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  • the_story_weed 70w

    There's a voice inside my head,
    whose silence is as unperturbed,
    as the name of a recently deceased
    in their lover's breathe yet,
    as chaotic as the breathe of a sailor
    trapped in an uncalled storm.

    There's a voice
    inside my head,
    that reminds me of
    something my mother
    used to say;
    of how patience
    helps a thread
    into a needle,
    and the first step to being
    patient is being still,
    patience as still as
    a leaf before a tornado,
    without no wind.

    Of how still the voice inside is,
    yet so impatient.
    Of how mother was wrong:
    there's stillness in this world,
    that mixes with it's surroundings,
    and you'll never know it at all.

    There's a voice inside my head,
    whose name I see scribbled
    in your poems,
    and sometimes in the space
    between your actions;
    of how your eyes try to
    look beyond a person,
    yet you get stuck with
    your gaze on the ground.

    There's an unrequited voice,
    seeking both of our soul.

    Hold
    On
    A
    Little
    More.

    Read More

    Of a steady, beguiling invisibility

    Your eyes look
    lost in crowds,
    and lonely alone.
    ©the_story_weed

  • the_story_weed 90w

    The first memory I have of riding in swings,was at the age of four, in the park opposite to the theatre, four blocks away from our house.

    /'Higher Baba', I exclaimed.
    'How much higher, Najima jo
    You would touch the sky,
    if I pushed you harder."
    "Maybe that is where I belong",
    I reply with utmost cheer/

    We got cotton candy after, one for me and one for Baba, one for Nana back home. We sat on the grass and he told me stories, of how empty the fields used to be in the village where he had come from, although I started recalling them, only when he told the same stories four years after.

    The sun sank in the city, Baba said was always full, yet now the city feels too empty without him.

    /'Five more minutes Baba', I begged.
    The corners of his eyes wrinkled
    as he smiled and replied,
    'Only because you say so.'/

    He always looked at peace in the park, as if he enjoyed the sunset in the city, and when Baba used to sing for me the cities fell, people disappeared, the only ones left were Baba and I.

    /Our own city; of laughter
    and smiles and of bright suns/

    /'Do you like your name?',
    he asked, in between a song.
    'Of course I do', I replied,
    eyeing the cotton candy for Nana.
    'Good. You know why I named you Najima?"
    I shook my head.
    "Najima means stars,
    the ones that remain
    untouched by the dark,
    even though,
    it often accompanies it."/

    /"Why don't we come out at night,
    we could look at the night sky together?",
    I ask, wishing we could actually do it.
    'I like where your
    head is at, Najima jo,
    but cities do not have nights,
    they only have darkness
    arrive at their doorstep."/

    Now when the laughter of Baba reverberates in my ears, and the image of him trying to replicate the poster of the actor that was playing in the theatre every weekend, forms in my mind, I break into a laugh, and imagine our own city; one with laughter and smiles,and a blissful night in the soil Baba used to call home.

    /We headed back home
    few minutes later,
    with a cotton candy for Nana,
    weed on our pants and
    Baba's urge to sleep in
    a bed in his village at night/

    @writersnetwork @mirakee

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    Sunset in the city

    /'Higher Baba', I exclaimed.
    'How much higher, Najima jo
    You would touch the sky,
    if I pushed you harder."
    "Maybe that is where I belong"/

    ©the_story_weed

  • the_story_weed 91w

    I hid you between,
    faltered lines and
    unloyal verses.
    In poems that
    do not rhyme,
    and stories faux.

    I hid you between,
    city walls and
    dim lit streets.
    In unfamiliar faces,
    and names that roll
    off my tongue weird.

    I hid you between,
    half-hearted promises,
    and hurried escapes.
    In fingers that form
    a cross while
    taking an oath,
    and emptiness that
    echoes while
    breaking them.

    I hid you between,
    'Love is forgery', and
    'Sorry, habits die hard'.
    In burrowed thoughts,
    habits learnt and,
    souls sold.

    I hid you between,
    now and always,
    memories and miseries,
    phrases and phases.

    I hid you in pieces,

    in phrases and phases,

    and forgot where

    you ended and I began.



    @writersnetwork

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    Phrases and Phases

    I hid you in between,
    forced smiles,
    tears withheld,
    and souls sold.

    All in an ironical bid
    to keep me whole.





    Naina/ They say love is the
    biggest scandal I try to sell.
    I smile.
    That is the only thing,
    I learnt from you/

    ©the_story_weed

  • the_story_weed 91w

    Aaitaa: Grandmother
    Koka: Grandfather

    Quite long! Sorry:")
    ---------/---------------/-------------/------------/-------------------

    "Beauty is eternity gazing itself in a mirror,
    but you are eternity and you are the mirror."
    -- Kahlil Gibran

    @writersnetwork @mirakee

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    The only house in Zoo Road

    /The first night I slept in the city,
    Maa told me,
    everything under the sky
    changes with time/

    Just outside our lane,
    two houses to the left,
    she told me lived Mr Das,
    who seldom did smile.
    Aaitaa used to restrict her
    from going over there,
    since it was the only house
    in Zoo Road then.

    Surrounded by
    huge mango trees,
    Maa told me
    she could not help herself,
    and at post meridian,
    she along with her friends
    found themselves in front of
    the only house in Zoo Road then.

    She did not see Mr Das often,
    but at quarter past twelve
    he would always take
    a stroll of his garden,
    with a book in his hand,
    and looked as if the Mynah
    singing in the backyard was
    not the sweetest sound,
    but the words in the book were.

    Under the hot sun,
    in the middle of July,
    Maa threw the mango
    a little too far,
    in the garden of Mr Das.
    And as she climbed
    down the mango tree,
    all her friends had left,
    and the only people left,
    were Maa and Mr Das.

    He returned the mango with a smile,
    but she urged him to keep it,
    and showed her hands
    already full with plenty.
    When Mr Das turned to leave,
    Maa out of curiosity asked him
    what the book was that he always read.
    'Kahlil Gibran's poetry',
    he said with a fondness
    she had only earlier encountered
    when her Maa spoke about Papa.

    'Would you like to see it?',
    and Maa droped all the mangoes,
    to hold her first book of poetry.
    The first poem struck her
    with a profoundness,
    that she did not want
    to keep the book down.
    When Mr Das offered her
    to take the book for a day,
    she gladly agreed to his offer.

    In the summer of 1987,
    Koka had taken his last breathe,
    the night Maa held her first poetry book.
    In the ongoing chaos of reaching
    in time to cremate his body in Tezpur,
    Maa took with her the poetry book.
    And thus, the first poetry book,
    she ever read was a gift not returned,

    She told me she arrived
    five months later in the city
    but Mr Das had been gone,
    a heart attack, or seizure,
    she could not remember.

    /The last night Maa slept in the city,
    she handed me the book,
    the man of the only house
    in Zoo Road gave her in 1987,
    the one thing that remained
    constant over the years/

    ©the_story_weed

  • the_story_weed 92w

    Love was perhaps
    distributed part by part,
    and the luckiest amongst us all,
    found it as whole.

    @writersnetwork

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    Empty kisses and rough hands.

    Too often then not,
    love comes with a label,
    that we choose to ignore.

    My first love came with the
    label 'desperation',
    yet I kept him for love
    at that time was too hard to find.
    I watched as the love faded,
    and frustration built, and
    questioned if there
    was any love at all?

    /But it was easy to let him go,
    for I have heard first love
    leave faster than they arrive/

    The second boy that I loved,
    came with the label 'empty',
    and I didn't think of it too much
    until the moment we kissed and
    my heart didn't beat faster,
    nor did my hands get clammy.
    My hands didn't fit in his perfectly,
    nor did his words resonate deep in me.

    /Leaving him took courage,
    but in the end our eyes spoke
    more than our words,
    so how long could we have lied?/.

    The third boy that I loved
    came to my life,
    with promises and smiles,
    but his label was 'deceiving'.
    Each season I spent with him
    the more I forgot about the love I left,
    and more I was consumed by his
    whisper of sweet nothings.

    /Three summers we spent together
    and two winters we played in the snow
    and the following autumn came
    the betrayal I choose to forget/

    You followed this disaster
    with utmost care and love,
    but the label you were
    accompanied with was 'not love'.
    And I swear, I fell for you,
    even harder.
    Each second I spent made
    me both terrified, and hopeful;
    that you will leave me, or
    maybe the label has learned to lie,
    each respectively.

    /The hardest time I experienced
    wasn't loving the wrong but rather
    waiting for the truth to unfurl.
    And on the day you left,
    I let out a breathe of relief,
    I had enough share of my terror/

    Too often then not,
    love comes with a label,
    that we choose to ignore.
    If we choosed to acknowledge,
    maybe love even if in its
    wrongest sense wouldn't be found.
    At all.
    ©the_story_weed

  • the_story_weed 92w

    A city at night, especially snowy nights like this, often seems too deserted and dark. The few souls that roam on the streets, make their way through the snow to their cosy homes.

    The darker it gets, the more vacant it becomes, and at eleven, the city sleeps. At every intersection, every foothpath, and every shop established, the wait of a warm sun to shine, awaits.

    The eye of a protagonist would usually catch the traffic light that keeps changing colours in vain, or maybe the hustle-bustle of the wee hours would still be reverberating in their ear, but had the protagonist known the city while it was alive?

    A grave yard spreads across an acre of land, and in the heart of a city for breathing human beings, an acre stands just for the departed souls. All of a sudden time stands still, and as the clock strikes twelve, all the dead in the city doesn't live in graves anymore. Some lived in the grave yard itself, easily blending in the surroundings.

    The dead, in her own peculiarity wore lilac coloured dress, and sat down on the ground unbothered of mud stains. Counting the graves present, she gave up when it exceeded the number of fingers on her hand. A routine she repeated every night, counting the number of graves before she would be drawn to the great sleep too.

    The protagonist would still be overcome with the deads beauty. So much so they will sit right beside her, and ask her if she needed anyone besides the moon, to keep her company. Maybe she will nod, but most probably a silence will prevail, and the protagonist will anyway stay.

    Some questions will linger in the protagonists mind, but the hesitation would make them stiffen, and nothing near the sound of twenty six alphabets would come out of their mouth. She will speak, enthralling the one hearing, and maybe if she asked, 'How many times would you ride into hell?' The protagonist would reply, 'As many times hell would let me in.'

    Maybe that is what drew in city victim number 36, and made them give up their life. A city that slept by eleven, had been deaths least favourite city to lure human beings to her. This city that slept by eleven, had too many people already kissed by ice, and nights that were too tame for them. Death hated putting people too much like her, to the great sleep.

    When protagonists leave, or rather she makes them, she looks at the six feet dug graves, each engraved with her name, hidden from the human sight, yet the only thing that catches her eye. A city that sleeps by eleven, gets lonely by one, yet too busy when the clock strikes five in the morning.

    @writersnetwork

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    The oddity of a city that sleeps

    She will speak,
    enthralling the
    one hearing,
    and maybe if
    she asked,
    'How many
    times would you
    ride into hell?'
    The protagonist
    would reply,
    'As many times
    hell would let me in.'

    ©the_story_weed

  • the_story_weed 99w

    On mornings like this
    when reality comes to a halt,
    and my own breathe chokes me,
    I gulp down memories made with you
    to calm down the surging sea inside me.

    @writersnetwork

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    Of evenings when i wrote for you

    On mornings like this, when I cannot sleep and the bed no longer feels comforting or inviting, I change into the blue, oversized shirt of yours and tuck it into my jeans. I take out the lilac coloured muffler you gifted me from the almirah, and wrap it around my neck. I put on a brown jacket that I partly wear because it's cold outside, and partly because the shirt has your initials at the back. I like to hide you from the world, because most days you are non-existent, but on mornings like this, you feel immortal.

    The love that sleeps on the right side of the bed, I kiss her a mortal goodbye, she’ll know I'll come back because I wrote her a note saying so, and sticked it on a jar. I tore the page from the diary I bought to write you poems, the cover page still reads ‘Kainat', the most beautiful name I've ever heard. The love that sleeps on the right side of the bed still thinks, it's the world that I'm in love with, but in a way when you stayed, you were my world.

    It's still a little too early for the mist to have settled down, and the sun to shine through, so I on the flashlight on my phone. It’s hard to hold the phone, I'm shivering. The cold makes me want to go back home, but in a way you feel like the cold too. The difference is if I return back home, the cold will still be there, but you will not. On mornings like this, you remind me of irony. I write about a forever for love, a forever I thought I would witness in your arms, but when I fell, you weren’t ready to hold me. You’re a love that I forget most days, but on some mornings even the aroma of chai reminds me of you. I write about a forever for love, yet you are the most inconsistent love I've ever seen.

    The green forest is covered with mist, I don’t think I'll be able to locate the tree where we our names are inscribed. But I know we remain there, our immortality is sustained in a bark of a tree. I've washed this shirt seven times, and every time it smells a little less you, but it reminds me of you still the same. I'm waiting for the day, the smell will cease, maybe then on mornings like this I won’t have the urge to wear it.

    The love that sleeps on the right side of the bed; it isn’t fair to her. Yet the only thing I can think of while looking at her black hair is how great your bold blue hair looked. It isn’t fair to her, when she remains in my arms and I wonder what you must have thought on evenings when I lied in your arms. Sometimes I imagine what leaving her would feel like, but it makes me afflicted. I guess our similarities have an end. But on mornings like this, I feel as unfaithful as you.

    The mist has settled, the hills have come alive with the sound of cuckoo birds, and the sunshine falls on the creeper. On mornings like this, I understand why hills are the gateway to heaven, a thing you quite frequently said. On mornings like this, when it no longer feels like a morning, I return home and throw your shirt into the washing machine, and wash it for the eight time, hoping there won’t be a next time. The love that woke up on the right side of the bed asks me if I'm alright. ‘With you around, how can I not be?’, I reply with a smirk, and kiss her good morning.

    On mornings like this, I realise I don’t need you.


    Till another morning I'll wake up longing for you.

    ©the_story_weed

  • the_story_weed 99w

    There's places I want to visit,
    where no one knows my names.
    There's people I want to meet,
    who don't know who I am.

    Every night the demons that I fight,
    I let go of in the morning.
    But when the light ceases,
    they crawl their way to me.

    /On winter's they are the only thing,
    that finds me warm/

    Facade isn't a thing I wear,
    neither are feelings.
    You'll find me happy near an
    inflorescence,
    but in my mind I'll be wondering,
    If it hurts when they decay.

    /Sometimes I'm not sure
    if monster's find me,
    or do I offer myself to them?/

    The only thing that keeps me going,
    is the thought of an escape.
    To be in a land where
    possibilities never cease,
    a land where I don't have
    to be just happy or sad,
    I can be in a state of Charmolypi.

    /There's places I want to visit,
    where no one knows my names.
    There's people I want to meet,
    who don't know who I am/

    Somewhere no one
    expects anything from me,
    and if I mess up,
    they can't hold me guilty.
    Somewhere I don't have to think
    twice before speaking,
    because I haven't made
    any unusual expectancy.

    I wasn't born to be steady,
    and this time I won't
    hold this against me.
    I was born to traverse,
    and be someone new
    at every transverse.

    #theonlywishmysoulhas
    #Iwillfuckingmakeitthrough
    #youknowwhatIhavelosttheabilitytocareanymore

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    Iwashalfasleepwritingthis;
    sothetruthslippedout:")


    Every sunset
    that I will see,
    will be through
    the eyes of
    someone new,
    I hope I am able to
    make this wish true.
    --
    sincerely a different soul everyday.

    ©the_story_weed

  • the_story_weed 100w

    I heard footsteps in the front yard, and some rustling of leaves.The front yard is full of dried leaves, but the gulmohar stands in the middle; majestic, yet barren. When I was a child, I used to call it the 'flame tree', and that's what my father used to call me, 'Flame'.

    The footsteps are getting more evident, and in all honesty, it sounds like my father's. The footsteps falter in between, like he stopped to pick a dorsoventrally flattened leaf. The footsteps are taken cautiously, and it reminds me of when I was younger, and my father would sneak in from behind and surprise me with a Cordate leaf, and I would run to my room to keep it in the box where I collected them.

    I put on my rumbled antique maroon sweater, and it reminds me of my mother. It was her favourite sweater, gifted by my father. Everytime she wore it she looked like an angel, hence father calling her angel in his songs was always justified to me.The dining table near me, reminds me when I was fourteen, and asked for to borrow the sweater. My mother handed it over to me happily saying, 'My little girl has grown up.'

    The doorbell rings, and I run to open the door. Just like I did when I was younger, to open the door before Drish. And this time I win, since she is not here.

    I pull the mauve handle of the door, and it groans, father never got to replace the door.
    It is nostalgia, he is dressed in a flannel shirt jacket, just like Drish would.

    'But we had our last seesion just last week. You know you are visiting me the second time in a month, right?', I ask with a grin.

    'Of course I know that. But you are visiting your childhood house. It is my job to visit you here', he says, while walking inside the house.

    'This is the last time I will ever be able to visit it, before I go abroad', I say, still stuttering in the middle, conscious of how foreign the words sound.

    Nostalgia doesn't reply, he nods his head. I collect my wooden box full of dried and dead leaves. Everytime I hold it, it reminds me of the first time my father gave it to me. It had been so heavy to carry, and now, I can carry it with just one hand. Mother's sweater is already wrapped around me. As for Drish, I will always have her in my heart, and Nostalgia, he won't ever let me forget her too.

    I walk to the three burial cross in the backyard, and place the two lilies, on the first two gravestone, and as for the third, I place a Cordate leaf. Forgive me father, your flame hadn't wished to kill you all. It had been a mistake. A mistake she regrets. Forgive me mother, but your little girl has finally grown up.

    Forgive me father, but your flame stands; majestic yet barren.

    @writersnetwork
    @december_dews: Tried it:")
    @sereiin: Thank you for always being so supportive!

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    Where the Gulmohar stands

    The front yard is full of dried leaves, but the gulmohar stands in the middle; majestic, yet barren.
    ©the_story_weed

  • the_story_weed 101w

    Poetry, love, I fear is more fiery, passionate, caring, compassionate than you ever were. Poetry, love, at one point was more than love ever could be. For if love was a part, poetry was whole, and the whole always is greater than the sum of the parts.
    @writersnetwork

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    Drinking a sunset of hues.

    My poetry began with a sunset dressed in hues of orange and yellow, with a tint of red resembling its deffidence, so much so that it hid in the womb of green lush mountains.
    /My poetry, love, started at the same time I met you, and loved me with the same passion we possessed/

    When we first spoke poetry resembled the words that you spoke, and every night I told the white pages of you and poetry too. When we first kissed, poetry was the wetness of your lips, and the blush on your cheeks. Poetry was every time you read the "Catcher of the Rye" and spoke with a depth in your voice, because you knew that was how I read it in my mind.

    /Poetry is you, love, in every glimpse I see, and every breathe you take/

    Poetry after eight years, leaves me with the same hollowness that makes me utterly whole. The same after taste, the one that I imagine drinking a sunset will be like. Poetry still accompanies me to watch the sunset, just like you do.

    /Poetry after eight years still feel like you, maybe even more than you do/

    Poetry and you, I abandon every dawn, with a will to not be back forever. Yet by every evening I find myself in the embrace of you, poetry, and this time Butcherworthy Brandy too. I still laugh at your corny jokes, and while doing so I notice that your curly hair falls on your eyes, the second time in two months that you've forgotten to cut your hair, and I smile knowing it'll make great poetry.

    But love, each poem that I end, I am afraid will be my last. I am afraid one day you will wake up before me, and take poetry with you too. For love when it began, poetry was all about you, but now you are less about love, and more about poetry.

    /For love I am afraid, the only thing that terrifies me about your absence, is that you'll take poetry with you too/

    I think I return each evening only for poetry's embrace, and fall into your arms because you're there too.

    ©the_story_weed