I've been waiting, And so the clouds cry alongside me, We both mourn someone who is gone- And I stumble as wind knocks down my crown, But at the end of the day both our feelings die- The rain Shifts to another city Whilst I'm left behind.
What is magic anyway. If it isn't us. And before you realise it I'm turned into a memory. A memory which cries silently at a distance. You would try to run towards the voice but I'll fade into apocalypses.You might come at me again, and until you're finally on your knees, we'll be dusk and dawn. You may aggravate and disassociate but then I'll hum you in a song.
We're both survivers of itchy nights. You're on one and I'm on the other side.
I see you've bandaged flowers on your wrist. Is it to hide the cuts or you just feel beautiful? Must be the latter. I'll blow some winds your way. So let go of the guilt that's weighing you down. And I'll be a little selfish here so I'll knock down your crown. I'll make you fit in and give you just enough self doubt. What is magic anyway. If it isn't us.
I like miles. So I'll maintain a distance. I'll sleep on your side and never finish my sentence. You still remember don't you. The boy who shivered at the end of NH-42 and there was something he wanted to say. You were crying and so was I. Until we both grew cold without any goodbyes.
You had cried an ocean for a feeling which was lost. It could have been love. But you had cried all night long.
It's sound of death. It's scary but trust me it fades in an instant. So until we meet again, I'll sleep by your side waiting to finish what was started long back, until you're dust, and until you'll ask me to stay back. Let's live again. After all we're magic.
Why do you keep following me? Stop dropping roses on my doorstep It has Thorns too you know- I could mistake you for an enemy.
Why do you drop by this hour When I'm high on sparkling water, And how do you know, that I will anyway Pluck the petals and make a bed, To sleep in forever? And Ofcourse without you.
The roses smell of you. Nocturnal and of nemesis. But You're notoriously slow When it comes to making me kneel down. Eh, Aren't you? Knock knock, Am I strong? Yes. Yes I am.
My arm is aching, From holding this knife behind my back for too long. I've the handcuffs ready too- Tied onto my bed chasing hands. How do you know I've been waiting for you? That I ate the cake and made a bed of thorns To sleep in forever? With you?
The thorns smell of you Intoxicating and of eternal beauty. But I'm notoriously slow When it comes to kneeling down. Am I not? Knock knock, am I weak? Yes. Yes I am.
I remember burning under the sun, With the half eaten bun and golden freckles, And the withered roads Which lead to- Rusted nails which embed into his existence and mine, Into the tin board which hangs On the flower shop down the path. It holds us.
The broken shop and it's wilted flowers don't compliment it's clean shaven passerby Neither the cavalier which pees on it's roots, And Not even the man who stands by his words, He will also die with the sun.
But I, who still awaits him, with the bun, Coveting the roads to take a turn To the time, when the guy with the rum had a life, When His now frozen eyes his sung lullabies, Seconds before he buried his wife And his heart wept forever. Seconds before When his ears bled of her screams Seconds ago when he was flying high. Just a few seconds more, so he could kiss her On that evening of valentine.
On that evening of valentine, when I looked pretty in green, lilies from the new shop down the path and the Middle finger ring. I still remember, waiting in February And the girl with purple hair who gave me a rose And told me to wait a little more and grin. Just a little more, almost.
I've been waiting with gray carefully held up on my tearduct, With lilies outgrowing between air gaps of my vertebrae. Death must be a beautiful couplet from a Shakespearean sonnet narrated every now and then. So I've been waiting, Counting from three to one For you to come, so I can kiss you once.
When I reciprocate in Brumal sleep Alongside the hobo and nomadic gleam, Is when i feel like living and dying simultaneously, It is when I'll love her even more.
I hum Her heart as a dessert on beer o'clock. She's the one, between those thin thread facades Under the starlit pyre and among the nightmares, which i love to hate.
I can still recall each red freckle velveted in her stare, And the lullaby we hummed, before she faded. She's the one, somewhere in my ashtray, With a bare gray back embellished with Six hundred and sixty six back stabs.
Each jade scrape, which i lovingly claim.
The void of where her heart should've been Now lies cold, narrating tales and stains, of how she was plucked from juliet folkfore, And sown into julliet rains.
These letters, which never cohered with her eyes, Yet, I've found them in her heart's unstinted hoard. And the nights when friction and heat was all I longed for, She offered me love. A love so beautiful.
So let me sing a lullaby. Eir i fade. For I left her diseased in gray, i left her Tinged in blue because she smelt of another bluff, She smelt old, and I'm eight skin layer bold, So i left her, she hurt me, i hurt her, Now the party's ending so take me home.
Don't love someone fondly enough, he said I'm a wallflower on the wall between us, And an ode to forever remain. Sublime touch and those little giggles i treasure, But yet this night, we are nothing but floating cherries In a glass of cheap liquor, half drunk on our reckless love, but he said "I will break your heart", I perplexed. Conquer pain, he had commanded, But what does pain feel like? I'm hurting but, there's a chance that Maybe I have forgotten, or Maybe i never knew pain what pain was, until Until, this hollowness inside me was being made aware of my wretched existence. This night, I'll carnivalesque anarch While Four o clock crumbles the last of stars. I'm a phantom in dark denims, And my favorite haunt being your dark blue eyes, I'll bribe myself for love, but then, And then he said, "you labour lie." Things are dire when snow Swallows young women nevertheless, I was on my knees and i felt love, growing inside my bones and, but-- But he said, "and now you're broken" There are some love stories which are better left unspoken. And now that i think of it, Maybe i had forgotten what love felt like.
Could have been more happier, This day- Perhaps sadder too And Maybe, just maybe I could have found an excuse to live, But i was gone Before it even began And So, maybe we'll never know. Seasons to come I won't. Ever.
//The orange juice was sweet, yet sour. The taste of sorrow// -Orange
My feet Have worn out walking In search of a place to rest. But you know, Human bodies seldom Become a monastery. I'm exhausted trying ; Trying to love, Trying to be loved, Trying to find love, Trying not to find love. My tissues rave of Betrayals, of collapsible promises, Of abandonment and loneliness. Yet, I walk, Dragging my feet to another step, Practising the art of loving While killing bits of myself.
Karte hain hum aaj qabool kya keeje Ho gayi thi jo humse bhool kya keeje Dil keh raha use mayassar kar bhi aao Wo jo dabi si aas baaki hai Wo jo dabi si aanch baaki hai ~ Phir le aaya dil, Arijit Singh
Thy nimbus clouds, why come betwixt mine empyrean stars, coruscating were they yesternight now is stashing in the elysian fields. Where's now thy deific presence, thy spiritual transcendence of tranquility?
Little quixotic diamonds are thou, thou the reason of my dopamine rush of types O, B, A, F, G, K and M. Light of thine, bloom my soul, arrive erelong as I may shed my existence and thou may prevail over every vision.
So alot of people asked me what Freuau means. Lemme assure you, it's not a word - in any language unless you consider my love a language, ofc. It's just a French sounding word that came to my mind and it would be the name of the colour I'd personally add to the rainbow if I could. So it's a random invention which means - "the colour you think the rainbow misses". The part of speech is a noun and you have the usage in a sentence in my post. The pronunciation is - *fraud without the d*. It's just random letters put together and you may or may not consider it a word but then again what makes a word a word ? Probably just the acceptance of it by alot of people as a word. So, say what ? Petition to make freuau a word ?
Also the rainbow reminds me, Happy Pride beautiful people ❤