ay3 - Hello Poetry

there’s a delhi boy, somewhere out there i like to to think that he is the physical embodiment of opposite day because when push him away, he pulls me back when i tell him i hate him, he says he loves me and when i say i want to leave and im halfway to leaving through the door, he grabs my arm, pulls me back, and gently says, “this is YOUR house, you can’t leave YOUR OWN house. you’re being ridiculous. also where do you keep the mayo?” there’s a delhi boy, somewhere out there and he’s pretty **** wild when i say wild, i dont mean he lives like every day is his last i mean he’s wild enough to believe there will always be a tomorrow and don’t get me wrong, im not saying that like it’s a bad thing because when i tell him i won’t survive that night somehow his tomorrow-ness always helps me make it to the sunrise you see, he’s the first boy i haven’t scared away with my tendency to want to die no, it’s much more than that in fact he plants entire fields of flowers for me instead of picking a few to put on my to-be casket like everyone else does he writes to me with the flower stems and makes me feel like im the backbone of all his sentences even though im more a sentence fragment, missing conjunctions, is that a misspelling of because? kinda gal he likes to edit, but he never takes credit for fixing me you see, writer’s block becomes a hollow garden full of red ikea flowers shrouded in my guts when i think of him because it’s not that i don’t know what to say its that i have so much to say all at once because he is so much of everything good i did not know i deserved for the distance between us not to hurt the closest thing I have to an accepted prayer as someone that doesn’t really believe in soulmates, I mean can you even objectively define a soulmate? even if you could, what is the statistical probability that your soulmate isn’t dead? i guess he can be unfamiliar territory because im so used to people tearing off the parts of me they need and hes the first one to ever say he would not let any part of me go theres a delhi boy out there and i hope he knows that he always has a home in my notebooks because my writing comes from my heart and he has mine i hope he knows that he fits in between the lines of my poems better than the spaces of our fingers when im holding his hand and after heartbreak after heartbreak after heartbreak he is my first healing

0

Sep 10, 2017

Sep 10, 2017 at 2:29 AM UTC

delhi boy

there’s a delhi boy, somewhere out there i like to to think that he is the physical embodiment of opposite day because when push him away, he pulls me back when i tell him i hate him, he says he loves me and when i say i want to leave and im halfway to leaving through the door, he grabs my arm, pulls me back, and gently says, “this is YOUR house, you can’t leave YOUR OWN house. you’re being ridiculous. also where do you keep the mayo?” there’s a delhi boy, somewhere out there and he’s pretty **** wild when i say wild, i dont mean he lives like every day is his last i mean he’s wild enough to believe there will always be a tomorrow and don’t get me wrong, im not saying that like it’s a bad thing because when i tell him i won’t survive that night somehow his tomorrow-ness always helps me make it to the sunrise you see, he’s the first boy i haven’t scared away with my tendency to want to die no, it’s much more than that in fact he plants entire fields of flowers for me instead of picking a few to put on my to-be casket like everyone else does he writes to me with the flower stems and makes me feel like im the backbone of all his sentences even though im more a sentence fragment, missing conjunctions, is that a misspelling of because? kinda gal he likes to edit, but he never takes credit for fixing me you see, writer’s block becomes a hollow garden full of red ikea flowers shrouded in my guts when i think of him because it’s not that i don’t know what to say its that i have so much to say all at once because he is so much of everything good i did not know i deserved for the distance between us not to hurt the closest thing I have to an accepted prayer as someone that doesn’t really believe in soulmates, I mean can you even objectively define a soulmate? even if you could, what is the statistical probability that your soulmate isn’t dead? i guess he can be unfamiliar territory because im so used to people tearing off the parts of me they need and hes the first one to ever say he would not let any part of me go theres a delhi boy out there and i hope he knows that he always has a home in my notebooks because my writing comes from my heart and he has mine i hope he knows that he fits in between the lines of my poems better than the spaces of our fingers when im holding his hand and after heartbreak after heartbreak after heartbreak he is my first healing

47

see, the thing about her is that she wreaks havoc cities away insert any word you’d like insinuate, stimulate, incite, excite she will make you want to taste them all her lips do not trace with lipstick, they trail thunderstorms of invigoration, greed, and fulfillment without having touched you at all see, the thing about her is that your invisibility is her tell-tale she won’t make you delight in skin or whatever is carnal, earthly, corporeal never. instead, she will make you want to write because she will not become your pleasure she becomes your whoever and whenever and breathes life into all your non-personal conjunctions see, the thing about her is that she is complicated chemistry a principle of uncertainty in a world governed by relativity she will be be here but she will disappear with the world’s unobtrusive waves of tenets nothing good will leave but love, you forget, nothing you want ever remains see, the thing about her is that she makes you want to use your tongue and your hands not on her, love, but on your earth she is your language she is your dictionary she is the words at the tip of your tongue and no, you will not have her body you will never have her body see, she permeated your mind while you were fretting over skin see, whatever she is, no matter what you do, she will always have you trapped. in a psychological wormhole of want and creed she: both ultra-violet and ultra-violent

0

Jul 26, 2017

Jul 26, 2017 at 10:49 AM UTC

your language

see, the thing about her is that she wreaks havoc cities away insert any word you’d like insinuate, stimulate, incite, excite she will make you want to taste them all her lips do not trace with lipstick, they trail thunderstorms of invigoration, greed, and fulfillment without having touched you at all see, the thing about her is that your invisibility is her tell-tale she won’t make you delight in skin or whatever is carnal, earthly, corporeal never. instead, she will make you want to write because she will not become your pleasure she becomes your whoever and whenever and breathes life into all your non-personal conjunctions see, the thing about her is that she is complicated chemistry a principle of uncertainty in a world governed by relativity she will be be here but she will disappear with the world’s unobtrusive waves of tenets nothing good will leave but love, you forget, nothing you want ever remains see, the thing about her is that she makes you want to use your tongue and your hands not on her, love, but on your earth she is your language she is your dictionary she is the words at the tip of your tongue and no, you will not have her body you will never have her body see, she permeated your mind while you were fretting over skin see, whatever she is, no matter what you do, she will always have you trapped. in a psychological wormhole of want and creed she: both ultra-violet and ultra-violent

49

& happiness, happiness is like an old home ive never visited the one we see in dreams like the ones on ivy-bridged hills like the ones in cold breezes that gives birth to shuddering hearts & sadness, sadness is like that broken road to a broken home it is misfortune disguised as your biggest familiarity its like that rubble ridden road to the airport I am so afraid of the rumble of engines its like the gravel on a ghost carpeted floor echoing with footsteps of a child child with broken teeth child that is fast-forwarded entropy now & roofs, roofs i may have over my head but, whats a home when roofs cant shelter you from the blizzard right underneath it? tell me. whats it like? when familiarity is your biggest fear? like how the door to your childhood home reminds you of being trapped in forever or how the sunset through the ***** window only reminds of you of how blind youve been because I I am tired of fighting past the empty alleyway haunted by ghosts I cant forget I am tired of the cold blizzard that freezes my words I am tired of the asphyxiating snowstorms that anesthize my breath I am tired of the broken past and- thats okay. because; the cold wind blisters my lungs but sometimes its the only thing that reminds me im still pretty much alive now, its only time that i get to the home ive never visited to dig up the grave you buried my innocence and finally reclaim what has always been mine.

0

Feb 12, 2017

Feb 12, 2017 at 6:38 AM UTC

familiarity

& happiness, happiness is like an old home ive never visited the one we see in dreams like the ones on ivy-bridged hills like the ones in cold breezes that gives birth to shuddering hearts & sadness, sadness is like that broken road to a broken home it is misfortune disguised as your biggest familiarity its like that rubble ridden road to the airport I am so afraid of the rumble of engines its like the gravel on a ghost carpeted floor echoing with footsteps of a child child with broken teeth child that is fast-forwarded entropy now & roofs, roofs i may have over my head but, whats a home when roofs cant shelter you from the blizzard right underneath it? tell me. whats it like? when familiarity is your biggest fear? like how the door to your childhood home reminds you of being trapped in forever or how the sunset through the ***** window only reminds of you of how blind youve been because I I am tired of fighting past the empty alleyway haunted by ghosts I cant forget I am tired of the cold blizzard that freezes my words I am tired of the asphyxiating snowstorms that anesthize my breath I am tired of the broken past and- thats okay. because; the cold wind blisters my lungs but sometimes its the only thing that reminds me im still pretty much alive now, its only time that i get to the home ive never visited to dig up the grave you buried my innocence and finally reclaim what has always been mine.

35

Someday your yesterdays will become yesteryears All your seconds spent dreaming Will become faded memories Jaded Neurons Thoughts lost in the hurricane Never built on, never replayed Your rapid heartbeats and hopeful breaths As your eyes pace over unsolved equations and unpaved paths Will one day turn into nothing but ****** reflexes A secondary statement A rudimentary oblivion Listen You have learnt to read your own books, but have you learn to write on others'? You have learnt to gaze at the stars, but have you learnt to gaze at them through another pair of eyes? Pit pat, pit pat monsoon It's raining knowledge Why do you wait so long to drench yourself? The door is open The storm is calling Don't you want to tilt your head and taste it? Tick tock, tick tock Listen The clock is ticking You are still blinking The months are fading but will you choose to be asleep or will you learn to do?

0

Jul 7, 2016

Jul 7, 2016 at 5:16 AM UTC

A poetic note to self

Someday your yesterdays will become yesteryears All your seconds spent dreaming Will become faded memories Jaded Neurons Thoughts lost in the hurricane Never built on, never replayed Your rapid heartbeats and hopeful breaths As your eyes pace over unsolved equations and unpaved paths Will one day turn into nothing but ****** reflexes A secondary statement A rudimentary oblivion Listen You have learnt to read your own books, but have you learn to write on others'? You have learnt to gaze at the stars, but have you learnt to gaze at them through another pair of eyes? Pit pat, pit pat monsoon It's raining knowledge Why do you wait so long to drench yourself? The door is open The storm is calling Don't you want to tilt your head and taste it? Tick tock, tick tock Listen The clock is ticking You are still blinking The months are fading but will you choose to be asleep or will you learn to do?

31