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Apr 2017 · 741
for the sun
a Apr 2017
we sit. weary pupils dilate as we watch
the dying day mourn lilac tears onto
rosy cloud-cheeks,
eyes widen like it's an action movie
and the night has begun to wake
its warriors - or worse,
it's a documentary, and
someone's burning van gogh's stars
back into oblivion. lord, we're watching
universes fall and bleed
-but the film stops there.
our sentiments are unscripted,
it's just that chill that creeps up our
collars and strokes our
amygdalae enviously-
               and i daresay, to our sightcaptor
        who begins to reach her way in
                    and withdraw, simultaneously,
      i dare speak:

          do
          not
        touch
          me

but it's hard to stay cool
when you love the face of the sun
and must sing her to sleep.
"do/not/touch/me" is supposed to have a strike-though but i wasn't sure how to work the formatting.
wip.
May 2016 · 926
Rags of Time
a May 2016
Thine hours shed themselves,
Moment upon minutes upon hour
   curtsy to thy shining name,
leaden with embellishments
of snow and americas of golden
tears.
          Stained time, spilt;
to denounce thine image.
prompt: the sun rising, john donne
Apr 2016 · 448
-
a Apr 2016
-
-
Jan 2016 · 695
Untitled
Jan 2016 · 955
let it all go
a Jan 2016
if we're strong enough to let it in,
then we're strong enough to let it go*

because letting in is like giving up
and letting go is the decision not to do so.
Jan 2016 · 297
Untitled
a Jan 2016
once again, i
abandoned my poetic post.

i ventured out and sought that of which most
would find unruly.

and like so many times before, my misadventures
only have led me

here,
to hellopoetry.
hello, poetry. it's been a while
Dec 2015 · 288
~
a Dec 2015
~
the stress of living
consumes my life
Dec 2015 · 2.3k
Untitled
a Dec 2015
There was a time
when I waited every morning to hear the
soft pitter-patter of your feet,
hurried, like a scurrying fox in my
back garden, just this time by my own front gates.
There was a time
when I stood by the door every morning,
yearning to see your smile and hear your whisper of a
'Good day' promise to me, to accidently
drop the box you softly put in my hands so that you can
pick it up for me. Aren't I sneaky.
who knows
inspired by some buzzfeed post about someone who fell in love with their postman
Nov 2015 · 785
paris
a Nov 2015
city of love painted crimson but not
for the passion and hope but
for the blood staining the streets
in unworthy unbelonging abode.
and i'm sorry. there is a place inside
me that aches and screams and yearns
and apologises.
those who committed these acts of
****** are not muslims as they so
proudly call themselves, there is only
one word for this type of man and it is
murderer.
im so sorry
Nov 2015 · 294
Untitled
a Nov 2015
i feel a pain unbeknownst to most
not pity, yet not understanding
i feel ashamed of the fact that
they take His name before
slaughtering the innocent, the
crying.
i feel grief for those who have lost
i feel sorrow for those not found
i feel anger at these holy men
who take religion into their own
hands.
I'm so sorry.
Oct 2015 · 294
Untitled
a Oct 2015
triple glaze can't shield the sounds
of laughs screams or motors whirring from
all the way down the street
but
it provides slight relief from eternal goosebumps that grace my sleeves
Sep 2015 · 337
It's Been A While
a Sep 2015
And I'm sorry about that.
My wrinkling fingers have gotten
Sore.
They are periwinkle and fat,
Like pigs before ham,
They are tired and numb,
Like those who work under the thumb,
But I'm back now, though honestly,
It seems to me that
That is only so when
Good turns to bad.
Cause in reality,  poetry
Is for the sad.
Poetry is for the sad,  and I'm sad. Hello again, poetry.
Aug 2015 · 642
Temple
a Aug 2015
My body is a temple
for all those dead souls
that don't have any other place.
Aug 2015 · 448
Heart and Home
a Aug 2015
Home is where the heart is, but  what if the heart is nowhere?

What if the heart is a tennis ball, volleyed from person to person,
place to place?

No comfort zone, no middle net, no ball crew to at least hold you back
before the next throw.

Slapped by racquets with surprising ease and frivolity, the heart is light,  airy,
but blackening slowly.

What if your heart wanders through the night,  an ebony  ghost, capturing,  entangling, enticing

those hearts that already have a home? Swiftly pumping yourself into them, hot scarlet blood for fixing yourself

Fixing them instead.

Their bodies,  minds, souls set alight with your fire, but the fire in you is quickly extinguishing.

You are dry rot and stale bread and wickless candles,  left in the sun
to decay.

But you are a saviour.

What if your heart was a weary traveller,  no home to speak of, no place to rest your head, therefore no heart to boast of?

What if your heart was an impenetrable facade, stolen features put into one,  
to hide ***** deeds, to owe no one?

What if your heart is your home, taking in yourself, and giving hope, sprouting
out the things everyone else owns
to hide the vulnerable reality
behind, alone?
Some attempted spoken word, for an external competition.
Aug 2015 · 694
Darling
a Aug 2015
Darling,
                          plait my hair with the silk of your fingers, weave
                          my locks to a mellifluous status.
                                                      
                                                            
Darling,*
     caress my face as though it is
worthy of your notice,  touch me like no
     one else can.
Aug 2015 · 1.1k
Facade
a Aug 2015
The first thing you notice about a hospital is how clean it is.

The floors scrubbed down so hard, it would be cleaner with a more natural-looking layer of grime, because the reek of sterilising lemon-scented cleaner is sickening.

The tiles are snow but the ceilings are sludge, layers of paint unsuccessfully attempt to cover the dry rot coat, but the faeces-hue cannot be covered.

The doorways and chairs are bathed in rust, the flies not hesitating to accompany the visitors and their loved ones.

*Even the cleanest places are *****.
Really not one of my best pieces, very spur-of-the-moment. I'm using up my mobile data for this.
Aug 2015 · 1.4k
Pune
a Aug 2015
They say it's cliché,  writing
a poem about being alone on your birthday.
Cause how could you be alone, with the not-so-faux paradise of the gently swaying lush greenery that sprouts tweety-bird yellow over your head,
complete, with the insistent ca-caw of the Red-throated beak that doesn't let you sleep on the anniversary of your birth.
How could you be alone with the contrast beneath, the contest of of somnabulism between the rickshaw and the great grey suzuki, that perfectly encompasses the colour of Europe.
The barking stray dogs in the Pune streets, the rustle of the parakeet palms in the monsoon breeze.
You're stuck in a shell of unending continuity, howling canines and Hindi beats, honking cars and the buzz of your mind.
alone. and old.
This birthday, I wish for India to have a repaint.
Aug 2015 · 247
Untitled
a Aug 2015
Falling, soaring, dropping
away from you and the warmth of your
eyes.
I can't afford kindness, compassion's too
costly,
So spare me the trouble, the debt, the owing
and retreat.
Jul 2015 · 967
Helix
a Jul 2015
A helix to the perfect degree,
An answer to the mathematician's plea,
An x for when  y was in need,
Swirling logic - majestic and infinite
Whilst 90°.
An ode to my maths revision
Jul 2015 · 537
Sweat
a Jul 2015
Even the leaves sweat, marigold dew
dripping like a tap that won't properly shut-
Slow, with sophistication, but
constant, insistent as the sun itself.
Jun 2015 · 2.1k
The Dynamics of Poetry
a Jun 2015
A poem, for some, is not fuelled by a single thought.
It is not a sudden emotion that yearns to be converted instantly to wordful waste, it is gradual.
It is a volcano, that builds up until eruption is inevitable.
Poetry, for some, is layer upon layer of thought and feeling and concept, hardened over time,
For some, it is hours of pain and joy and the works of the indescribable puppeteer so desperately fused
into metaphor.
Poetry, for some, lifelong.

But for others, poetry is pure spontaneity. It is unpredictable and unlook-back-able.
For others, poetry is their act of carpe diem, their tip-toe into daily bravery and recklessness.
Their mark that is not a scar.
Poetry, for others, is a single moment picked out of an infinity of them and pulled apart, or pulled together.
It is wonderful and hideous, it is skydiving and socialising and swimming with the sharks.
It is instant, it is adrenaline.
For others, poetry is lack of thought or understanding, just the swift transition from neuron to ink or binary.
Poetry, for others, is short lived.
This piece was one written at 3:26am. It was my early morning carpe diem. It needs to be improved, it needs to be considered, but I'm still glad I wrote it and will save it without a second look. Poetry is my dip into living in the moment.
Jun 2015 · 677
deadly
a Jun 2015
i
am the coward
that i
so pity
for not fearing
words
soon enough
Jun 2015 · 323
Untitled
a Jun 2015
i'm better then you
you're a derelict anti-pacifist pretending to be cool,
darling
i'll rap in french while you slave to *****
Jun 2015 · 1.5k
Guilt
a Jun 2015
It creeps up my spine, entangling
around the cord
Until it pounces, electrifying
my soul.
Isn't  it strange, how I only come on hellopoetry when negativity  encircles me?
Maybe you *should* make your pain into art.
Jun 2015 · 5.0k
smile II
a Jun 2015
i'm unable to understand.
goosebumps prickle methodically up and down my arms, and i
look at the wall opposite me, eyes small and watery,
and smile.

my face mocks me.
Jun 2015 · 722
smile I
a Jun 2015
you smile.
not because the world is a beautiful place, where happiness blossoms like an indian night jasmine in the hearts of every single being that exists upon it, no, you smile because sadness is relative. you smile because when melancholy visits and your face feels lank and rubbery, the only thing you know how to do is put on that surface smile you leave the house with everyday, the one that doesn't stretch to your eyes.
you smile because the world makes you frown and cry, and frown lines are unacceptable.
Jun 2015 · 2.4k
drown
a Jun 2015
Permit me to drown in your love;
Allow my lungs to replace all oxygen
With thoughts of you,
Let me die with your smile;
The shivers it causes
Being my inevitable demise.
Jun 2015 · 738
untitled
a Jun 2015
the room is a nursery
following the breakdowns
of all its residents at three
in the morning, it
whispers soft things
and peaceful melodies
and rocks them to sleep
when no one else will
Jun 2015 · 414
contrast
a Jun 2015
your blood is sunshine
and my blood is shadow
yet your cloak is darkness
and my cloak is brightness
May 2015 · 784
dead stars (i)
a May 2015
is not the black hole,
the remnants of something that
once used to shine from
a million light years
above
a sign
that death does not
limit, but empower?
part 1. draft 1.
May 2015 · 810
it must be fun
a May 2015
it must be fun.
watching nonchalantly, not a care in the world, dancing to your electro-pop ballads of **** and drug misuse, numb to the pain that you left me to endure.
it must be hilarious.
May 2015 · 250
untitled
a May 2015
my fear is not of death itself, but
of the pain of it.
because in the end, i will always
be a coward.
May 2015 · 905
air
a May 2015
air
the air smells light and heavy simultaneously.

a lingering smoke from last night's fire desperately rivalled
with the aroma of the birds and trees, and all the
other carefree things.
such contrast, but such harmony. inhaling causes you
to become a reactant in the production of pseudo-chemical
tranquility.

the air is heavy and light simultaneously.
May 2015 · 9.8k
bedroom
a May 2015
the double-glaze and blackout curtains shield me
from the world's uncertainty.
the panes of glass so sure not to allow its overside to retreat and
seep its liquid coldness to reach me. it's neither
cold nor warm at the touch, unlike me.
i am protected by the double gaze and blackout curtains but
some force that differs from the one that is currently causing
the tree outside sway dangerously close to my perch is
causing my mind and body to be insulated
by a layer of ice.
goosebumps prickle and my arm and leg stubble
raise themselves.
but my mind does not provide for itself thermoregulatory
reflexes, i
must withstand the shiver of my memories.
May 2015 · 467
ivy
a May 2015
ivy
slithering up the side of your house and
curling, spiralling against the creme,
leaves, sticky and sharp, jutting out from the
thorny sides

protecting you
May 2015 · 368
fire
a May 2015
tongues of salamander bottomed
with their cobalt counterparts
and highlighted with the inky
blackness of the black between
warmth being raised
from the smouldering concrete
May 2015 · 3.6k
Eyes
a May 2015
Her eyes are channeling the Aegan Sea,
for I find myself swimming in them.
Her pupils are shadowed islands none can enter, but I am, I am falling in.
I'm lost, I need help, I am stuck in the never-ending circles of her irises, trapped in their magnificence.
May 2015 · 265
shivers of warmth
a May 2015
yearning for touch to warm your icy skin,
decorated with fractals of cold disuse,
reading meaningful things on hp and
listening to the music that's most indie
trying to find the one lyric to add some heat
to the freezing stone that is your body by
sending some shivers up your spine and
causing the cemetery that is your mind
to feel the flow of hot, soothing blood
that doesn't flow unless you're in luck
May 2015 · 411
words stick like glue
a May 2015
If there was one thing that the Bard was correct about,
it was that Hero had fallen into a pit of ink,
she was stained; the blackness of words tainting her skin,
with the words that didn't belong to her.
They didn't belong, but they stayed, her accusations of unfaithfulness
didn't fray, because the thing about words is that
they can stick, they're faithful, even if they don't fit,
and that they did, for the rest of her life,
[which was ten minutes, but even in her right]
people thought she was a stale, a grimance,
and the only way to escape her wanton rep-u
was to die a sorrowful death and rebirth,
as pure as a baby's breath and mirth
you gotta love 'speare, don't you?
May 2015 · 1.7k
fairness
a May 2015
newspaper headlines emitting fear and news channels repeating the same
informative slogans they used last week, with promises to always update the public on the ever-continuing War in the East, never to hide any event or withhold information about that death on _ street.
and they hold true, giving the name of the killer and hastily adding the fact that the murderer, aged 32, is muslim
but then, when advising the public about current naughtiness, the family whose car was bombed in yemen isn't included as part of the list. or it is, but bomber, 23, is only bomber, 23, not christian, jewish or athiest bomber, 23.
hmm.
May 2015 · 704
empty
a May 2015
a shell, contoured and carved with an aged elegance so accentuated that it practically screams its 'i'm so much better than you' chant, or
rather than scream, it whispers it softly for only my misshaped ears to hear, so that the dignified mutter echoes like a beautiful musical instrument played wrong in the crevices of my head
and
i stupidly stand, my feet sinking in the so-tainted sand, trying to come up with a retort, witty and cold enough to knock jeremy clarkson off his feet and back into top gear following a mild repercussion aimed at a light-hearted  producer - instead of acknowledging the fact that it is a ******* shell on a ******* beach
but
miss common-sense-defying with the too-happy polka-dotty headscarf and the five-minute-hipster-outfit that took an hour and thirteen minutes to form is intimidated by the shell that reminds her incomprehensibly of herself.
she's been reading too much john green.
or she's realising the truth, that she is an empty shell on a beach so trodden on that hansel and gretal would lose their footprints, that she is beauty and magnificence and elegance but she is empty, made of things she takes away from her television endeavors and her bookshelf, and she is empty.
May 2015 · 12.5k
Hijab
a May 2015
And if you think I'm oppressed,
covering my hair with a silken headdress-

And if you think I'm forced,
beaten, to lengthen my sleeves and elongate my shorts-

And if you think I'm afraid,
cowering under the protection of black linen shade-

You 'most certainly take note of the society's improprieties,
that the abaya I wear is thrusted upon me,
that the niqab my sisters practice is only for he;

No. My hijab is my personality, my promise to honour my femininity,
to never allow anyone, any man, to use me;
I am a woman, a human, a feminist:
no man will control me.
just a setting-straight. or at least I think it is.
May 2015 · 265
lead
a May 2015
let me lead you
to your glory
and fight off the dragons
blocking your path
Apr 2015 · 493
gaps
a Apr 2015
let me feel your brokenness,
so i can fill the empty gaps
Apr 2015 · 664
hangman II
a Apr 2015
The noose is brittle but strong, warmed by the heat of the day,
ready to be hoisted upon your neck, and hail all those troubles away.
Yet speak a few words and that won't be done, but be careful as you talk,
for the hangman arrives to take your words the
moment you utter the one that’s wrong.
Apr 2015 · 219
is it?
a Apr 2015
is it so hard for you to look past the physicality
of its presence?
is it so hard for you to say hello and find out who i am
underneath it?
is it so hard to make it not matter, to understand that it
covers my head but not
my heart?
is it so hard?
headscarf.
Apr 2015 · 319
Tap
a Apr 2015
Tap
Before me lies a plain field
Stretching out as far as sight can see
I can’t even hear humanity’s plea
All the blemishes of people concealed

Silent, like the growth of non-existent flowers
Not a touch of sound
Do you hear the bee’s humble buzzing? Look around
Serenity and serendipity devours the hours

Unnaturally quiet, one might say
What has kept the swallow so powerfully at bay?
And where are the trees, tall and strong?
When supposed to, for all, Doomsday prolong?

Matter not though it does,
For I am happy
Past was the time for trees to be present
And who wants to hear the bees’ irritable buzz?

But shortened was my joy,
As suddenly the screeching calls arise
It was a perfectly made coy,
Nature in nature’s disguise.

And after all, the peace no more,
For the birds shout, wings flapping,
The trees sprouting from the dirt floor,
All that’s left is the tapping.

The tapping enough to make one mad,
Coming from the air and ground and sea,
As if I’ve been hit by iron-clad,
It’s torturing me.

Tap. Tap. Tap.
Something I wrote when I was twelve. Found this old thing hiding in a document for a short story.
I have no idea what it's referring to, but hey, it's a throwback.
Apr 2015 · 495
sorry
a Apr 2015
i'm sorry for telling the complete truth, for once,
and ruining our blissful ignorance
that wasn't so much blissful at the depths,
but there was a hint of smile inside,
for both of us,
until now
Apr 2015 · 301
Labyrinth [6w]
a Apr 2015
Death is the labyrinth's obscure exit.
Mar 2015 · 202
Untitled
a Mar 2015
For in the darkest of nights, the stars shine most brilliantly,
So let my flaws not disguise themselves as stars
To be worshipped in the moonlight
No longer allow your flaws to be camouflaged as qualities on display
part 1
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