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663 · Aug 2018
Beautiful gloom
Esha Aug 2018
I banged my head onto the wall until it got splattered to a thousand pieces of colourful mosaic;
******* all the gloom, wet and sticky, on which they lay and grew prosaic.

Somethings like flowers, like coloured rain drops fell on my hands;
Through which they easily pervaded.

Flowing up, through the vessels, to the brain;
Overflowing and leaking from the wrinkles and filling up the skull,through the ears out they drain.                        

Creating infinite abstract blooms, which try escaping;
Out, again into the gloom, of the head that is dehiscing.

Those invisible blossoms spread across the room like mildew;
Soon creating a world of their own, ugly and new.
571 · Dec 2018
Painfully blissful.
Esha Dec 2018
I feel bad about feeling so sad for this blissful life of mine;
But then feel guilty for being too happy at the same time.
On days, oh so flawless, life feels euphoric & perfect;
Just the next days are filled with guilt & regret.
Hopping with joy on days beautiful & bright;
Miserably sobbing & choking on beautiful nights.
Feeling so **** grateful for everything I have;
Feeling so  awfully pathetic for wasting them away.
Too lazy to function or just too sick to feel lazy;
I can't even think properly, it's all too hazy.
Feeling insignificant while observing others' lives;
Feeling overwhelmed or distressed about mattering while being alive.
Faking a face that's not mine at times;
With a blank mind & senses resonating violent  ringing of malicious chimes.
I feel so blissful but the pathetic feeling of not being worthy of that bliss is so painful.
311 · Apr 2018
Mundane
Esha Apr 2018
Life’s poetry isn't flowing like before;
Metaphors growing stagnant and leaving stains on the pages, like pressed flowers in my blank diaries.
No longer is my mind a sweet adobe to the psychedelic abstractions, running wild, stumbling off the cliff and dissolving into the mundane reality;
Which burst into sober hues here and there, painting my everyday.
I wake in this everyday, healed and scarred;
I walk in this everyday amidst beings of beautiful mien guising grotesque entrails.
Icy criticisms pierce through these ears, melting on this burning flesh, sipping through every tissue, and embedding in the bones.
Is it not painful enough to own these fatal inner conflicts, mutating into lethal thoughts, fabricated into reality.
A sort of pitiful nothingness is bedewed upon all the pages of life, I turn.
I’m stranded on this blank page;
I’m running out of words, i’m running out of ink;
Just with the somber sanguine streams flowing underneath this ashy skin, with which I intend to fill this void but fail.
288 · Oct 2018
I'm stuck...
Esha Oct 2018
I'm getting all prosaic & stagnant;
Despite of having an existence so rare & fragrant.
I'm all blank all day;
And foggy & wry.
My lines & rhymes are getting repetitive & mundane;
Like my reality, crumbled & vain;
I feel empty due to the long episodes of pain;
But it's better to feel numb then overwhelmed.
Am I walking at all?
I wonder how long have I been standing still, but can't recall.
I sometimes want to feel the warmth of someone else's flesh;
Kiss them hard, hug them tight, become a mess.
But then I remember, these are the things I want do with myself, for myself;
Maybe a bit of isolation & self-nurturing would help.
I prefer to be wrapped up in the warmth of my own solitude;
But instead of self-loathing it should be self-love that I must include.
Maybe I'm just exaggerating;
Everyone suffers, way more than me, so why am I over-reacting.
No matter how hard I try to stop loathing myself, the cycle of Over thinking & self-loathing just doesn't seem to break.
282 · Aug 2018
The one I wish to be.
Esha Aug 2018
I want to be the child she wished me to be;
But they won't let me and keep on haunting me;
Bad habits are what they are called;
Having spread their roots deep within, holding me taut.

Am I thinking of myself too highly;
If I say this whole precious day was wasted on me solely;
Wow nonsense! You have a brain fog, you cannot even think clearly.

Writing poems and stories, maybe you should just give up;
'Cause you're not confident or talented enough to write about important issues and real stuff;
Can you understand your own self?
Will you ever figure out or do you need help?

I don't even know, if I'm good at anything at all;
A single achievement or moment of pride, can you recall?

Stop the abstract and actual stabbings;
They'll just hurt in vain, and are not acknowledged to be actually punishing.

Lousy rhymes, lame lines, lazy you;
I just cannot understand, no matter how much I try to.
Self-loathing is never helpful, is it?
274 · Sep 2021
I don't...
Esha Sep 2021
Baby I don't love you,
I don't miss you,
I just want you to go to hell.
You know all the lies I tell under the moon,
To save my heart from breaking,
And save me from this doom.
221 · Apr 2018
Like You
Esha Apr 2018
The nauseating humidity condenses into mellow rhythms of rain;
Feeling like your soft fingers on my bare skin, tingling my senses and easing their strain.
The fragrance of the night air, of the distant blooms, of the dewy earth;
Like the scent of your breath, of your breezy hair, of the soul that your body girths.
In my tiny world of short windy & sunny days, and long stormy & dark nights with sparkling rain, like stars, pouring down;
You walk in like a chromatic twilight, like sweet-scented dusk and dawn.
This gloomy room of mine is filled with the soft glow of the candle you lit;
With the flame flickering like my heart, and the melting wax dripping onto the floor like my regret and guilt.
The regret for not warning you about the fragile bridge between us;
And guilt for not stopping you when you tried to cross.
Like an utter coward, I didn’t jump to grab your hands when you fell;
Even if I kept on hurting you with words like stabbing your heart, you still spilled out a rainbow and stained me like an enchanted spell.
You’re like a beautiful melody to my deaf ears,
like tickles to my numb senses,
like a daybreak for my endless gloom.
Your sincerity dissolved my fears,
your sanguinity broke down my fences,
your ethereal affection made it a painless doom.
Thank you for not letting go even when I pushed you away;
For giving me eternal joy and taking in all my dismay.
Thank you, Sorry, and Goodbye.
202 · Nov 2018
Thoughts
Esha Nov 2018
Sitting beside people with their own spinning worlds;
Blooming & withering silently or aloud.
I wish to pluck flowers from their minds;
Dust their thoughts, like pollen, here & there & blow them away in the wind.
Those thoughts would fly away,
Breaking & regrowing on the way.
Merging with fragments of many other thoughts;
Some alike & other utterly disparate.
They could reach someone else's world;
And might disappear or may start to bud.
With intensities, oh so different;
They may keep persisting with the same purpose they were meant.
If only I could whisper into the wind with my feeling blowing away too;
How beautiful would it be if it reached someone just the way I wished to.
Someone who might be wishing for a solace;
I wish I could bring a tender smile to that face.
190 · Sep 2017
The Smile
Esha Sep 2017
The remains of a smile in the heart of mine,
Like a strand of poignancy drifting into the abyss of my memories.
The wound gone the scar remains,
The scar of the imprinted smile.
The secret of my sorrow is a fading smile,
Which fades each moment.
A smile so loved, betrayed.
A smile so bleak, yet so precious.
Such a worthy possession, with an inflicted mortality.
That smile whispers into my mind each moment.
That warm smile has stricken me so coldly, leaving me numb.
Her last smile,
I embraced in my arms wondering what it meant.
Too naive to understand that the smile was her Goodbye .
Esha Jul 2021
A dull, cream hued bedroom with stacks of books everywhere;
Arranged in bookshelves, piled on table, tucked into bed & laid on floor.

The dampness of the nearby marsh, rides on the wind;
And through the open barred window, flows in;
The subtle smell of the sun dried clothes which was still lingering;
Was disturbed by the wind, that uninvited came in.

The room never had the sun pay a visit to her;
The only forms of sun she ever receives are sun dried objects & sun kissed lovers.

Lovers who lie bare on their undone bed;
And saturate the room with abstractions spilling out of their heads.
Pure souls, imperfect bodies with minds, oh so sultry;
They make love with words, ****** with rhyme & conceive poetry.

The walls blush a little when the young man kisses his young woman everywhere but her lips;
Gliding his lips all over her skin, kissing every freckles & slowing down on nips.

For exquisite utterances dripped from her universe & down her lips they trickle;
Getting absorbed into her boundless skin, creating another constellation of freckles.

An occasional wind peeps in, while her lover's tongue & lips get painted with her essence;
She notices this intruder & breathes it all in, while stopping abruptly mid-sentence.

He begins savoring her lips & devouring the words she haven't spoken yet;
They gulp down each other as into each other they melt.

The words which missed to escape, wait patiently for the arrival of the coming night;
But soon they get frantic, alter & behave differently in the daylight.

The room wakes from her slumber;
With the aroma of tea & scent of wilted flowers.

Everything returns to being dispassionate as the lovers part during the day;
But as the night befalls, they return to make love & fill the void in many a sensuous way.
just a dream I had
83 · Apr 2020
If not myself
Esha Apr 2020
I wish to love myself like those love poems;
Intense yet mellow, with a bittersweet tone.
Write numerous love letters to myself;
On days when I feel so dull & clueless.
On days, oh so bright;
I wish to be peaceful, and free from all sorrows & fright.
Who'd save me if not myself;
Who'd love me if not myself.

— The End —