My mind is constantly fighting
To convince me
That I do not like writing as much as I thought I did
I still write because it's what I have been doing for some time now
Even if it doesn't make sense to me now or ever
I still do it
Because I lack purpose
And I don't know what makes me happy
So I write fighting my mind
constantly giving up and then resorting
To pen down what I don't feel in a moment
People tell me that I can write
And then I tell them it makes me happy
But the truth is it makes me less miserable sometimes
A feeling of puking out my acidic thoughts on the table
That are underlined with fear of these people
I try not to care about my mind or the overactive people in it
And I blot words like I have a lot of time and money...
Someday, I'll stop because words come to those who seek it not survive on it.
I'm so small
i want you to beat me up
please please let me bleed completely
before infancy clots at the back of my mind
don't wait for me to be tired
break me all at once
grind my feelings into a powdery mess
so that when someone enters our bedroom they slip on the floor and see a stretch mark-ed ceiling
to not know pain but just how ironical numbness is
and then hug me
like you would a voodoo soft toy
with the scratched leather wings
of a bewitched witch who has seen it all sober
but still can't tell a sheep's wool from snakeskin
caress my dilapidated knees
without once telling me to stand up on my own or for myself
all i want from you is
to **** me at dawn
i'll know that i was loved
enough or.... at least.
Morning blue night
pouring into our time,
dying seems so sweet in silence.
I am having writer's block
and experiencing all this anger
and hunger and love and regret,
I feel like I just don't have a bowl
for all these incredible feelings.
I just don't have enough respect for words anymore.
I want to make a cake out of this psychedelia
and I don't even have a sweet tooth.
Where do I put all of it?
Not how.... where?
I feel like drinking water without pills is vain.
Air left in my stomach
makes my mind a ****** stalker
who'll chase you down the road
suddenly have concussions and die in front of you
and make you call the police for a whole new different reason.
Writer's block is ghost town
and I am still human without a soul.
How to die beautifully?
Perhaps when the sun shines the brightest in the dusk
burning everyone more than ever.
What do you feel
after losing this particular battle?
Sitting in an empty farmland,
a speechless sky.
Get up now.
Home is far,
your mother is dead.
You only want water right now,
not love not memories.
In this moment
air is existing better than you
the horizon is more depressed than you because it knows home is beyond
and others are dying
others will die before you
Home is far
the distance is not the issue,
realisation of stars in a lonely night sky is.
Who wants to walk miles
after killing thousands of bad monsters in real life?
Home is far, I know.
Home is believable.
Home is the light you see
everytime you blink.
I sold this moment
for the price of
Memories are not refundable.
#today #now #moment #memories #time #life #people #momentary #happiness #bliss #refundable #price
we owe a lot to pain.
a robe of thorns
about the nice weather outside
and that delicious burger
you had today.
Write about happiness
when you're in pain-
These red rashes on my skin
one by one
of different colours
on the same tree
all over me
almost hide the tree
when spring is an epidemic.
Love is like flowers and rashes and spring is like poetry.
Raindrops forget to
the rain forgets to stop
a plop of blood in the ocean of firestorm
now death opened
like an unturned boat in the
middle of the world
to receive the last plummet of hope,
in a humane drop from above
the above has
no rain for the next season
the winds are afraid to return.
Save Syria. Save humanity. Save the word 'save'.
Notice the stutter in the poem due to fear.
I am thinking
right now how
wrecked I'll feel
if my friend
dies but she
hasn't died yet.
I am a bad person. A very bad person.
is better than
I can't remember. I'm sorry.
I want to wake up to a world
where "what do you do for a living?"
comes with "I just live" reply.
Living. Not just surviving.
When we get home,
before you start unpacking.
Validation. Love. Time. Togetherness. Stability.
For my birthday gift
the summer evening mellow wind
on burnt roofs signing off on February memories,
Some sober flowers that smile just enough
and smell more of affection than love,
a stray dog to validate me
and wag his tail when my wings are cut off,
A long way to go
a mute button
and a gun.
Too much to ask?
I have been writing about
How much I hate change.
Why did I stop writing about
How much I hate myself?
When did I change?
Change. Stop. Begin.
What is this train doing
Going to all the wrong places
And has the driver no control?
Other passengers are screaming as if homeless
To persuade the driver to take this trembling namby-pamby sick ****
To their own favourite towns.
When I sit quietly in an infrequently haunted compartment,
the wasted smell from the toilet
And these riotous noises
Of the driver failing, the train stopping at lonely stations
and others howling unnecessary caps locks and exclamation marks
Infiltrate my senses and at the end of this journey,
You can see through the flimsy permeability
The holes are so prominent
Yet light doesn't enter. The train's timings are weird - all in the night.
The train gets derailed at one point due to the ruckus,
on fire and the searchlight came very late,
didn't notice my quivering queer hand rise amidst a burnt heap of luggages of people who led to this ravaging
managed to creep out of the train at the right moment,
And desolated for the moses to grow inside this melted metal mess and through the rest of me.
This is too big a coffin for me- unceremonious, caliginous and under the open sky
There's not much of me left to give back to.
Train= mind, driver= thoughts, passengers= other people who influence or rule over your weak malleable mind.
Is a feather lurking on a stem
From the bird that left for a foreigner wind
Whispering to you but you can barely hear,
"Go back, I have nothing to give you..."
Hope is catastrophe. It's ruse.
The first time I made love to my mind
When love escaped from the gaps
Between our silences and overthinkings
I saw the naked mind.
We sailed from thousand cuddles of imprudence
To a long warm kiss of sanity.
While I dwindled in her arms of fool's paradise
No sleep just one long weary night,
Her ****** reeked of loneliness
I licked it. Hoping to taste ingenuity,
it was the aftertaste of forsaken feelings
that made me ***** her
till she stopped moaning neon dreams.
Somewhere in my walkabouts in her
I created deep craters of memories
Which she took for love bites
were, in fact, scars for life.
We were virgins on our quests
Thirsting our way through wanting and longing......
She made me swallow lust
Slowly. Heavily downtown.
And fingered it, the ***** of thoughts
And she bled musings.
And Phantasmagoria exuding from her holes
And Spurting into mine like a cascade of brooding melancholy.....
The night my mind lost its virginity,
I sat down to write.
Make love to your mind, poets.....
Sleep on petals
Flown at papers
When my nights are autumn
And my mind
That it grew
Through the day - my springs
Rainbows into me and
hues cascading out of me
Now I know what poetry is.
My roots forget
The taste of soil
they keep on digging,
No, love seeped too deep this time.
And my words dew too much
now loathe sunlight.
And the birds have left
A home in me,
I am all alone,
And you, like a wind
I feared all these years
Only to lift me up,my wilted verses
Are half dead,muses still breathing
Craving a death so bad
You blow , you blow
Against all my skin and swishing my hopes up
Making me see
The sky again and again.
Let these desires rest
Enough of throwing them at the clouds.
You go, another desert thirsts for life.
My poetry always foliages from memories anyway.
- Srijani Sarkar
Do you know how you grow through poetry ?
— The End —