She/her I love rainbows so I became one.��

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  • shrutitripathi 4d

    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,


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    A sonnet.


  • shrutitripathi 3w

    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.��

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    Close your eyes again.


  • shrutitripathi 3w

    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.

    -Shruti, there's another morning to wake up.��

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    Some mornings when I get up.


  • shrutitripathi 5w

    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?"
    "oh that's something-"
    "something that shall always pass."��

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    This too shall pass.


  • shrutitripathi 6w

    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.��

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  • shrutitripathi 7w

    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.��

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    Pebble and the river.


  • shrutitripathi 8w

    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.��

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    If I keep writing a poem.


  • shrutitripathi 9w

    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.

    -Shruti, your poems are orphans.��

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  • shrutitripathi 10w

    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.

    -Shruti, how independent are we? ��


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  • shrutitripathi 12w

    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. ��

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    Sword or Shield?
    or none?