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

Its frightening how
being alone and being lonely
are not the same.

A wise Greek spoke of a cave
and a fire in the back of our minds
with lips pressed to our palms
casting shadows of false reality
and puppeteers with hidden strings
and chains that sit
comfortably on scathing skin.

We were born in the cave.

I've come to realize
I am not the same person
at three o'five AM
and half past eight.

I'll leave the window ajar
each night before I sleep
in case there's ever a chance
of you crawling back into this bed with me.

I'll walk through our memories with precaution
and try not to fall
as I tread water over spilt feelings
and an ocean worth of empty,
yet somehow still entirely full.

I just wish my hands
had something other than
themselves
to hold again.
I wish they had yours
to start a fire with

I wish my bed didn't have your
body
carved into it in braille
because I'm not blind,
and I don't read what I can't see
but ****
I wish I did.

I wish the ocean was a friend
rather than the inevitable enemy it poses as

I don't like the atomic bomb
that sets off
when reality hits back
even though I know you love
the mushroom cloud
that follows.

My room echoes something only you
and I
can hear and
replying to my own voice
is getting tiring.
The earth will still turn
but I don't know how long I can stand
still
I don't know how long I can bare
to stare at a world
without your eyes.

I don't know how I can stare at a world
that isn't mine.

I guess I'll go back
to kissing my own hands
and screaming echoes to a bed
that isn't warm

because I know what I've had
I know what I have
and I know I haven't lost
but I have loved
and I love
and I will
I do

O WHAT to me the little room
That was brimmed up with prayer and rest;
He bade me out into the gloom,
And my breast lies upon his breast.
O what to me my mother's care,
The house where I was safe and warm;
The shadowy blossom of my hair
Will hide us from the bitter storm.
O hiding hair and dewy eyes,
I am no more with life and death,
My heart upon his warm heart lies,
My breath is mixed into his breath.