in my pocket i keep
words from the sun
with light to shine
through the cracks of
your heart

in my pocket i keep
wildflowers and daisies
lovely and bright for
you to place on
your hair

in my pocket i keep
mints and lollipops
and chocolates and
caramels to sweeten
your day

in my pocket i keep
bad jokes and funny
stories from years
past to bring out
your smile

in my pocket i keep
pennies for you to
wish on a well so
that you never forget
your dreams.

All creation seems to cease
     we lie beside
With hearts like houses
     next-door neighbors
Hands like envelopes
     folded tight and sealed
Lips like long lost lovers
     blissful, close and warm
Love like a thousand red balloons
     high above the earth, ready to explode.

“For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face.”

All is perception
through eyes of flesh.

What is known?
Outside of picture frames
My visage is a mystery.

In a ***** mirror
Dark room
Dimly,
I see myself.

Someday, we will see this
Earth from above
Through the eyes of God.

Face to face with eternity,
We will know.

Face to face with creation,
We will see.

In the presence of the Architect,
We will understand.

Outside of time and space,
We will truly be

alive.

I wasn’t born to write
With every bent petal,
and every fallen leaf,
my ma’s sweet kisses
And papa’s gentle smile
I learned to write

A five year old me was once fascinated
by the loop of an ‘e’
and the playful swing of an ‘m’,
The wide smile of a ‘d’ delighted me
Words were powerful and mesmerising,
now they lie discarded and ignored
in broken stanzas of self proclaimed irrelevance

I watch the black ugly marks
That taints countless sheets of paper
They surround me in a sea of ink
That once flowed carefully and slowly
A thousand thoughts with each single word
Drained lies my mind, my breath’s not a whisper but a plea
My heart pumps blood not ink, I’m not a poet, it says
Incoherent scribblings mock me with their existence

As a child, confined spaces scared me
But now, a confined mind petrifies me with just a glimpse
A pen stays gripped in my hand
I wonder what it fears more
My inability to let the ink flow coherently
Or my arrogant ramblings, regardless
And fearless of consequences
While I stumble on disjointed verses

A paper aeroplane is my best accomplishment
In my two hour search for freedom and thought
Who cares for pretty words and mystifying couplets?
When the idea of a paper boat seems much more exciting

-പ്രിയാന്ഷി ദാസ്‌

These                                                                       (this) are

                                              (is)

(:a poem;
                                    For yOu.)

                                                                                      (Whom i hAvE)

                                 (been nursing)
                                          
                        ( B             h                  e
                              u          c            r
in                                     a     T                                            My
                                  T    m
                             f        o          l
                       i               t                e
                                         s)


butterflies—they glow
              For you,                                     {they've spared me some cold,

chilly

nights}

              <goodby>                they're yours now.

                                                                                                              
                                                                                                            <goodby>