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 Aug 2016 medha
Meenu Syriac
I am not a poet
But when thoughts, like rain,
Drench me in my solitude,
Words, they flow like a stream.
I am not a poet
But how can I see
The simpler joys of life,
And not create a song to be sung.
I am not a poet,
Nor an artist.
I am myself,
And you are my masterpiece.
I am not a poet,
If you are not the dream.
If I am a poet,
*Then you are what sets these pages on fire.
©Meenu Syriac
 Aug 2016 medha
Vamika Sinha
Their poetry imperceptibly
slipped
into the first person.

Neither of them noticed
when
'he and she'
became
'you and me'

Let's analyse that, shall we?
 Aug 2016 medha
Little Bear
free
 Aug 2016 medha
Little Bear
i've been trying to explain this
my whole life
and one day
i will finally find
the right words

i am not going to stay

i will always find a way to fly
always find a way

i am sunlight
but never the sun

i will never be something
you can hold
always finding a way
to let go

my roots need air
not earth

to be held above water
is to drown

something in my heart
tells me
i will never belong

to anyone

one day
i am a flower
and at night
i will close my petals
opening the next sunrise
to have my clocks
float away

i will always
grow in the meadow
wild
where i can live
and die
on the summer breeze

i am not going to stay
i will always
want to be free
 Aug 2016 medha
Julia Mae
66.
 Aug 2016 medha
Julia Mae
66.
the good nights
used to be tinged
with kisses
and a soft caress
against my back
sending shivers
down throughout my spine
but now you say good night
with silence and
unmoving touches
i'm not too sure
how i became so dull
and unlovable
and cast away
to the colder side
of this bed
it's 5am,
i'm wide awake
this ache kept me awake
as you slept
your arms were in the wrong place
they were supposed to be here, here
holding me and keeping
the slumber less thoughts away
 Aug 2016 medha
Meenu Syriac
I remember, back when I was a child.
And all that mattered was not getting caught having one too many candies.
I'd come back from an exhausting day at school, to the smell of fresh dinner and a sister ready to pester.
Sleep,wake and pretend to do homework, wait to go to school the next day, because all meant was to sit next to the boy who'd make me laugh and blush
Oh! But of course I remember the bad days. The rebellious child who could not bear to hear a 'no’, choosing to go to bed crying, only to wake up to a mother always willing to forgive.
I remember wanting to run, fly, soar, dive and all forms of escapade you can imagine. I wonder why.
Now, here I am, in the dead of the night, by my window,
With my charred lips and breaths of fire,
A parched tongue with the taste of cheap wine,
Somewhere, in an unfamiliar land.
Oh yes! I ran, I flew,
Until I lost myself to everything this realm of false hopes and white lies had to offer.
I was the girl waiting for an adventure,
The smell of pine trees and the wind in my hair.
I was the girl waiting to fall in love,
Only to find myself lying next to strange men.
I still go to bed crying, however.
Now I wake to up to an empty house in the middle of nowhere.
I play with the fumes I exhale, as another day begins,
Somehow wondering when this will all end.
©Meenu Syriac
 Aug 2016 medha
Meenu Syriac
Flawed
 Aug 2016 medha
Meenu Syriac
And I roamed the earth listless
Hid under the rocks
And took cover in the shadows
Waiting for the final call

But as I took my last breath of a dwindling waste land,
My chest caving in to the toxic atmosphere,
Starved of my very existence,
I wished for one last time,
To see those forgotten sunsets,
The night sky dotted with infinite worlds,
Or birds taking flight to an azure wonder.

And as my sleep drew closer,
I couldn't help but remember my forefathers,
Who in great haste to leave me fortunes,
Tore down the very foundation,
Of what once they called home,
To prey on the beasts that they “swore” to love.
©Meenu Syriac
 Aug 2016 medha
Meenu Syriac
Winged desires take flight for the crimson skies,
As we toy with the strings of our hearts.
Fingers slide across my bare back,
Like wind that gently glides over still waters.
And as the skies mellow into a darker hue,
Under a blanket of stars, we rise and fall,
Breathless and alive.
Somewhere written along the fading horizon,
Is poetry that we created,
You and I.
Who knew that love could be chaotic.
Yet we danced in perfect synchrony.
©Meenu Syriac
 Aug 2016 medha
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birds are chirping. this is familiar. you can do familiar. "it's a mess" I say. quickly you reply "it's not a mess, it's pieces of your life." my life's pieces; not mine. It's taken shape as hundreds of tiny copies from the same **** story. you're fragile. you're the yellow copy of a receipt. stupid little paper girl.

this is going to be terrible and that's going to have to be okay because death is open to interpretation now.

there is something to be said about lying under every window sill in the house just to follow the sunlight and pretend it hasn't been dark since you left.

you look back in five years and realize that "you" in every poem has become yourself. everybody grew up and moved out of the sadness except for you.

dress up as yourself when you loved someone and stare in the mirror until it cracks. you never thought you'd be leaving the lights on waiting for yourself to come home. you'll never understand and that's the whole point.

always leaving never really arriving. you can stay only long enough for them to know who you are. nothing can remain the same because that's not real, is it? they say nothing lasts forever. let's be nothing. stop existing. we'll be timeless.
 Aug 2016 medha
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I wore a light blue dress the day you kissed me and every day after to prove that I was in love. I had floral patters around my waist so I could twirl around for you and show you the life inside of my heart.

You squeezed my hand as if every letter of their vows was your silent message to me. Red. We wore red. It took me six months for me to let that dress go, and I swear to God I never felt as beautiful as when the rain poured around us that day.

wore a black dress for you with ribbons down my spine but every touch snagged the lace and it's starting to hardly cover me spelling only your name across my hips and my sides. Those dresses were the most appropriate for the days I let you take me. Sheer silk laid across the small of my back. I saw an inviting place for your palms but you only saw the zipper.

How fitting is it that I wore a fitted blue dress to my first real date after we gave up (exactly one year, two months and nine days). The same dress we made love in. The first time you did not tell me you loved me after.

A tan dress just like our skin in the summer. I let a you touch me naked and I've never felt fully clothed ever since. Not even the sleeves and loose skirt of my dress could hide the scars no matter how many times I twirled around for someone new.

I wore a polka-dot dress the first time you touched me inappropriately. I remember it being hot out. I wish I wore something else. November 1st, 2013. You would not even look at me after we became one, never mind talk to me.

On Sundays I wore white dresses to feel innocence again. I never failed to ***** the precious pearls lining the collar of my dress every week, though. I felt the bow across my back untie by your hands and the pure white tulle was ruined by my blood stained skin (though it was not the first a life ******* residue remained).

New Years Eve, 2013 I wore the prettiest dress I had ever owned. Apparently he thought it was pretty, too, because a taken boy kissed me in it. I remember being afraid you were drunk. I remember fighting with you. I remember missing you. I remember telling you that you only talked to me because you missed her. There's not a day I don't miss those drunk texts.

I wore multiple colors and threads fabricating all my good memories into a dress except I can't remember much anymore and this is rather skimpy
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