She's wicked winter, one time I was told.
They get the chills from her airs; so cold.
Their deep despise they never did disguise...
Alas, 'tis only warmth that melts frosty ice.
Feb 12, 2017
Feb 12, 2017 at 11:28 AM UTC
Look at you now, tiny speck, falling from the sky.
Tardily as ever, with not so much as a worldly tie.
Showy, sparkly stardust you can never aspire to be.
Yet, there is a certain anomaly to your normalcy.
Oh speck of dust, you know naught where you truly belong.
In the strong arms of the wind, mindlessly floating along.
At times you may coalesce with the specks in your way,
But then again, feel the fleeting need to flee far astray
And now the cold, cold wind is letting you go.
You seem to be spiralling- sinking ever so low.
Parting with everything you've ever known, I trust?
Yet you can't have ties when you're a speck of dust.
Poor lost speck, as they clean you away, you groan.
But you can only be lost if a home you've ever known.
Worry not, for while they may sweep you off in a gust,
Can you ever really destroy dust?
Feb 7, 2017
Feb 7, 2017 at 12:39 PM UTC
Onto her creased palm, lime scented glue she poured
To mend the loose page on that book she'd borrowed.
As she spread the glue, a pleasant feeling of release.
For to piece broken things together brought her peace.
What of the glue that lingered on her palm, though?
Across the sides of her petite hand did overflow...
She beheld its yellow viscosity in an odd little trance.
From the faint aroma, a new line of thought did advance.
Maybe she could use it to stick a note in her dorm,
To remind her that in life, transience is the sole norm.
Or to fix a friendship once worthy of the bards,
That had silently shattered into a million shards.
Or perhaps even use it on the heart hiding within her,
So the poor old muscle could heal a little quicker...
She turned on the tap with a frustration so fierce,
And washed off the lime glue along with her tears.
Dec 4, 2016
Dec 4, 2016 at 12:53 PM UTC
A tiny little flame births a regal forest fire,
The remotest nooks of her mind now a grand pyre.
Her very being set ablaze with an inspiration so great,
She grabs a pencil before the sly flames can attenuate.
Each word a drop; from her hand runs a river thence,
Fills the parchment before her; a happy turbulence.
Only water can quench fire, the stanzas doth flow.
Untamed ripples dancing as her eyes begin to glow.
Before she knows it, she's the most unyielding General.
Her army of sixteen before her merciless wrath grovel.
Soldier out, soldier in; every line proportionate.
This wordy patriot did it with rhyme and reason, yet.
And now, at yet another christening she's a Father.
An air of certitude prevails, as she sprinkles holy water.
Content with her myriad roles, she smiles exhaustedly,
"Oh, you write poems?" Not at all; she lives poetry.
Dec 4, 2016
Dec 4, 2016 at 12:51 PM UTC
"Who may you be?" words laced with leer.
'I'm a baby tomato; it's my first day here.'
"Why are you here?" condescension is key.
'I don't quite know; existence was ****** upon me.'
"And where are you headed, puny one?"
'I'm going to make my way towards the Sun.'
"What, then, if thou weres't to burn?"
'I'd stand tall; not so much as turn.'
"With this arrogance, you shall not survive.
Be like the others and venture not to strive."
The impressionable little tomato did blush, red-hued.
Seeds of ambition crushed even before they were strew'd.
"And who may you be..." the voice moves on.
A familiar epilogue- society had won.
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 1:59 PM UTC
Humans are funny little beings; they fall.
Falling recklessly in and out of varying degrees of affection; they tell.
Telling each other half-truths and half-lies; they reveal.
Revealing their most closely guarded secrets at a slip of the tongue; they feel.
Feeling emotions unforeseen by their own cortical matter; they think.
Thinking about futures that may never even be theirs to live; they breathe.
Breathing the love that clouds the air and developing immunity; they write.
Writing vague poetry to soothe their noisy souls; they hope.
Hoping the universe really does have a plan for them; they journey.
Journeying through that amusing series of events they call a life; they live.
Living- really living through it all.
Oct 5, 2016
Oct 5, 2016 at 2:32 PM UTC
(Part 1: http://hellopoetry.com/poem/738250/almond-eyes/)
Come spring, she leaped across the grassy dune.
In her ageing almond eyes, fresh wisdom strewn.
Unthought of now- he who had once been her all.
In a forbidden forest, a smiling lean buck stood tall.
Come summer, standing afar she did quietly spy;
Studying his ways from the curious corner of her eye-
How chilled he liked his water, how green his grass…
A polite little nod if ever he happened to pass.
Come monsoon, away she cast the lessons of the past.
Throughout their graze, on him her gaze.
Playful fights they feign; adorable moments in the rain.
She’d fallen tame; her clumsy hooves not to blame.
Come winter, cold truths in the icy winds blew her way.
Her lean, smiling buck wasn’t really hers per se.
He smiled much the same at myriad doe and antelope,
Yet, in her shivering heart flickered the scantiest of hope.
Come fall, she finally forsake her futile trail.
Turned her back with a swish of her bushy tail.
Beaming with sheer joy, she hummed a halcyon tune twice over.
For bucks would come and bucks would go, but the river’d go on forever.
Sep 5, 2016
Sep 5, 2016 at 3:41 PM UTC
And the skies, they tried to cheer her up; said,
'For every tear you shed, we'll shed a hundred.
And if your loud heartbeat is tearing you asunder,
Just close your eyes and lend a ear to the thunder.'
Jul 15, 2016
Jul 15, 2016 at 12:49 PM UTC
Chalance is the quiver in your vivacious voice as you tell them you're fine.
The trepid tear you battle as you proclaim that you don't care anymore.
The leering lump in your throat as you scream indifference from the rooftops.
The murky melancholy you mask with the widest of smiles,
The sinful scars that lurk beneath your flawless ensemble.
The six strategic seconds you pause before you tell the universe you're nonchalant
The word chalant is only as non-existent as your nonchalance.
Jul 5, 2016
Jul 5, 2016 at 9:39 AM UTC
At first she loved me with wondrous pride,
Night after night, a happy constant by her side.
Hand-written stories narrated solely to me,
For only I appreciated her special 'vocabulary'.
In a couple of years, she gouged out my right eye.
As she pulled out my left arm, I masked a sigh.
A laborious poker face; by her, I was smitten.
And unlike the others, at least I wasn't forgotten.
At the age of three, she made loneliness my mistress.
Stowed me away; locked me alone with my distress.
The darkness of the room surpassed by my own.
Yet my unrequited adoration set firmly in stone.
Twenty five years later, she found her old teddy bear.
'He was always my favourite. Treat him with care.'
'But mommy, he has no eyes or hands...' she said, sans guile.
In the blink of an eye, she spied a sad, crippled smile.
Jun 30, 2016
Jun 30, 2016 at 11:46 AM UTC