Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Megha Balooni Jun 2016
Please don’t ask me what poetry means
because its a means to communicate
what i mean,
For those who cannot speak

I’m bad at explaining my thoughts
the words which i mean to use,
a thousand songs that i might sing to you,
oh the melodies, croon them, just for you

But somehow I cannot understand
why words fail me when i need them the most
i mean,
don’t we need words to read the other?
don’t we use them, rather?
wouldn’t they be the savior of my conversations, then?

My words fumble with themselves
creating in them, patterns,
knitting yards of never ending fabric
exhausting spools that stay unbroken

They say oceans have the best kept secrets
Hidden, treasures reside
That that which goes into a black hole,
gets ****** in it, rather,
may never return

How Adrienne questioned
the ability and in-
ability of words to mean what they mean
for silence might fill the blanks too

A song plays on the loop
didn’t we make mixed tapes to convey
what we couldn’t express,
in words, we thought rhymes
were a better solution to
love letters which were never conceived
replaced by poetry
scribbled in papers torn from the last pages
of notebooks
we thought stealing lines and verses
from our English textbooks
was being romantic

That is when I discovered
that we could mean in fewer words
without having to convey what we mean,

This world of poetry
seemed like sunshine and rainbows
for a person who had no vision;
the wonders they could do with that magic
and I,
begging them at last
to leave me something
which I can mean and the other could decipher
as what I truly try to mean
would never be found in simple sentence meanings.

So please don’t ask me what poetry means
for I might not have words meaning what I mean.
Megha Balooni Oct 2015
Life as a word, as a concept, has been very intriguing for me. The trip however, that happened a few days back, has left me with new questions while some of the previous ones that I had seem answered, for now. I am particularly not good with writing long texts, long pages of articles that might make sense when read all together at once. Generally, all of what I start off with the intention of writing about, loses its essence after the first few lines. Therefore, I am not going to drag this one and start writing that I came across, the incidences, the faces. It is more of a personal documentation as I know that these stories would be lost somewhere if not bookmarked now.
Take what you can and leave what you think needs or is felt to be expressed.
Megha Balooni Sep 2015
Slithering through my skin
inch by inch
makes its way down
bursting opening the bubble
the premier cell on the surface
meander, wander
yonder, a crimson state
gnawing to get a base for existence
basis for existence
trickling, shades and textures
sizes and characters
seeking something better
something raw
something juicy
with more news than you,
droplets of evaporation
a Freud theory in disguise
gone wrong for most,
most parts
till it doesn’t slide to my lips
in playful bouts
tasting of salt.
Megha Balooni Jun 2015
The breathing is composite
Of the infinite years that we've sung through
Of the infinite possibilities that could be to life
But its me and you again,
Us in the corners of the world
Or maybe the core of it all
Where white stars refuse to diminish
And bend down a powerful light
A time lapse so strong
You have your string held tight
And mine on the other side might
Not be as pulled *******

Let's not be
a broken mirror
in a scraped out
wooden frame
tilting behind
an abandoned, old barn,
with a messy hay stack
open, the meta strings untied
rained upon
walked upon
more often than it was
originally supposed to be.

Lets not be
a predefined song
blasting through the ears
at 3:49 am on a digital clock
in a dingy, cold studio apartment
which hardly makes sense
to what one feels, at that moment
but blasting in the ears, anyway
because the silence
is too deep for your existence, to bear
too fragile, to make this heart
pound flesh out and about
beat the veins, upturned
memories spit out
some venom, some close to perfection
in a moment brief,
Although knowing
it had to happen a long time ago.

Lets be
a coral in the deep
shimmering, look at the odds
through scattered, refracted, reflected,
light, only to fill up its dream
not being the blind box of colors
only hoped in its heart.
Lets be
a lost star
in a far away galaxy
appearing to some
like a planet
escalating like a meteor
not being defined, yet existing.
Lets be
an endless well
quenching thirsts, unknown
bursting possibilities
feeling a little too much
than what was defined
or hoped.
Megha Balooni May 2015
its not like i don’t have more clothes
or that its my favorite pair
it just fits me in a way
that i really would’ve supposed
life and people to fit me
when i were really small
and by small i mean my age, young
and now, at this age
i think my ego forbids me to
acknowledge much than i would want to
but the feelings remain the same
its what it wears that same
piece of clothing
again and again
because it knows my skin
each cell in my body
being aware of its existence
and it might have started feeling to me
like home, a place of familiarity
beyond belief
beyond the actual existence of one such place
and maybe that every vein
and every strand of my hair
and every drop of blood flowing through
is not prepared to let go of that
That that feels like home
One that might not even exist.
Megha Balooni May 2015
I saw her
I saw her smile
Focus out through the sparkle
Reflecting from her danglers
And the ones in the atmosphere.
Turquoise sequinned with beige
Crackers, all around her
Our first new year
Where she took me by
My hand, entangling fingers
Lacing, when she thought she'd
Lost me,skipping between
White walls and brown floors
Finding a way out
Through the maze.

Low hung ceiling lamps.

Dragging me back through my memory doors
Remains the same
White walls and brown floors
While I wait outside.

Inside you're having your chemo.

Inside my heart
Slithering through my mouth
I see her in between
Those flinging and swinging

Prayer flags, I recollect
Hanging them in the backyard
Of our home, you
Bargained them out
A flea market, before
That year's Diwali
You had inside of you
A life that would bless us
In three months.

A tangerine Georgette Saree
And rhyming with it,
Rani colored bangles
Sneaking up on the roof.

White walls, wooden floors
You lie quiet, unmoved.

A skyrocket ups in a distance
As I light you up in flames.

You'd always come back
Focusing, defocusing
My memories' pitaara
Sparkling, dangling
Skipping and lacing
Through all those crackers
Lighting me up
Megha Balooni May 2015
I'm walking to her grave
Every once in a while
Not by a will that belongs to me
But a promise I made
In the name of the Almighty
The day we wed
Me to my vows and she,
Obliging to her parents
Cheating me, fulfilling her chalice
With lust and mine with hurt and hate.
The syringes lying on the floor one noon
Petrifying our daughter, an overdose
And overflow of blood and spitting
Her heart out, she left
Bitter vows, an unfilled unholy grail
Lingering between us clouds of smoke
And even though the floor
Towards her grave
Is patterned irregular cobblestones
Stuffed with snow in the crevices
Its my heart
That feels a cold stone pavement.
Next page