mahima-gupta-1 - Hello Poetry

I have mere recollections of ******* cocktails being served Under the starless sky Because the stars allure the poets And the poets mistake them for shooting stars Another thing I'm reminded of is Envelopes with pink and gold glitter dust It's better to keep them untouched Because touching them means food for thought And food for thought is mistaken for inessential complexity The last thing that comes to my mind are the old chandliers in the hallway And it's better to not look up while walking Because blinding light would result in a catastrophe And a catastrophe would restrict my recollections to these few elements

0

Mar 9, 2016

Mar 9, 2016 at 12:27 PM UTC

Injury

I have mere recollections of ******* cocktails being served Under the starless sky Because the stars allure the poets And the poets mistake them for shooting stars Another thing I'm reminded of is Envelopes with pink and gold glitter dust It's better to keep them untouched Because touching them means food for thought And food for thought is mistaken for inessential complexity The last thing that comes to my mind are the old chandliers in the hallway And it's better to not look up while walking Because blinding light would result in a catastrophe And a catastrophe would restrict my recollections to these few elements

15

I heard you're talking about Splitting the fortune into two With the silver revolver in her hand Gasping her breath she's walking down the aisle Burning red than fading blue The odds of your lumbered existence fall flat If only the armour was repossessed By a harbinger from your mother womb Would you realise the game ceases to exist It's all in your mind in caught in your rigmarole of lies Overhwhelmed by your streak of luck You command the move to be played If only you knew the result already is checkmate When the lady sitting across placed a bet You lost it all to her and satiated yourself to her charm But she's walking down the aisle now Burning red than fading blue Black and red you lost it all You went home and pretended to be unscathed But this time there's no way back It's the lady coming towards you With the biased musket at her disposal This is not your gambling den Here comes apocalypse It's Russian roulette.

0

Mar 7, 2016

Mar 7, 2016 at 9:58 AM UTC

Russian roulette

I heard you're talking about Splitting the fortune into two With the silver revolver in her hand Gasping her breath she's walking down the aisle Burning red than fading blue The odds of your lumbered existence fall flat If only the armour was repossessed By a harbinger from your mother womb Would you realise the game ceases to exist It's all in your mind in caught in your rigmarole of lies Overhwhelmed by your streak of luck You command the move to be played If only you knew the result already is checkmate When the lady sitting across placed a bet You lost it all to her and satiated yourself to her charm But she's walking down the aisle now Burning red than fading blue Black and red you lost it all You went home and pretended to be unscathed But this time there's no way back It's the lady coming towards you With the biased musket at her disposal This is not your gambling den Here comes apocalypse It's Russian roulette.

26

Dead leaves Falling like sighs From the full moon and the canopy of stars With the crystals reflecting Demise of the lark Uncovered walking on the aisle Seamlessly flowing away the fog is the curtain blindfolding her Doors of the cathedral are shut The prism reflects the imbroglio Outlines of bittersweet memories Burning in the fireplace Frosted windows with half broken glasses hindering movement With a pale face and dry lips Hands numb she tries to write Last few lines of her life

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Dec 28, 2015

Dec 28, 2015 at 5:33 AM UTC

Winter; demise

Dead leaves Falling like sighs From the full moon and the canopy of stars With the crystals reflecting Demise of the lark Uncovered walking on the aisle Seamlessly flowing away the fog is the curtain blindfolding her Doors of the cathedral are shut The prism reflects the imbroglio Outlines of bittersweet memories Burning in the fireplace Frosted windows with half broken glasses hindering movement With a pale face and dry lips Hands numb she tries to write Last few lines of her life

19

I wish I could guide these caged words be able to maneveour them let them drift apart towards the seamless light of the night towards the oceans of elixir I wish I could set free the taste of the bittersweet memories without causing any harm to my conscience without letting the uncertainties affect my psyche I wish I could join and tear Cry and fear Laugh and rejoice at the same things Dance to those songs and cry to them Settle and destruct Without bluffing with my soul.

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Nov 22, 2015

Nov 22, 2015 at 9:52 AM UTC

Bluff

I wish I could guide these caged words be able to maneveour them let them drift apart towards the seamless light of the night towards the oceans of elixir I wish I could set free the taste of the bittersweet memories without causing any harm to my conscience without letting the uncertainties affect my psyche I wish I could join and tear Cry and fear Laugh and rejoice at the same things Dance to those songs and cry to them Settle and destruct Without bluffing with my soul.

16

Quarter past 11 is it? No it's 11:11 Slowly lapsing second by second With thousands of prayers and wishes being granted and my hope wandering for resurrection. Quarter past 11 is it? No it's 11:11 When hybrid eyes void of faces to dance with claim to purport themselves to a mere beguiling satiation but inwardly they're dying to enjoying their guilty pleasures Quarter past 11 is it? No it's 11:11 4 minutes have passed says the lady with her watch showing the wrong timing maybe her wish could be traded for someone else's perhaps Quarter past 11 is it? No it's 11:11 Look at the clock see the patten four ones two elevens delving deep into souls of millions waiting for their wish to be granted and spreading smiles just how silver dust and bubbles do to the five year old in the backyard Quarter past 11 is it? No it's 11:11 For the artist holding up the thoughts on the silver platter for her ideas assembling in the mind promptly as if a magical spell had been cast on her after she made her last wish Quarter past 11 is it? No you missed it but it's 11:12 Maybe the next time you could save a minute to make magic And I hope tonight at 11:11 the shooting star lights up your night as well.

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Oct 22, 2015

Oct 22, 2015 at 4:11 PM UTC

11:11

Quarter past 11 is it? No it's 11:11 Slowly lapsing second by second With thousands of prayers and wishes being granted and my hope wandering for resurrection. Quarter past 11 is it? No it's 11:11 When hybrid eyes void of faces to dance with claim to purport themselves to a mere beguiling satiation but inwardly they're dying to enjoying their guilty pleasures Quarter past 11 is it? No it's 11:11 4 minutes have passed says the lady with her watch showing the wrong timing maybe her wish could be traded for someone else's perhaps Quarter past 11 is it? No it's 11:11 Look at the clock see the patten four ones two elevens delving deep into souls of millions waiting for their wish to be granted and spreading smiles just how silver dust and bubbles do to the five year old in the backyard Quarter past 11 is it? No it's 11:11 For the artist holding up the thoughts on the silver platter for her ideas assembling in the mind promptly as if a magical spell had been cast on her after she made her last wish Quarter past 11 is it? No you missed it but it's 11:12 Maybe the next time you could save a minute to make magic And I hope tonight at 11:11 the shooting star lights up your night as well.

20

On the crest of the wave I decided to sit down at my 14 year old escritoire On the advent of spring I decided to Fill up the moats in my backyard The quill in between my fingers commemorating the fall of the mighty empires when I was actually rubbernecking the flowers I filled up the ditches with. Two universes in my mind helpings shape intricate designs and the inkwell acts as a magnet attracting my soul to get lost within these paradoxes If I walk towards the palaces the kings will ask me to extemporise tricks of which are on my finger tips If I walk towards the patio I will fall into the area next to it and be buried beneath the flowers Met with an accident 20 years ago when I was thinking of neologisms when I was thinking of atypical aphorisms when I was lost in between the metaphors.

0

Sep 11, 2015

Sep 11, 2015 at 11:59 AM UTC

Escritoire in the tomb

On the crest of the wave I decided to sit down at my 14 year old escritoire On the advent of spring I decided to Fill up the moats in my backyard The quill in between my fingers commemorating the fall of the mighty empires when I was actually rubbernecking the flowers I filled up the ditches with. Two universes in my mind helpings shape intricate designs and the inkwell acts as a magnet attracting my soul to get lost within these paradoxes If I walk towards the palaces the kings will ask me to extemporise tricks of which are on my finger tips If I walk towards the patio I will fall into the area next to it and be buried beneath the flowers Met with an accident 20 years ago when I was thinking of neologisms when I was thinking of atypical aphorisms when I was lost in between the metaphors.

10

You skip through my mind Every second Half way then to the extreme And then it goes back to normal With your unrivalled spirit Untenable, you daunt around Your playfulness and optimism Giving my life an aura or freedom With every step on the nature's vein You rouse a feeling of an unbridled passion in my mind Roaming about exploring jungles of my innermost thoughts Influcing me and my psyche with your cheeky demeanour And I know that I'll be in debt forever Because of your unquenchable love and heartiest grins You little monkey, this will be the way to our humble plight.

0

Aug 24, 2015

Aug 24, 2015 at 11:38 AM UTC

Monkey

You skip through my mind Every second Half way then to the extreme And then it goes back to normal With your unrivalled spirit Untenable, you daunt around Your playfulness and optimism Giving my life an aura or freedom With every step on the nature's vein You rouse a feeling of an unbridled passion in my mind Roaming about exploring jungles of my innermost thoughts Influcing me and my psyche with your cheeky demeanour And I know that I'll be in debt forever Because of your unquenchable love and heartiest grins You little monkey, this will be the way to our humble plight.

16

You were like the pieces of A jigsaw I claimed you when I was a toddler Every evening we stood in The backyard and hid from the Pigeons Every night we laid on the grasses And counted the stars My hands are shivering now And I'm too **** old for any reconciliation My will has flown And to this impetuous wind It surely has blown You're writing these verses With your blood stained fingers I'm trying to forget Every word I said. Back in the second grade you Gave me roses and I thought We're beginning to collapse And build this new dome of love But the meanings and emotions At this very tender age Knew no bounds Crept away Kept on moving endlessly Like those horizontal lines you drew In my notebook I still have those pages Buried them with you Kept them with my soul. Today when I stand on the bridge The bridge where your car collapsed There's an eerie silence There's a horizontal cross An immeasurable distance That can never be crossed. I watch as every alphabet on that letter Gravitates towards the floor And my hands, my blood stained fingers recall that night you were murdered That's what you told. Someday the lies we say, consume us. Someday this demise will become an old tale. The truth with stay with me Vertically hitched.

0

Dec 15, 2014

Dec 15, 2014 at 5:00 AM UTC

Horizontal drift

You were like the pieces of A jigsaw I claimed you when I was a toddler Every evening we stood in The backyard and hid from the Pigeons Every night we laid on the grasses And counted the stars My hands are shivering now And I'm too **** old for any reconciliation My will has flown And to this impetuous wind It surely has blown You're writing these verses With your blood stained fingers I'm trying to forget Every word I said. Back in the second grade you Gave me roses and I thought We're beginning to collapse And build this new dome of love But the meanings and emotions At this very tender age Knew no bounds Crept away Kept on moving endlessly Like those horizontal lines you drew In my notebook I still have those pages Buried them with you Kept them with my soul. Today when I stand on the bridge The bridge where your car collapsed There's an eerie silence There's a horizontal cross An immeasurable distance That can never be crossed. I watch as every alphabet on that letter Gravitates towards the floor And my hands, my blood stained fingers recall that night you were murdered That's what you told. Someday the lies we say, consume us. Someday this demise will become an old tale. The truth with stay with me Vertically hitched.

46

A blank piece of paper Unscrambled letters Metaphors flying across the room, Hypnotised. A bucket of white paint Whitewashed fences The last knock on the door, Crestfallen. Thirty five cygnets Moving in the same direction I choke on the sea salt, Frozen. A thousand letters from you Anecdotes and poetry's Words still won't suffice, Rusted.

0

Nov 6, 2014

Nov 6, 2014 at 7:29 AM UTC

Untitled

A blank piece of paper Unscrambled letters Metaphors flying across the room, Hypnotised. A bucket of white paint Whitewashed fences The last knock on the door, Crestfallen. Thirty five cygnets Moving in the same direction I choke on the sea salt, Frozen. A thousand letters from you Anecdotes and poetry's Words still won't suffice, Rusted.

16

I'm resting beneath an avalanche With my numb soul burying the cold secrets The chasms taking in my pain I'm a poet I don't wish to be one I'm resting beneath the avalanche And my cacology is killing me These words reaching out to the mountains Are merely fairytales in this stark reality I'm resting beneath an avalanche And I can see the cygnet With her mother Moving towards death And my words cannot help them My words cannot help my withering self too.

0

Nov 6, 2014

Nov 6, 2014 at 6:00 AM UTC

Anathema

I'm resting beneath an avalanche With my numb soul burying the cold secrets The chasms taking in my pain I'm a poet I don't wish to be one I'm resting beneath the avalanche And my cacology is killing me These words reaching out to the mountains Are merely fairytales in this stark reality I'm resting beneath an avalanche And I can see the cygnet With her mother Moving towards death And my words cannot help them My words cannot help my withering self too.

15