Miraquill
airborne
a blue tinted bird perches on a birch,
I sit watchful as it sings a free verse;
it hums a taunt of its freedom and such,
I dream of wings but dreaming is a curse.
so little a life and alone in the sky,
how I will I could have a bit of its sight,
but only in my imagination I soar high;
my feet are tied but I crave a brave flight.
it all comes down to be or not to be;
many a men strip off their fervour and sigh,
and live every day afraid to be free,
as their hearts become too heavy to fly.
in fear lies caged the plume of free will,
the songbird flies far but I sit very still.
©zohiii
zohiii
floating in the abyss.
-
-
a furlong of land, an ocean of emptiness
this skin has grown fairer,
as it hoodwinks the blackness
shrouding a shrewd heart,
but whose cruel scheme
was it to fortify one red rose
inside a prison of thorns,
because it's sad when
beauty decays.
the mirror had a selfish
face and it was hard to
distinguish whether it had
perspired or bawled,
but two breaths out of
rhythm and that was more
than enough time to
mope about suffering
because everyone suffers;
it doesn't have to
stand out.
there are some who live
sharp lives on the
tip of a needle without
letting out so
much as a sigh and those
whining on soft beds;
then become those who
rejoice the sight of a
nameless tree in
a scorching desert,
those who proudly claim
a furlong of land at the
mercy of an ocean of
emptiness.
©zohiii -
trifling trials of a treacherous heart
"what do I look like?"
"—like someone I've never seen before,"
a flurry ensues as they waltz and they wink,
two black holes, yearning a light in the far,
it seems that my search will fall and sink,
with this old, bittersweet pain in my heart.
when the promised winter slumbers deep,
and the air in my lungs is coy and cold,
whisper me whereof born was this grief,
through your eyes, sew me a tale yet untold.
if I were to embrace you with my own hands,
the warmth will weep through the infinitude,
to a broken mirror, your silhouette will dance,
waiting for the tarnished twilight to exude.
and it'll always be fair to leave me in the dark,
there'll never be a place for you in my heart.
"will you remember me now?"
"I will not."
©zohiii -
yuuki:
a snowflake inside my heart
we promised you
not to shed a single tear of sorrow,
but you know how
inconvenient these eyes
are sometimes;
they simply refused to obey;
but you'll forgive us for that much,
because we forgive you for
leaving us all behind.
it seemed like the most impulsive
of thoughts when you
said sometimes some things
can't be communicated
unless you clash,
but your war with fate was the
testament that you fight
for what you want;
you collided against the unfair
universe and you were
stunning and brave;
you seized immortality
because now you live inside our
hearts as the greatest swordsman
to ever descend on this world;
we want you to know,
that you live on, always.
I will forget the light of a
thousand stars but I won't ever
forget the way you
smiled at me;
and the sun was envious,
because you were a snowflake
it could never melt;
you were resistance,
you taught us how to live—
fight,
even if you're going down,
fight,
even if you're born to die,
fight,
because sometimes,
you can't have some things
unless you're willing to
die in pursuit of it;
did you feel alive falling in
the haven of someone
you loved?
yuuki; a snowflake in the orchards
of spring to thaw your heart.
©zohiii -
zohiii
23w
Read More#22
*drum rolls*
guess who agreed to have a collab with me? ;_;
@thegreymetaphor
the title is from lana's love.don't worry, baby
“winter flakes, dead feuillemort leaves,
you say there are things I'm yet to be,
but there's no void that I'll leave behind,
the world will still go on without me,”
as inconsequential as we are,
as grave as the truth of
insignificance may be,
in the lives that you've touched,
a little something breaks,
even at the mention of a world
without you in it.
“floating ash of pyres, cherry blossoms,
when the flowers wither into their doom,
why rage this ugly pointless odyssey,
there's but gloom, gloom, and gloom,”
autumn is a requisite
for the spring to be cherished;
it's because we hope, that we also mourn,
but every tide has its ebb, my love,
isn't the night darkest just before the dawn?
“a hundred tears, and a moonlit lake,
there's no brazen beauty now left untold,
stringless kites never find heaven's halls,
marigolds are pale among roses of gold,”
I see your eyes, glistening and calm,
yet somewhere containing
a collosal storm;
kites are loosened for them to soar higher,
marigolds, atleast, are devoid of thorns.
“there's no glory in living, and persevering,
it's an endless lie of a bitter suffering.
you say it's a world of hope and love,
every moment a miracle worth rejoicing,
if I, for once, gave in to your whims,
a song of this so-called love, will ye sing?”
if it's a hundred ways
in which the damage was done,
I promise love can be
in a hundred and one.
in this song of surrender,
to make the chains stop hurting,
if I sing along, will you choose to live?
©zohiii & ©thegreymetaphor -
a canary's chicanery
when did you tame
your fists into not breaking
the noses of those who tried
to sell you the crap that
you can't grow wings?
it was sunday when your
lips refused to kiss the sunlight,
and you somehow became
as still as the air before
a thunderstorm;
but I didn't have to worry
about you because
you said,
"it isn't worth a catastrophe
to dwell on ruins of what
we couldn't be,
sometimes we succumb,
and carry on,"
your parents said it was a
strange disease that spread
inside your heart,
and your friends said
you were your own undoing;
an icarus who flew
straight into
burning annihilation,
and when I whispered this
to you, you said nothing,
but it seemed like you
were content that they think
atleast you flew,
even if for once and never;
the poems you
read reeked of the tragic
glorification of sylvia
and dazai's fallen angels,
but I never had to worry
about you because
whenever I did, you said,
"I'm a serene pond;
your worries send ripples
down my skin-"
I'd exclaim,
"calm waters rot inside;
you rather seem an iceberg,
visible utterly little,"
"yes, that I am;
an iceberg, a river,
and all rivers run far and wide,
collapsing into a waterfall-"
it was then,
I reckoned that your soul
was deteriorating for
the deficiency of the fluid
that once coursed
through your veins in surfeit—
it was hope.
and it was then,
I learnt that god doesn't exist.
it was monday yesterday,
when bathed in moonlight,
you leapt off from the
roof of your workplace,
a magnificent multistorey
building witnessed
your wicked chicanery;
they said it took barely a
few seconds before your
blood spilt all over the concrete;
even if for only
a dying moment,
did falling feel like flying,
and when it did,
did you smile?
there were people with pitying
glances but
mine were filled with relief;
and because it's a consoling
thought I told myself,
that when you came
cascading down,
you grew wings and flew
somewhere far, far away.
I know that it's probably only
a fallacy but
it's comforting,
and I like to believe it,
because after all,
it isn't worth a catastrophe
to dwell on ruins of what
we couldn't be,
sometimes we succumb,
and carry on;
and so,
I'll succumb,
and carry on,
to live in a world where
you were able to fly.
©zohiii -
zohiii
23w
talking to myself
a short and shady survey in some
virus-hoarded corner of the
internet declared that I am an introvert.
but what does the survey know,
that I'm the saddest when I'm alone;
the line between solitude and loneliness
somewhere disappeared when
glory turned into envy.
now I hate chemistry but if
my words aren't in perfect equilibrium
while explaining this to you,
there'll be an explosion of anxiety
in my brain that I could have
chosen better sentences and you
could have understood me
better and maybe we could have
been friends and maybe,
I could have felt less lonely.
anyway, phew.
have you ever met an introvert who
craves crowds?
supernovas succumbing in his head
but he has to dance to the tune
of a song that freezes his every muscle;
feels lonely alone,
feels lonelier among people;
a prostitute changing the people he
sees every night;
wallowing in feuillemort cynicism,
bordering on the hedonistic.
hey there. that's me.
a sad and lonely introvert,
wielding a broken crown.
nice to meet you.
would you stay if I asked you to?
©zohiii -
zohiii
24w
Read More
#19
thoughts I imagine would have crossed Ishida's (Koe no Katachi) mind, while standing on the bridge, deciding whether to end it all or not.
#charactercan we be friends?
“back then,
if we could have heard each
other’s voices...”
it's been a while since I last saw you;
in all honesty,
everything is going south since
I last saw you,
but a scum that I am,
I won't complain— I don't deserve to;
I've planned to cut the thread
of my disgraceful being
for a while now;
the river of guilt flows beneath me,
but the scum that I am,
I am afraid to take the leap,
and the horrible crook I am,
I blame it on you.
do you still remember when you
stood infront of me,
made signs in a language
I didn't know,
and I threw sand at your face;
I have learnt it now—
the whole sign language through
and through and
I understand that you brought
your palms together asking me
to be your friend;
it doesn't matter now,
does it?
but still, on sleepless nights,
I regret what I did to you,
and I regret being rude to you,
but the scum I am,
I speculate often what your
reaction would be if I proposed
to be your friend right now,
would you shake hands with me—
a person who bullied you,
and always made
you feel like an outsider?
the hearing aids I pulled out
from your ears and blood dripped
down to your chin;
did it hurt a lot?
will I ever be able to compensate
for the pain I've given you,
and the smiles you've given
in return, will I ever?
it's a curse probably,
that I am scared to look at the faces
of people and my only desire
and escape is to
cover my ears tight, extremely,
or maybe a frail attempt to feel how
you might have felt back then;
I mocked you
for not being able to listen,
and now I don't want to hear
anything or anyone,
but the scum I am,
if only I could hear your words
of forgiveness—
what'd I do for them,
I'd die for you to forgive me,
but what do I do to
forgive myself?
I stacked up the money from
my part-time jobs under mom's pillow,
and I'm away from home,
standing on this bridge,
at the edge of the end of
this abomination;
I can't live anymore,
I don't deserve to;
Nishimiya, I always thought you
were the dumb and
deaf one but it was always me;
me, who couldn't understand
you even when you opened your
heart to me;
me, the dumbest one,
who was too scared to tell you
what I hid inside my chest;
you, who never heard my
voice because you couldn't,
and me, a coward;
the weight on my heart is
immeasurable,
and I don't deserve to be
around anymore;
I can't see and hear people in
corridors because I feel
they're talking about me—
there goes Ishida,
the absolute worst who bullied
a girl in middle school.
do you remember the notebook
you used for communication?
I still have it, I flip the pages,
and wail for my inability
to turn back the time;
I was supposed to die today,
but the scum that I am,
I have one more selfish wish,
to see you once,
I want to make you happy,
I want to love you,
I want to hear your voice.
“...everything would
have been so much better.”
©zohiii -
forever in neverland
your hair strands whispered
to me that you still
believe in tooth fairies,
and their fragrance implicitly
made it known that your
face gets painted in pastel
disappointment when she
refuses to appear;
you are a sucker for fantasies
and root for the characters
with sealed lips and
glued palms as if your
guileless prayers could
rewrite their stars,
and the way you scrunch
your nose with disgust when
there are no happy endings;
my tinkerbell,
what sadness deep in your
heart do you hide,
that you desire the
world for fictional beings?
you utter the most superficial
stories as if you witnessed
them happening right
before your ever-twinkling
eyes and dress the most
impossible of wishes with
the name of hope;
and the beguiling part always
is that you believe whatever you
say like it has the most
probable odds of happening;
I would lose reputation for
admitting it publicly but
there's something about the
way you say it,
that I'm almost compelled
to believe there exists a
place further than the edge
of universe where it snows
in summers with twin
rainbows adorning purple
skies and the sun doesn't
melt the ice;
it's nothing special,
but there's something about
you that makes me want
to believe in lies;
and they're going to call us
children with abrasive
imagination for the most
part because they haven't
seen what we've seen,
and they never will
for their spite and gravity;
they'll all be boring and bland,
and straightforward,
and they'll always
be afraid of dreams,
out of the fear of being called
ridiculous and insane;
the ones who understand
reality will laugh at us
for being naive and childish
but cry on the inside,
because they'll never dream
the dreams we dream;
they'll never see neverland.
©zohiii -
violet and bougainvillea
you say,
"she's only a girl,
they come, and they go,
but you don't throw your heart away,"
the universe was wide enough for
you and me to never cross paths
with each other,
and that would've been a tragedy
more heartbreaking than
any greek,
and you refute me everytime you
breathe that a person so
extraordinarily simple can exist,
and for all those times,
I offer you a million bittersweet
thank you's under my breath;
you say,
"you ought to have your guard up,
high and mighty,
because no person is trustable,
they're abomination,
built to backstab,"
imagine a scared gladiator
swinging his sword to survive,
and he plunges it deep into
the chests of men
before they can;
so timid, and so fearful,
I blindly slaughtered everyone,
until the tip of my ceramic
blood thirsty sword touched
your heart and I felt my
whole body beating to it,
you looked powerless
but I still cried to you for help,
because your silhouette—
it was the brightest asylum,
for my broken soul and heart;
you say,
"she's the speck of light in
darkness that always abandons
you midway;
the risk is dangerous,"
and how the most dangerous
thing is to love,
yet I'm sitting estranged on
the ocean bed and you are
the sunlight I swim upstream
to and this small fraction
is enough because the only thing
at peril is me losing these little
things that mean a lot;
you say,
"she's only a girl,
they leave like autumn;
at any cost, don't get attached,"
but you always forget that
I'm only a naive,
stupid, little, boy,
and I'm already in love;
I want to eat your pancreas.
©zohiii
-
thegreymetaphor
11w
Read MoreI did not break through.
I could not break free.
I surrendered.
To make the chains stop hurting.
I often falter
infront of the mirror
because it reflects my reality.
And only in it's dreaded face
do I acknowledge
my incessant addiction
to fantasies.
I am but an escapist, I murmur,
staring into the mirror.
The mirror smirks.
People have it worse, it says.
Heavens know the weight
on my shoulders
is enough to make my back droop
but the mirror tells me,
even with blunders
as indelible as a birthmark,
I am just an insignificant speck
fading away to infinity,
and that ought to offer me
a moment of a few
unburdened breaths.
The mirror asks me
to stop romanticising the pain
in hopes of healing
because true healing begins
when you stop craving it.
When you come to terms
with the fact that
some scars are going to stay,
and not as embellishments.
Scars are all they'll ever be.
There will be no beauty to them.
Just ugliness. And terror.
But less pain and maybe one day,
enough strength
to narrate their stories.
The mirror is not wrong.
Not at all.
Then why do I feel like a hostage
of it's arguments?
Why do I take shelter within poems
even when they're to no avail?
For I am now, at the end of this one
and the chains still won't stop grappling.
©SrishtiHostage
Maybe, true healing begins
when you stop craving it.
When you come to terms
with the fact that
some scars are going to stay,
and not as embellishments.
Scars are all they'll ever be.
There will be no beauty to them.
Just ugliness. And terror.
But less pain and maybe one day,
enough strength
to narrate their stories.
©thegreymetaphor -
thefoxisdead
23w
Read MoreMartin Luther King, he told you
about the dream
but, not the nightmare;
the redness in my blood,
it doesn't belong to my body,
it dwells by the sharpest edges
of a bloodbathed
and broken chainsaw.
from the sodoms held above
now, the system's stuck
in a downward spiral,
everyone expects everyone
to say something,
and, when you hold your tongue,
you would mercilessly,
get crucified.
there's pleasure in the pain,
like that one time
when they punched nine-inched nails
through my eyelids;
I'll sleep when I'm dead —
oftentimes, easier done than said,
as you breathe in the monochrome
from my mouth,
it's almost as if, your forked claws
are probing further down
my pair of lungs;
make me think twice
before every breath,
for, if your name has to
be engraved
anywhere near
to my tongue,
or, my mouth :
I would be pleased
with the asphyxiation.
please be naked,
I know not, if love awaits me,
in the city,
or, back in the outskirts
and the suburbs;
I know not, if love resides
inside me —
please be naked,
because, all I know of
is that,
lust does.
my pumping-machine,
it has a godly crater;
I'm as empty as our vows,
it's pathetic
to have you on my back
and, on the other hand,
have my limbs chopped off,
it's pathetic,
when I toss and turn,
bleeding and burning
under the covers
and in my bed;
it's pathetic,
intimacy makes me
lose my head.
(show yourself,
amidst the hours
of pitch-black darkness,
like cowards do —
show yourself, in the light
of darkness;
and, this is when
my heart is the heaviest,
to have you shape me, like this,
an antichrist, an atheist;
show yourself,
because, if I'm lost, then
how can I find myself ?)
©the_foxyou are just as sane as I am
-
thefoxisdead
23w
Read More
this is my thirteenth letter,
to your address;
you did reply
to the first three —
and, I still remember,
how the season was edging
into another autumn,
leaves were starting to fall,
but, so were you,
for another man.
you were always
the better writer
amongst the two of us;
the way you started
hiding amidst the gaps
left between
two consecutive stanzas,
whereas,
writing for me, was a method
to rinse away the scum, the dirt
and the scent,
that you used to bring home,
a scent,
that didn't belong to
your collarbone.
and, on a second thought,
my skin has aged well
and enough,
to not think about it,
ever again;
but, again,
here's the thirteenth letter.
most of the creatures
come out at night,
queers, crackers, addicts,
rapists, queens, fairies —
and me, dwelling deep inside
a vicariously vivid
mass murder scene,
whilst clutching
my Ruger 9mm, beneath
the carseat.
they ask us to think twice
before committing to something,
but, did you ?
did you think twice
before sleeping with someone else ?
karma has kissed me once
on my forehead,
now, it's going to kiss me
for the second time
because, I didn't think twice
before shooting
these pedestrians.
three days past summer solstice,
my heart is freezing
over a hell, that is so cold,
colder than the empty bedside,
colder than your vows;
sanity is subjective
and some of my friends,
they firmly believe
in the idea
that I'm losing it.
say cheese and there you have
a joyous picture of her,
write murder and there you have
a minced body with
its intestines barely hanging inside —
a new frame was imminent,
for me to make it out,
and, she had to be cropped
out of the picture.
you used to ruminate
on the thought,
that it was always me,
making you want to kill yourself;
but, what's your wish
because,
it could be granted,
would you like to stay
here with me,
or, would you rather visit
your newfound love
by the rivers
of the heavens above ?
steadily running out of time,
of patience, and,
of life,
take my magic wand and wash me
clean of the implications.
it is never enough
to make it stop;
(leaves grow
and flowers bloom back up again
during the summertime,
unless, they're all plucked,
or, torn,
or, dead).
©the_foxthe 13th letter
-
thefoxisdead
23w
Read More
@maleficent_
Ice from your whiskey , cures the cigarette burns
on my arms .
Soothing the sting but chilling my core .
Molten fire drips from your gaze and my demons
lap at it , searing themselves .
We're two different phantoms haunting the same rotten
shell of existence , feeding on each other's desperations
and failing to decide between Sophocles or Shakespeare .
Tragedies are all the same , the pen they come from matters no more than my life .
your tragedy weights more than mine , but the aftertaste
is always the same
The debris of all that was , burnt proofs of your innocence .
Twelve shots later I decide to let my
subconscious take over .
I wake up in a strange man's bed and don't dare
to replay the night , while cleaning lipstick
stains from your shirt .
Morphine pills and credit cards are aligned on
your desk and you kiss me feverishly ,
freezing hands and bloodshot eyes .
Devouring my soul , consuming everything I carry within .
I give all of myself to you
and smell like your regrets the next morning .
Love is a nasty nightmare dipped in stale blood
and served with chunks of anxiety and a bowl of
claustrophobia .
We're starved children of grief , latching on the
first bite and burning our mouths .
We share breaths because neither of us
has the capacity to keep the loop going on our own .
You mix death in cheap wine and we chug it down ,
Endings have their own petty ways .
-------------------------------------------------------------------
@thefoxisdead
I like my eggs scrambled,
my neck hung,
and, my throat perforated
with two consecutive shots
from two different handguns.
coming back from work,
I fisted a hamburger
on my way back home
to my woman,
a burger is the only thing
you could find here
to put your fist into, in this city,
filled with heavy ring fingers
and throbbing walls
of the shafts,
filled with double-parked vehicles,
sidewalks crawling with four-doors
like cockroaches trying
to survive an attack
such as the 9/11.
I would have liked to believe
that heaven's near,
liquor, liquor everywhere
but, not an ounce to gulp down,
or, drown
my sorrowful nights in.
I am in love, with the blood
that we both share,
the texture and the tasteful
thickness of it,
she bites the skin
and peels it off from her lower-lip,
and, I watch her bleed,
another instance
of staring into each other's
sinful souls,
another kiss,
yet, the same aftertaste,
of her lipgloss
mixed with the fresh blood.
the elephant in this room
keeps on ruining
the wall paintings,
the layers exfoliate against
our will —
and, one fine night,
we won't have a ceiling
to look up to;
soil, soil everywhere,
but, still not enough
to bury my chagrin alive.
I will take what I can, from you,
and get on my goddamn way;
from the white powder scattered
on the glass table,
to these lipstick stained Franklins,
and, the snorts and the moans
that echoed throughout the corridors,
as, I tried to rail another line
from the skin foiling your breasts;
I try to wrap my head around
the man that I've become,
love can be much damaging
and we both, picked our poisons
wisely,
now, that your ring finger
isn't as heavy
as it used to be.
when it's my time to leave,
you wouldn't pine for me,
you would rather sit in self-pity
or, go out
just to get back
to the woman that you used to be;
unlike you, I am a slave
to the changes in my heart,
unlike you, my endings
don't necessarily diverge
into new beginnings.
(her fingers are everywhere,
but, they won't do enough
to keep me from bleeding
through my sleeves).prince charming (a collaboration)
-
Drunk
It's okay
If the shoe doesn't fit right
And your hair is not perfect
Because, to be honest
No one cares,
Feed your gut,
Satisfy your ego
With a few twigs of validation
And a swig of stale damnation
It's all for a show, Darling
Take it easy,
Tomorrow is another day
They won't remember your name anyway,
Hang in there
Kiss your blues away,
You know you're smoking hot
Coz you're born swag
Like Rihanna and Nicki Minaj
Don't try so hard,
Pleasing fools on the road
They don't care
And they won't get it anyway,
So, before you leave
Take this happy pill
Tonight, we'll fly to the moon
And party all night
Till we're wasted
And we'd forget the stinking feeling
Of being left alone
Eating leftover breadcrumbs
On rooftops
While having drunk
Conversations with the moon
©amsterdam -
ayushsangwan 23w
Read Morepoetry is the art of the poor
the rich rarely have a flair for it
the ones who are stricken with
a dark life, who rummage their
pockets but don't find a single
friend, who are neck deep
in lonliness even while smiling
this art belongs to them
it is their only inheritance
it feeds their starving souls when
the world denies to help
and in december when the
winter gets so ruthless and slits
through their bare wrists
poetry covers up people like
a mother hiding a child in her shawl
when everyone looks down on their existence,
poetry hugs the untouchables
hsuya.
-
Read More
Hour 0:
Trumpets blew,
my fame entered the room
silencing critics
before me,
empty chairs
lit up in hollow adulation
and applause.
Hour 1:
"Preparations and
mindsets were
for the
amateurs", I whispered,
"My gibberish
had potential to
enchant
the deaf.", I stated
Hour 2:
Under my very
own overconfident spotlight
I stood,
shivering, as
the stage
was prone
to nervousness,
not me.
Hour 3:
With borrowed confidence,
I spoke
and the shaky mic shrilled,
I stuttered
and
I blamed the mic
for my
diffidence.
Hour 0:
Upbeat still,
I sat on
the empty chair,
accompanied by
absent minded claps,
where I made up
reasons
for my
next fumble.
- T.S.Microphony.
"Digging a pit,
falling into it.
I was very brave,
to make my grave."
©kairos_ -
I spend all my time
in total seclusion,
scrutinizing a part
of me which i had
considered to be
dissipated in the void.
Examining a structure
of austenite, under a
microscope, embedded
in a polymer mold, and
beside that lay my
thoughts and my
incubated ideas in
a test tube.
For a brief moment,
i found myself playing
with all the
permutations and
combinations,
visualizing the existence
of a wormhole lodging
near Alpha centauri.
I would laugh at my own
speculations
and moor the fragments
of my racing senses with
the lacquer of rationality.
But as someone who loves
learning about numbers
that later can be used to
mimic reality whilst
surmising the inner
workings of dimension/s,
I wonder about apanthasia
and how visualization would
leave me and my senses.
-
Sometimes poetry is
just a function of
emotional entropy.
I store my poems as
a binary string of pixels
and characters,
compressed,
Such that the dimensions
or data or any algorithm
that isn't just the word
used to create the poem
will only add size,
and in those poems, i
search for infinities.
Just as a sphere has
infinite faces, a circle
has infinite vertices,
and so does the universe.
A crazy man asked me
once : If fourth dimension
is time so does it mean
my twin experiences
reverse time because he
just got reversed by the
fourth dimension? He
calls it the sorcery of
time-dilation.
- Tick - Tick -
The transparent clock
of the universe is ticking
counter-clockwise
and i see the numbers
from my side are mirrored,
perspective matters and so
does the content of it.
It ticks again and the
universe unfolds many
secrets that were concealed,
where? you may ask,
I point at 'c'.
So we wakeup each morning
to wait for the new day,
When 'c' finally moves
towards infinity.
©hafeezhmha -
thegreymetaphor
24w
Read More
He never smiled.
But, he laughed a lot.
A laughter so contagious that if it were a drop of water, it could make a barren heart bloom into a bouquet of flowers. His eccentricity stood out. Not in a dark twisted way but rather, mysteriously. I could never have fathomed him to be a church goer for I can't remember a time when he wasn't engulfed by smoke rising from the cigarette dangling between his fingers or a time when there was no whiskey on his breath.
I could have easily concluded he belonged to the likes of me who were forced into this weekly tradition had I not seen him alone. Always.
He never stood in mercy or bowed in prayer. Just sat there, every Sunday morning, on the last bench during the service and stared ahead as if he was trying to dare Jesus into a trial by combat.
The gossipers whispered about him. About his dark and seemingly damned soul. "That arrogant fella never opens that mouth unless he has to be downright ghastly. Why even insult the lord by coming here at all? Brings down the atmosphere of the entire room with that foul expression." But that's what they were. Gossips.
For down at the Fusion bar, round the corner at the end of the church street, he was the life of the party. Always talking. Always merry. Always making people laugh. Always laughing.
Remember how I had mentioned that he never smiled? Well, there was once a time when he surprised me. On a windy autumn night when I asked him about love.
On that cramped porch, surrounded by empty bottles and rising smoke, I saw his blurry face look up at the dark sky, his lips curl up into a tiny, almost oblivious smile, just for a moment before blending into a smirk. A softness had flickered in his eyes before it was replaced by the intense hollowness I was more familiar with.
And before another word could escape me, he took a long drag and turned all possible answers to my unuttered question, into smoke. And then, he never smiled again.
They say he loved a nun who despised cigarettes. Hated them more than she hated his tattoos. More than alcohol. More than his impertinence. But, she loved him more than she hated cigarettes. They say, she loved him more than she loved God. And perhaps, God couldn't stomach that.
But like I said, that's what they were. Gossips.
©Srishti
______________________________________________________
I might as well just go back to sleep.Tittle-tattle
I will not ask you where you came from.
I will not ask and neither should you.
-Hozier -
I wake up dreaming of Japan and all the old feral cats bawling on the pavement, mourning the loss of pedestrians. I love music. I miss the days of cars and bicycles in the rust belt of tokyo, laughing, transacting, forgetting. Now, i sit bent on my laptop screen hoping a song or two comes to me. I have to stop myself from breaking into a rhyme, my days are filled with vigorous activity, I've become an amateur at playing piano, But if i play any more than five notes, my fingers start hurting. God bless those pianists who smile through the pain but do nothing to fix it. Cigarettes, drugs, alcohol, slot machines - all members of the great forget.
Last night, i sent a rough draft of what will become my last letter to many of you. An old friend remarked it was clear but didn't had ME in the capital letters.
I get lots of ideas when I'm walking in the park, i take notes on my phone with radwimps covering my ears. But the low hum of sadness persists in the background. I know it's origins but i won't tell you, not for free. If you want to read about my misery you better pay up motherfucker.
I now bid you farewell to go enjoy a non-organic, country egg omelet prepared by my sister. I spent the last five minutes explaining to her why our father is going loony over the classic shoyu ramen i've ordered. I forgot the hindi name for ramen so i told her it's "Sewaiyan".
©hafeezhmha
