He told her in a whisper that he Doesn't need her mind,
Her mind had all the impenetrable corners,
She knew.
He knew.
The twilight of her
Unconscious, confused him.
He got lost in the distorted vision
She held in her mind,
Maybe that's why she thought
The colour blue had a syrupy
Flavour, and nights tasted like
Wine, did you know you could
Write poems about x-rays?
And pour coffee on ice trays?
The gaping abyss of endless
Possibilities was unduly terrifying,
You have to understand.
He chose to walk on the frozen Lake, tiptoeing, alert... as if he
Held a grenade;
Without having to delve deep
And shudder into the bottomless
Coldness,
Getting messed!
She felt her reality was a
Manuscript; trial and error being a
Constant process.
She grew into her story, without
Living in one.
Secretly longing for the love that
Sat in a bracket.
She was like a guitar solo,
Awakening,
Maddening.
And he was just in search of
Something silent and bitter;
Trying to find clarity in the
Semblance of things,
Because he had nothing better!
She cooked some spaghetti for
His brains, which he ate and
Belched, as he was wired with her Electric curls;
They waltzed into the most
Commonplace of beliefs,
As if there was no end to this world!
As the dream broke and they
Fell off the margins of the book,
She found herself underneath
The ice sheath of her frozen mind;
He was still on his toes...
She could only see the fleeting
Glimpses of movement while
Passion seeped from her poresW
Dec 27, 2019
Dec 27, 2019 at 5:39 AM UTC
I have a box that has all the songs I never sang,
All the promises I never kept,
Men and women I chose to forget...
You don't have to struggle with the
Last line,
I bet you can see the archetypes of A misfit in the box.
Although I stay put as they decide
Whether I'm dead or alive,
Like some of the people who smell
Of death; I thought they were
Friends from the other side.
I never spoke of them,
Not even to my parents,
Who guessed I will be able to
Retain all the goodness, like a fruit
In the market...
I put them inside the box as well,
Ideas beaten, smashed and
Twisted beyond measure:
We debated if values had any value
Over bland soups,
Passing salt across the table.
The box has a see-through lid,
And you can see what's inside...
Like in an emporium, the glass
Cases storing toxin, lust and
Greed-- you need a bigger trolley
Oh dear!
As I contemplate getting inside the
Box myself, with everything else
Unmarred there;
Everyone needs a safe haven after
All, but the doorbell rings and
I put myself back in the body.
Aug 30, 2019
Aug 30, 2019 at 3:42 PM UTC
The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.
When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.
If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.
But most people don’t see it.
Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.
The poet lives in two different worlds.
Aug 27, 2019
Aug 27, 2019 at 11:34 PM UTC
And she lost her appetite
For books,
They failed her the world they had
Promised in their
Nonfictional narratives: the theory Of Politics, the magnanimity of History, the golden outlines of Economics she felt so proud to
Have touched on her fingertips;
In times gone by,
She could see they pivoted.
She had no use for
Empty things anymore;
Casual walks, casual reading Casual coffee, casual ***
That the world glorified and lied;
Her rigid mind used profanity
Against whatever was termed
Casual!
Casual was disturbing, blinding, addicting,
Accountable for everything that
Became usual, by the book!
She used to devour books once--
Word by word, space by space, Page after page,
Chewing softly on the paper
Breaking down to its last molecule,
Until she could taste the wood pulp
In her mouth;
She savoured the taste of the dead
Trees on her tongue
And it edged sharper, her mind
Wiser, she bustier!
But the butchers caught her
Poetry in their poultry of unreal
Policies in no time, they farmed
Her brains and she bled profusely!
And the world watched and shrugged
Casually!
She sold her soul that smelled like Papier-mâché and the butchers Could see its potential in the gleam Of their Knives of the dark;
She burnt her books to make some
Light and saw
Through her burning flesh,
Other meats appeared to take her place..
Aug 22, 2019
Aug 22, 2019 at 6:05 AM UTC
you don't exist when
my eyes are open
you don't exist when
my blood's not poisoned
when my soul's at peace
when my gut is full
and when I'm in company
So you exist most of the time
dear muse
Aug 13, 2019
Aug 13, 2019 at 11:31 PM UTC
I miss our kisses in the park, in the dark,
Where we used to take cover and hover.
We stole moments, your hands over my body, caressing the soft parts.
Whispering love.
You touched my inner rhapsody,
And it turned into a melody so profound,
I became a Clarinet.
We talked about things only movie characters would know.
I brought my own script to your stage, and we had our heuristic drama.
There we were, embraced in the discords of the world, laughing at the jokes no one told,
Like the despicable way things generally are...
Like the woman who swallowed all her golds,
Or the man who killed for love. Love enabled people to **** these days and it made us think, how?
We always had known otherwise:
Love made us more human.
Now we ended that sentence with a question!
We kept kissing in the dark anyway,
Tasting your tongue,
Smelling the cheap smoke you could afford, dreaming about things we could not...
Forgetting about the people who died, while keeping things in order.
I wrote vague poems for you, that you read and ceased to remember.
Like old towns that had homes with letter boxes.
I opened one of those, on that yellow house with ancient moss gathered on its establishment...
It was empty,
So you promised to write a letter to me, promised to address it to that letter box, so I could find it one day.
I went there yesterday,
But the house wasn't there somehow.
It lost all the promises.
Yours too.
It lost me.
About you, I couldn't tell anymore.
Aug 13, 2019
Aug 13, 2019 at 1:03 PM UTC