I
If I leave, would you weep?
Would I still be cradling you to sleep?
Or will the thought of me keep you awake?
When I'm gone, would you then know what was at stake?
When I die, you'll see the breeze
Will it make you weak in the knees?
Like maybe I did, one lifetime ago or a half
Or will you blow it a kiss on my behalf?
I don't know how you'll cope,
I don't know who you'll blame.
But of one thing I can assure you-
Nothing will ever be the same.
If I'm gone, will you cry?
Would you mourn, or want to die?
Would you write a rhapsody in my name,
Or accept denial, and call it all a game?
Please don't cry till your eyes are sore..
Accept it! Reality isn't real anymore.
Existence is a sham, now do you see?
Who do you think is dead-
Is it you or Is it me?
II
My eyes are now closing, I see the wind blow
I see the stars and the moonlight put up a fanciful show
Still dreaming of your silhouette waiting by the sea
All of the sensibility dawned upon me-
If and when I'm gone - you wouldn't care
Sure, for 6 days, in the voids you will stare
On day 7, once you down all that caffeine
You won't miss me as me, but as just a change in routine
On day 40, to the memories you'll bid adieu
As day 50 comes by, your life is as good as new
So convince me now,
Before I slash my soul with this knife
That bogus is not the only definition
To my presence in this life
Before your life fills
With unjust guilt, grief, and despair
Please learn to value me-
While I'm still there...
Jul 16, 2020
Jul 16, 2020 at 7:29 AM UTC
Will I ever prove that I exist? What do I exist as?
I may try and be a shadow to you
trying to protect you from the scorching heat,
but will I ever know that you're a night wanderer?
I may try to be the rainbow
for the silver lining in your storm,
but will I know that you constantly live in a drought?
I may even be a nightingale
filling your ears with music divine,
but when will you tell me that you are deaf?
Deaf to my yearnings and my cries,
and blind towards the tears
that wouldn't come out of my eyes.
Deaf to the rhythm my heart beats for you,
And yet I keep making the music.
I keep making the music.
I keep making the music,
perhaps to prove that I exist.
But what decides existence?
Do I exist?
I exist in nostalgia,
when people remember their first true loves.
I exist in memoirs,
of the greatest rivals they made.
I exist as the guidelines,
of the way they shouldn't live their lives.
I exist in their sensations,
illuminating how comforting a touch should be.
Yet I need to prove that I exist.
Why?
Jan 12, 2019
Jan 12, 2019 at 1:13 PM UTC
I open my eyes,
Flip the pages,
Stop by the one with the coffee stain,
There's a killing pain.
I close my eyes,
and read the verses of the poetry,
Word by word, Crystal clear
There's your memory
It's haunting me.
I open my eyes,
The page remains,
There lay the letters smudged
By not just the coffee stains,
But dried blood from my veins.
Oct 7, 2018
Oct 7, 2018 at 2:21 AM UTC
I want to stay with the angels,
just a little bit longer.
Till I am one of them,
and they are one with me.
Till I teach them to write
their own destiny.
Till they hear me sing
the songs of the wild,
and twirl on the faraway tune,
write of the loss of a fire,
and fantasize of the sensuality
between my scars and the craters on the moon.
I want to nurture the angels,
to tantalize their demons,
spread their wings
and dance on the oceans,
to smile just right
and give the look half wrong,
I want to show them just for once
where they belong.
And once they start living their lives,
you shall see,
even the angels are but devils
like you and me.
Let me stay here,
and fuse into them my symphony.
Just a little bit longer,
It won't take time, I promise.
Aug 17, 2018
Aug 17, 2018 at 10:47 AM UTC
Flames.
Flames result in something burning into ashes.
The stronger ones, that resist, are not saved from the effects either.
They blacken.
And when a fire and passion as strong as ours burns out, one of us is going to be reduced to ashes and the other one is going to carry the weight of the darkest heart around.
I strive to keep us ablaze because somewhere I know that the pain of being reduced to nothingness is much lesser than carrying around a broken piece of what once was.
Burnt from all sides.
And I know that I'm the one who's going to resist.
Oh, I fear.
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 11:09 AM UTC
Survival isn't necessarily poetic,
Like the words of this poem,
it can be exhilarating,
exhausting,
enigmatic,
and yet not be poetic.
It can have rhyme schemes,
daydreams,
lazy hymns,
light beams,
internal screams,
like the ones entwined in this poem,
and yet not be poetic.
Survival doesn't need battle scars,
history of wars,
a trigger,
anything bigger.
All it needs is a flash of trust,
a burst of hope,
and a bunch of acceptance
to get past all that-
the state of denial,
the snake around your neck,
and the bags under your eyes.
Your very own battle cries.
So take this poetry
as your beam of light,
as an escape from the bland
wordings of survival,
and climb up and up
and out of sight
of the rock bottom
that you're planning to hit,
before you start healing.
Start breathing
Before you can't anymore.
Aug 13, 2018
Aug 13, 2018 at 2:51 PM UTC
The Art of Stealing Hearts-
A curse of the purest kind.
I mistook myself for the divine.
Now I lay on the corpses of who my suitors once were,
as part of the history as every single one of them.
I lay still atop,
with a knife slit through my chest,
and a drop of regret in my eyes.
Little had I realised,
whilst I slaughtered your love like
every single one of theirs,
that your heart had mine in it.
And I carved it out with a lonesome bloodied knife,
And now I lay here still,
still.
The curse was probably never about stealing hearts,
It was maybe about letting mine be stolen with yours.
Every. Single. Time.
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 12:47 PM UTC