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This is how you write a poem;
First; forget everything
You ever learnt about poems,

                                Such knowledge should be reserved
                                For the minds of critics, and
                                Professors in dusty halls

                                                          ­­           Of universities, where
                                                           ­          They are dissected and re-
                                                             ­        Constructed against their will.

Second; embroil yourself in
Love; it is the only thing
That poetry is born from.

                            Even the saddest songs, and
                            Most bitter lines, are fueled
                            By what we once loved. Loss is

                                                            J­­ust a love that has been lost
                                                            ­­And anger; a love scorned. All
                                                            y­­our words will be born this way.

Thirdly; find a quiet spot;
It doesn't matter much where
As long as it brings comfort,

                             Be it an old desk in a
                             Darkened room, or a field of
                             tall Sunflowers or bluebells,

                                                     ­ ­       Or the last place you saw a
                                                             Loved one, before fate swept them
                                                            ­­ Away to distant valleys.

Next you must make a promise to
Yourself to be brutally
Honest. Only the truth must

                              Be written here. There is no
                              Room for flowery words that
                              Must be thought over to much.

                                                          ­­   If it is true it will be
                                                             Beautiful, and your pen strokes
                                                         ­    Will guide you towards greatness.

Finally, you must hold your
Writing implement of choice
As if it were the most loved

                                 Of possesions, or mighty
                                 Of weapons, or a  child's hand.
                                 I cannot tell you which

                                                          ­­ But you will undoubtedly
                                                     ­      Know which when the time comes. It
                                                           Will strike you as obvious.

Upon following these steps
You will have become a
poet. From now on there

                                Is no turning back. It will
                                Consume you, and thoughts will take
                                You by surprise in lover's

                                                        ­­  Embraces, in sudden deaths,
                                                         ­ Bird songs, and the words of of those
                                                          Y­­ou once thought to be strangers.

Each word will be a gift to
The world, whilst remaining un-
doubtedly yours to own.

                                        Use your power wisely.
                                        Remember; without love
                                        Your poems will start to

                                                             ­        Fall into disrepair
                                                       ­              And, without them you will
                                                            ­­         Lose your capacity to care.

I wish you well.
                                    I wish you poetry.
                                                         ­      ­           I wish you love.
I'm planning on giving this one a rewrite, but I rarely get around to doing such things. I'm posting it mostly as a reminder to myself that I set out to do something. There's a good chance it will remain unfinished though.
 Mar 2016 Aishwarya Das
Aeerdna
i hope  she thinks of you
when the sun shines
in her morning window
and when the moon is full at night
i hope is your face what comes to her mind

when beautiful songs play on the radio
i hope she wants to share them with you
cause i know music is like therapy to you

i hope she thinks of you
before closing her eyes at night
and in her dreams she kisses you
a billion times
i hope she smiles at your picture in b&w;
that she sees all the beauty you carry
inside,
outside.

i hope she talks with you
and she wonders if you're feeling all right
if you had lunch
if you sleep enough
if you rest at night
i hope she asks you about your fears
and dreams
i hope she's there for you
when pain hits you the worst.

i hope she doesn't hurt you.

i hope she gives you the happiness
i could never bring to you
i hope she cares about you
at least as much
as i do.

i hope she loves you
https://soundcloud.com/aeerdnaloony/i-hope-she-loves-you
Always..
it's always going to be my fault

No matter what you did or what you said
it will be my fault

Even the lies you tell
will be my fault

The love you gave and the love you lost
will be my fault

The pain you feel and the tears you shed
will be my fault

The agony and the injustice of it all
will be my fault

And the punches I took and the bitter words you spat
will be my fault

The obsessive
possessive
jealous
rage
you poured upon me
will be my fault

The others you slept with and threw in my face
will be my fault

The secret child you made
will be my fault

and so I left you

that will not be my fault

that would be yours.
there is no ground beneath my feet
not today
nothing to hold on to
as I pass through the atmosphere
past the stars
out into the darkness
space is cold this morning
and quiet
and i'm a little bit lost
lost in space
with no way home
but
If I close my eyes
and count
and sing quietly
and hug myself tight
I will believe the lie
just for today
holding on to nothing
calling it flying.
She caught the sun
for she’d already consumed
the night;

And she’d become the night,
so to eat the sun.

And when I, but a moon,
ventured lonely, she’d spend
the stars upon me.
I married her - she'd never leave, I'd never leave, and we'd learned how to make gravity.
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