's a storm, a really mad storm so full of dust and drops that I wonder if it's crying or just angry. The lines on my head look like the lines on the hand, shrinking a little more every day. I step back, I step back because my reflection is, it is, scary. I hate it, I hate it for hating me. It hates me for loving, loving them who don't, just- don't.
I step back. I'm not brave enough to hold it and beg it for not staying mad at me at least, because i cannot take so much. I've three pockets in my heart, three of the pockets are heavy, slipping down every time, pulling my heart with the weight and I sleep with my chest against my palm that said it does ache and I, i ignore it.
I'm scared of loving, I'm scared of being loved. I'm scared of waking up another morning and whisper prayers for an easy death. I'm scared of telling brave stories to people and I'm scared of exposing the coward in me. I'm scared of the reflection, I'm scared of my shadow, I'm scared of people seeing me, I'm scared of everything I show.
On days when evening arrives a little earlier in my soul meanwhile I see the sky sunken in sun outside with clouds shielding the land which never knew the love of the cloud, and kept ignoring, living static, preserving roots of trees in it's heart, too deep. Too deep is the cut and the color of blood is colourless, and world paid zero justice to the cut and scars and pain of this unannounced war. Blood of the land was never blood but water. Maybe, maybe- the clouds knew this untold story of the land and was sure that the phase will pass and maybe this made them keep moving, shielding the land that never looked up to understand the shadow of its lover that has some appearance too.
On days when night arrives little earlier with the plans of staying longer for the day to get more time to sleep, to rest, to breathe. I feel the day within my heart burning, burning till I scream out to trace voice of agony and pain and hatred and what comes out is nothing but a pale, dead silence, which in air gets evaporated, and welcomes the unwanted arrival of the rainfall which falls on my paper in a sound of poetry and I swear I have heard my poems shouting. I wonder why people read other's poetry and find a home in it, to live in, meanwhile my own poems disowned me. So i dwell into poems of others that's not a home.. but who cares what a home looks like when the storm is within. Anyways a storm one day shall pass.
On days when nothing feels right and you don't know how to explain and understand and make others do the same, you forget to weigh the pain because the weight of carrying it on tongue, via words, from a dead throat to blow it into ears and hearts of others is way too difficult to think even, implementing is wholly a different story. So you decide, no, you assume it's just a phase and a phase too shall pass, even though you know it doesn't pass.. it just hides sometimes in your pseudo laughter, and words, and other actions. You named it a phase to lie, lie that - this too shall pass. this too shall pass. And with every passing day you saw it becoming your own part.
--"Shruti, what makes you write sad poems?" "sadness" "oh that's something-" "something that shall always pass."
I've been unlearning everything that feels heavy but is still empty putting my hand up in the air letting it hang there for a while, O, hand, a land of vacancy in any cold island probably, which isn't seen or heard or touched or tasted, but it exists, the cold land, not me but eyes have felt it.
I count more and more lines and the counting goes wrong every time as if, as if those were made only to get mistakenly identified, acknowledged, ignored, forgotten, forgiven.. forgiven for something that feels like any fault but actually is not. Taking a deep breath, no, swallowing it, if I be more honest today, to see how many times more do we've to swallow some air again and again with every breathing that's out sounding like a moment gone in vain.
I let one hand hold the other, one cold as father, another warm as mother, both ultimately ends up burning, no fire I swear, I've smelt ashes but, and eyes decided to deny- to put the invisible fire off because it fears of becoming a desert, in a body so cold where blankets are sold outside in the market to earn, to earn a living and to live like any dead.
I hate it. I hate it. And I hate to hate it. Ask me what I hate and I have no answer. Ask me what I love and everything is my answer. Yet I feel cold, homeless in a house of people, there's an ocean within me with the warnings of tsunami and destruction all the time, and I made it look like a river, letting it get flooded, letting it get dried. I hate breathing, but I live lying, waiting for some sort of death where I don't feel like dying.
-Shruti, you turned into a good liar where no lies is a loss for anyone, anyone else except for you.
The pebble near the river with it's surface all wet hits itself with another pebble to find - from which part of its body the sweat is coming out, for it feels sick of rubbing everywhere, being thrown away and then picked up to be thrown, again. Tired is the pebble, tracing the spores from where it breathes, from where it sweats, meanwhile another wave of the river hits it hard with a harsh reality Oh pebble, that's not your tears. Stop tracing for eyes.
The river, flowing swiftly from one same place, to another same place, like that of a passenger bus moving to and fro as if, as if, as if- shhh. and the bus called it a tour. High tide to kiss the moon at four, lower one to feel welcomed at doors of the shore 'twas about to knock, extending a curve and the door slammed by the pebbles that's still finding traces of the organ that sweats or maybe cry, finding how tired it is, like- like a breathless body left to dry.
A river and the pebble, like a life and people, shutting each other assuming how and why one will flatter because, maybe, doors were made to be left unopened, people like pebbles questioning and questioned. Life be the river welcomed only to get the taste of ignorance, vanishes because of the rising flood after every little rain.
-Shruti, the shore was stony and the waves were breathing. Major accidents and deaths are taking place every second. The sea might get angry this time.
If I keep writing a poem even once a year, I'm alive for ages after death and if I stop, I'm dead years before death. So if my pen gets soaked and dead is the throat, bring a knife, stab somewhere and keep stabbing to find a poem, but find it out anyway.
Let me fall for someone a hundred times more and turn them into a poem that except for me, everyone will love a little more, will bow down, will write somewhere, and will fear to memorise because then the taste of reading fades away.
Let me write a song and no! do not add a music because then one feels what they're made to, not what they want to. Become the mother of feels, father of ignorance to evoke the kid in you as a a living being, not machines which you don't fix but only pamper.
Hate the bad so much that they fear of committing sins. Kill them, their hatred and grow cactus in the gardens of their heart so that the desert in them won't scare the lost travellers anymore.
Visit my soul someday, grab it's the heart and crush it, crush it as hard as you can, maybe then some poetry dares to flow out? On paper, preserve it. Not the poem, only the void, and see how many voids attach to make homes. Burn it then, the home, yes, and let every lover and hater see it together, let them know how it feels when home burns, let them get scared of losing one so that they understand what happens when there's no place with mere walls, without which, the importance of freedom falls. Burn me, my poetry, the void too that turned into a home. Let the crowd understand that they've lost something that they could love.
Till then I force a poem out of me, out of my soaked ink. Stab, kill, give as many scars as you can, maybe I become a poem then, the poem that's stuck within me comes out finally, when I'm gone, and then the cage unlocks for the new world with old eyes to see.
-Shruti, burn to death to live a little more better.
Poetry makes me write about life while I hold death between my lips, in the smoke of which I see scars and hear cries and give attempts of turning them into words and verse so that people understand what's sad and where's pain, but oh I see them with bags on shoulders and weight on empty palms, with false hopes kept on lips, they're here to make it home.
Poetry is a woman who's not chained but there are bricks all around her, painted into the colour of sky and flowers and river and soil, with no sun or moon. She thought of it as liberation, extending hands to touch the pseudo sky and whisper - the sky is concrete.
Poetry is blind, it just gets to visualise things in the dark clouds, and it tells about a world in the same dark cloud where people walk with hands folded, eyes closed, lips quivering, whispering - May I never lose the blindsight, may I never lose the blindsight, to see a world where invisible is blood in the soil so poisonous, with dead bodies breathing in the air that smells of plight.
Poetry is an orphanage where verses don't know about their dead parents and therefore it just comes out from numb throats of poets, as their voice.. somewhere still hopes of getting heard. But does the poems know that the only voice of any poet heard is - silence?
So like that of the lost souls, the poems too, unaware of their dead parents, end up becoming guardians of the poet who talk about life, holding death between lips.
To my nation where I belong, in a state, in a city, in a lane, in an apartment through the window of which I see humans carrying explosives on their tongue of which the taste bud died long back because of the poisonous plant growing everyday, resulting into growth of poisonous fruits of words coming out of their mouths and killing lives that matters.
With a knife in ripped pockets and a gun on shoulders of ripped souls, shooting once to intentionally miss the shot then throwing away the guns, that's how they try to become God. The targeted soul, blind enough now to worship the shooter, thinking of them as their savior. Forgetting the kills, the deeds under the dead bodies that never came home. That's how the ones who are saved tend to turn their killer into a leader.
Remembering the third page of every textbook which speaks of our Constitution that's probably not yet constituted properly? But to make sure we've the Constitution, we were asked to memorize something that no one cares for, after sometime. Memorizing Justice to be served (and not knowing when actually) Memorizing Liberty of expression (and not if you've an empty stomach) Memorizing Equality, supposed to be seen (but making sure to give it to none) Memorizing Fraternity, assuring unity (and embarrassing people having different personality)
To my nation where I belong, in a state, in a city, in a lane where I watch humans outside through the window preparing for celebrating Independence gained years back, celebrating the win of people that passed away long back, for people living till date, constructing invisible prisons with no bars and walls, where the one with voice is killed and lives the one who's on knees witnessing fall.
Come, y'all, let's prepare to celebrate Independence, by oppressing everyone who's right at some point, cause that's how we make oppressors more independent.
A sword made of words into heart made of wall, sand everywhere, like that of time rushing, little of the land is concrete, there people fall. Not that everybody was here to love but who was the one to set the trend of hate? We live in a world where violence is an year, months are pain, days meant for escaping out of fear, and affection's just a date.
One life to live, each have theirs yet everyone is fighting over it to own that of others. No sword, no shield, hatred is a weapon and heart is the field. To breathe like one was meant to be, how many times have they died before? who was asked to suffocate the surrounding, when everybody is under same sky, on same floor.
There's so much to love, you choose to unlove though as if life's a tree which to cut, you sow. Turning the world into something where monsoon ends up becoming flood of sorrow, summer that feels like winter without snow and then everybody's out there in winter's night, to find the warmth, to find the sun and come back counting not stars but loneliness, in the world of people where's none for one.
Old men passed away with every stories of life sold, we forget to preserve and left the stories somewhere, buried, untold.
-Shruti, a heart that just beats and not love gets rusty. I saw you dusting something yesterday.
Western religions stipulated fear of God hence they created Heaven & Hell while eastern religions focussed on faith in God, therefore created hope affirming Reincarnation. Both beautiful fantasies.
Consider mind as a white canvas that you receive at the time of birth. You carry the canvas wherever you go. It's you who decide what to draw on the canvas, which makes you who you are. Well, who are you in spite of the combination of body, mind & soul that you eventually become. You are the consciousness. You hear voices, right? That's not consciousness. Consciousness is non verbal, a silent observer. Consciousness is what connects body, mind & soul. Consciousness dies with brain (the surviving consciousness is not accessible in the absence of a medium in which it can manifest) but mind as a collection of thoughts remain. People with extra sensory perception (esp) could channel these thoughts for a shorter to longer period. We call them split personality & reincarnated souls respectively.
That's it. There is no Reincarnation. You don't have to look hard for Heaven & Hell. They are right here on earth. You make the choice.
before it dawned on my visual field you were gone like a ghost in the wind now the air is stale and speaks a foreign dialect. my mind picks up the last few signposts of summer, waiting like angels of transition- one eye verdant, another blood red. maybe this evening is possessed or maybe I'm seeing things or maybe, just maybe the world is racing too fast. two hours past the end of this summer, my arms are frozen from your transparent embrace. two swollen orbs traverse the skyline, searching for a rebirth of dawn, when electric poles cast longitudinal shadows on the thermodynamic sand, but farewells last longer than wordless prayers. nightmares tiptoe around the borders of my town and monsters creep downstairs from their highland houses- battles resume in the wind, muffled voices hint at silent prayers, a sigh a door, a plagiarised speech on screen, two bottles of champagne- one underneath a bed, another in bits claiming a quietus. thousand soldiers on road, and three battles curtailed at home. in a world where winter lasts forever, orphans of life still peep through windows, a prayer in their gazes knocks on summer's door.
a sunset a day, two battles a night. someday there'll be a dawn without martyrs of a quotidian summer dissolving with hopes on the shore.