A rolling ocean, a plea of pain, watch me
In shades of purples, browns and indigo,
Within shades of azure, slate and arctic,
I grasp within the walls if inseparable grief,
A capsule of destruction
Clutched, sculpted and caressed

Ashes have come to me in colours
And you came to me in memories
Faded ones where I could dream of
Beach waters that kissed my toes
And roads in December, deep in snow.
Skies of blue, mulberry-

A scarlet coloured scar, crimson rivers and bricks
Contorted with pain, ****** with metals like
Bronze and gold to shine, smile, dazzled with a
Little of cherry wine.

Burnt parchments and withered ivory,
Years of snow later, chiffon laced mistake
that tasted like poison I stowed under
My tongue, whispers of dearth powders that
Screamed of betrayal and hurt,
All the people who loved me
With silver pepper and creamy salt,

I walk away from them and scream into a
Void, a word that spells like love
Something flies out like miserable-looking
butterflies and I watch the people who
Love me burn, all the while whispering
Just please, never return.

a toothache lost in smouldering pain
like what i expected to see on my face
when i looked into the mirror.
a universe of paper hearts, fragile and
so very lost. if i can wonder what and
where i can swiftly try and presume your face
it's by that rock where we had our phase
teeth gnarled; skin blemished
i wait in hoods everyday wrapping myself
of the thin paper hearts, that are
of no use anymore, to anyone.
lost. so invariably beneath those
piles of sand and circumvented lungs
that instead of bleeding hungrily
callout my name, in yours
and yours in mine
deadly whispers like that of a snake
when will i push it away?
i hesitate, nothing like today.
but nothing like now.
so i take a bow.
bye.

a drowning depth of your
cobalt coloured eyes. I stand
stumped.
an abyssopelagic. lost in a delusion,
where we promise to
meet in our frayed, paper-thin clouded
dreams.
the moon-glade, bouncing off your
translucent pale skin, I watch
the reflections of the weeds withering.
your eyes, containing the ineffable
oceans. a shade of
verdigris. a blueish, green colour.
holding sparks of doom.
incandescence filled despair. how can
shadowy sadness be sparkly?
you laugh. and it reminds me of the
sounds the waves make, to each other,
before they lash onto my toes
on a windy twilight.
a hold on a fiery disposition. yet,
a conceding decision. to tie my
dancing, paint tinted fingers, to remain
your caged bird of possession;
a sigh escapes my lips. stuck in an endless loophole,
a luminous filled deception.

seashore and sea trucks all clanking their way
with my demons swinging their clubs at bay
the street lights flicker, the shade now the colour
of your pale mellow skin. i bleed in the colour of
the sea, maybe a bit of a whale blue and a tinge of a
seaweed. but the essence is still the smell of your
cigarettes. how can trucks that chug down Pondicherry
smell like typhoons flavoured like berries?
simple flowers that are dying. dry and sore, almost
like how i assume my face is a bore.
i can't do much now can i? i cry here and there
and lift myself and walk with a weak flair
and it's not that bad, because the anagram of my
love put the other way is lifeless.
how nothing can make me so much you ask
its because i kept running away from demons
why you ask, again, because i always loved my demons,
the way i loved your name, so why the race?

because now all my demons have your face.

passions were my strong point. every breath lined with a deeper meaning that makes you embrace any emotion including sadness is a blessing.
i can sit and stare at the clouds endlessly. distance myself from human infestation, so i can spend some time alone marvelling the cosmic manifestation.
i read books, conjure up worlds and press pages with fragile paper wings that let me fly in the summer air making me feel as light as a butterfly.
i stay up at nights and end up painting faces of unrecognisable angels and demons that live inside my head. i'm constantly torn between prose and poetry. one lets me live, and the other helps me to get lost.
i am a girl living on wishbones and rusted blood. a girl covered in an ever-glowing soil. a girl toiled with ashes. but i am reborn every time a part of me is scathed. i reappear till i'm completed.
till i'm finite because i was held by strong points:
passions.

I’ve felt it stir inside.
Not every day, but it’s there.
Ominously growing
And eating my insides.

It’s something deep,
Like water, it causes ripples
And lets me drown
In it, too.

It's gripping me. At times,
I wake up at 3 in the morning,
Drenched in sweat
Wondering what it is.

And a part of me, which
Is immersed in sadness, slowly
Whispers back,
“It’s no one but
Me
Me
Me”

I’m a dead poet,
Buried six foot deep,
With vivid memories
That form a heap.

I’m a dead poet,
With words etched
In my heart, and
Fire formed art.

I’m a dead poet,
Covered in snow,
Rose petals and a
Withered glow.

Every artist has his own stroke, creates his own distinctive masterpiece. he realises, art is subjective and is incomparable. he knows every writer has his own collection of words that personify transcendence. There are uncanny strokes of paint brushes; drops of ink that transudate out on pieces of parchment;  he understands.
But then again when it comes down to him, the voice within his head that is clubbed along with introvert in him, the constant thought to remain an incognito and the feeling that throws him into a chasm of loneliness, makes him tally himself against the odds and deadpan.

I looked feverishly at the sky thinking how naked the night looked, and slowly glanced at myself.
I was covered in a blanket; wrapped up in the dark sky with a thousand shiny stars shimmering all around me.
The twilight chills seeped through me, causing my bones to clench themselves and hold on tight, and they made me realise:
If the night sky; a mere fragment of the universe loves to expand itself and love its cosmic-self, then I should be able to love my own body no matter how cumbersome it is.
I can conjure my body into a canvas and paint it. I can be my own chromatic artist.

Her bitter coffee is
everything she’s got
Stale toasts and a
sickening migraine bout.
Every time she chortles,
She is hiding an inept
hiccup filled with despair

Mentally audible gasps and misty flannels
But she’s busy, dusting filthy wooden panels

Focus, is her every second sacred chant,
Her clad body sticking with sweat,
Yet there she is carrying out a bant,
Trying to sound cheery and buoyant

Music that is setting off sensations
Whereas, her ears are only brimming with static  
She glances at the leaves falling on the road
She couldn’t blame herself for being
aesthetic.