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 Jan 2016 india
Arlo Disarray
the rain streams*  down
the leaves of trees
like teardrops  on a cheek

the fog pours  over head
like the white hue
*around a dream
weather(ed)
 Jan 2016 india
Arlo Disarray
When you're a poet:

Your heart doesn't bleed blood, it bleeds ink
It bleeds your secrets
It bleeds your history
It sends your memories off for a long and dangerous ride

Your eyes warn the people who approach to step carefully,
the ground is often eroding beneath your feet
Tear droplets form metaphors that run from your cheeks onto the page

Sleep is secondary to your thoughts
The nights beg for attention and play loud music through the walls to keep you awake

Your feet are always tapping to the beat of a song you've never heard

Your lips are quiet, but you always have something to say

When you're a poet, you feel everything
EVERYTHING
you feel the world swallowing you whole and your limbs brushing softly against its esophagus
And you're just trying to pass the time until you're either digested or regurgitated
Are you a poet?
 Jan 2016 india
Emily Dickinson
288

I’m Nobody! Who are you?
Are you—Nobody—Too?
Then there’s a pair of us!
Don’t tell! they’d advertise—you know!

How dreary—to be—Somebody!
How public—like a Frog—
To tell one’s name—the livelong June—
To an admiring Bog!
 Jan 2016 india
Emily Dickinson
1654

Beauty crowds me till I die
Beauty mercy have on me
But if I expire today
Let it be in sight of thee—
we own teacups
of porcelain   that
make up a couple
her always filled with coffee
mine with tea
this was what became
our morning routine
to spend time until the cups are emptied

we talk about irrelevant things
matters and thoughts that do not
have acquaintance with consequence
how it'd be possible to raise goldfishes in ***** bottle
we kept for remembrance or how many cookies could
the porcelain beauty we held so dearly possibly contain
sometimes we waste a good morning
watching wisps of steam          rise                    and vanish
like the way people seem to get out of sight after bidding goodbyes
after a certain distance they'd be nothing more than a sihlouette
and after time     slowly they get out of mind

one day you'd realize
that no longer can you conjure their sihlouettes   in memory     nor
can you remember the way they walked away
were they off in a hurry or their footsteps
heavy as the heart the carried that very winter morning
when snow didnt fall like predicted by the weatherman the night before
(and that was when you realised the weight of goodbyes)

these are the thoughts that occupy
my mind when I wash our cups
and notice (everytime) stain rings around the innerside of the cups
three quarters full of coffee          and half a cup of tea
we'd store the cups after
hers always facing left
they would sit silently       never a word of complain
as such nice mannered tableware,     cups are.
they'd wait silently for every next morning
to be filled,        coffee          and         tea.

I always thought of her          as a hot chocolate person
until one morning I saw sunlight caught in the dark lazy curls of her hair
until how the dark coloured liquid resembled the colour in her eyes
and came to a silent agreement with myself
how she suited coffee on lazy mornings the way
coffee suited her when she tipped her cup ever so slightly
and     sipped       like she'd found peace in mind
now I smile when she asks why I stopped telling her teacups are meant for tea
(that there are no absolutes in the things we do)

there are mornings she would wake to find me
already awake and silently staring at the rain pelted windows
legs crossed at the foot of the bed and singing
singing softly in russian

I'd end
always at Дорогая
and asks    if she
wants coffee.
 Jul 2013 india
eIectrifying
your fingertips danced across my skin
like children in the snow
you caressed my aching soul
and slowed my rapid heartbeat
the light in your eyes
twirled about as our lips pressed together
your tongue sought solace
inside my mouth
and my teeth grazed your bottom lip
as payment for your loves newfound home

your fingertips stayed firmly inside
our locked hands
you traced my smile with your lips
and promised to write me love letters
describing how your heart soared
when i entered the room
i laughed and you raced
to remember the lines that formed
in the corners of my eyes
when my smile lit up

your fingertips stayed hidden in your pockets
as we walked together
down our favorite path underneath the moonlight
i thought it was quite romantic tonight
and felt love coursing through my veins
as i looked at you
but you kept your head down
and the only time you looked up
was not to look at me
but to look at the brilliance of the moon

your fingertips were holding her hand now
and your teeth grazing her bottom lip
as i had once done to you
you wrote her songs of love
and she wrote you poems
describing the brilliance of your eyes
my soul shrank at the sight of the two of you
my heart was a living flame
that eventually died out to ashes
at the the fact that i would never hold your fingertips in mine again
 Jul 2013 india
eIectrifying
the best love stories are the overlooked
the ones that you sat round
the dining table listening to
when you were a child
and you couldn't ever imagine
your grandparents being young and so in love
love stories are kisses in the pouring rain
but only because she forced him to
because she thought it'd be romantic
it's bickering in the living room
when he gets home from work
about how he never does anything
it's watching tv together
late at night
being completely comfortable in each others silence
it's her doing the dishes
and him vacuuming the carpet
it's him kissing her goodnight
every night for 40 years
it's her still getting butterflies
at the sight of him after all this time
it's quiet nights out
at a family restaurant
it's holding hands
during thunderstorms because he knows
she's terrified of lightning
the best love stories
aren't the grand and overdone
the best love stories
are completely overlooked
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